by Lisa Jackson
Alvarez watched him go. No way was Santana going to sit tight and let the professionals do their jobs. She’d seen his rock-solid conviction to do things his own way in the angle of his chin, the glitter in his eyes, and the determination that flattened his lips over his teeth.
The loner was going to try and take justice into his own hands.
“He’s a rogue,” she said just as Grayson’s cell rang, and he nodded as he took the call. She walked to the window and watched Santana climbing into the truck with the dog. If the rifle used this morning at his employer’s house was the same as the one that had shot out the tire of Pescoli’s Jeep, then Santana was in the thick of it. His boss. His girlfriend.
But you saw how upset he was about Pescoli.
He’s not the killer.
“What…Who?…Yeah, but wait. I’ll send Alvarez down, she can bring ’em up…What? Yeah, I know. Tell the press, I’ll give them a statement today, at the department…Hell, no, not now. I’ve got a meeting at four with the task force. After that. Closer to six. Maybe later. Whenever I’m done.” He snapped the phone off before whoever was on the other end of the connection could ask anything else, then he met the questions in Alvarez’s eyes. “That was Connors at the gate. He’s got Clementine and her son freaking out, demanding to be let in. The television cameras are rolling, so let’s bring ’em up.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Are you sure she’s unaware of what we’re saying?” the African-American psychologist asked Martha, the big floor nurse who had been at Mountain View for as long as Padgett could remember.
“Near comatose,” was the response. Martha had never been long on insight, just rolled in and did her job before clocking out, always leaving early.
Jalicia Ramsby PhD frowned at the response. Well, really, it wasn’t very P.C. How did the fat slob of a nurse know anything about her? Padgett wondered, as she sat in the chair she’d claimed years before and rocked gently. Ostensibly she was staring out at the gray afternoon, her mind as blank as Martha believed, but she could see them behind her. They appeared ghostlike and washed out, their cellophane images seeming to float over the darkening landscape of lawns, hedges, and leafless trees in the grounds that surrounded Mountain View.
Slowly fingering the rosary on her lap, as if she were praying, Padgett told herself she would have to be wary of the newcomer. Dr. Ramsby was slim, straightforward, and sharp, with close-cropped hair, coffee-colored skin, and big eyes that didn’t seem to miss much.
Head turned toward the window, Padgett moved her lips, as if in prayer, and kept her eyes blank, for she was certain Ramsby was watching her image in the glass, just as she was watching the psychologists.
Oh what a devious game we play, Don’t we, Doctor? she thought but kept mouthing the familiar prayer. “Our Father who art in heaven…” No sound escaped her lips and she noticed, in the sheer pane, Ramsby’s arched eyebrows come together, small lines radiating over her nose, red-tinted lips pursed in disbelief.
Why? Why didn’t this woman trust the diagnosis that had been with Padgett ever since she’d been helped over the threshold of this ancient and revered hospital?
Some of the best psychologists and psychiatrists had examined her. She remembered, though, the last one to show any true interest in her had been Dr. Maxwell, and his interest had dwindled quickly years before.
So why this new interloper?
Why now, when it was most important that she seem as dull as the bread pudding the unimaginative cooks served each Wednesday?
Change nothing. Remain the same. No one will ever know.
“Padgett?” she heard, her name said a little more loudly, the black doctor trying to get her attention.
Padgett never stopped rubbing the beads or moving her lips. “Hail Mary, full of grace…”
Chapter Fifteen
Nate Santana had never been one to sit idle. So today, while the police were swarming all over the main house, he was going to track down the bastard who’d shot Brady Long. Before the damned snowstorm covered the killer’s tracks.
So thinking about it, he checked on the stock, then saddled Scout, a sturdy, paint gelding with pale blue eyes and a marking on his flank that looked like the state of Alaska. Strapping a pack and a bedroll behind the saddle, he then grabbed his Winchester and headed out. There was no reason to bring Nakita, though the dog whined miserably as he left; but the snow was deep and drifting and until he needed the husky’s keen nose, he’d follow the tracks himself on horseback.
He cut across the back of the property, on a path that should intersect the boot prints he’d seen earlier. He’d spied the direction they were headed, and if Ivor’s Yeti was the killer and not a hallucination, then the tracks should head due west, into the foothills and, he suspected, intersect with an old logging road that ran between Long’s acres and those of the federal government.
As the gelding plodded through the drifts, Santana kept his eyes on the frigid landscape, searching for anything out of the ordinary.
Why had someone killed Brady Long? Not that the man didn’t have his share of enemies, but why now? In the middle of the worst winter in Montana’s history? And who would know Long was arriving? His current girlfriend, that model, Maya something-or-other? Someone he worked with? Friends he planned to meet? Or just Clementine?
Then there was the deeper question. The one that tore at his soul. Was Brady Long’s murder connected to Regan Pescoli’s disappearance and all the other killings committed by the Star-Crossed Killer?
A coincidence?
Or cold, hard truth?
There hadn’t been a murder in these parts since Calvin O’Dell’s wife shot him dead for sleeping with her grown daughter, and that had happened five or six years before; Santana hadn’t even been in Grizzly Falls when the scandalous events had unfolded. But since then, no homicides. Not even gangs or drug busts or hunting accidents—nothing in Pinewood County. Now, not only had Star-Crossed decided to make the area his private playground, but a copycat had followed in his footsteps. Now, if Brady Long’s killer proved to be someone else, then there would suddenly be three murderers on the prowl.
Awfully unlikely for these parts, but who knew?
Brady’s could be a murder for hire.
He wanted to believe it. The man had made more than his share of enemies, but his thoughts kept circling back to the fact that the same caliber weapon used in shooting out the tires of Star-Crossed’s victims’ vehicles had been used on Brady Long.
But Star-Crossed doesn’t kill with a firearm. He leaves his prey to die in the wilderness. This isn’t really Star-Crossed’s M.O.
Nate tugged gently on the reins, guiding Scout across a meandering creek that wound through an outcropping of boulders and a few scraggly pines. Ice snapped under the gelding’s hooves and a bit of water ran beneath the frozen surface of the brook.
He was north of the house now, far from the helicopter pad, the snow falling around him, the wind a brittle reminder that winter had settled in hard. Eyeing the ground, he searched for prints, any kind of depression in the white blanket that covered the ground.
“Where did you go, you son of a bitch?” he wondered aloud, his breath a cloud as he searched for any trace of the cold-blooded killer.
What if this maniac has Regan?
The back of his neck tightened at the thought and his eyes thinned as he scoured the ground. I’ll kill him, he thought, I’ll kill the bastard and won’t think twice.
He felt as if steel bands had been coiled around his chest and they were growing tighter with each breath, with the knowledge that the woman he loved was in the madman’s clutches. The woman you love, think about it, Santana. That’s a big leap from good times, hot sex, and no strings attached.
He’d met Pescoli in a bar.
Hadn’t known she was a cop.
Hit on her.
She, sipping whiskey, had been amused, one dark red eyebrow arching in interest.
“You want to bu
y me a drink?” she’d asked, shaking her head, burnished curls shining in the soft lighting of the Spot Tavern.
“Maybe,” he’d responded and signaled to the bartender, who slid a second short glass of Jack Daniel’s to clink against her first.
“That was easy,” she said.
“Easy’s my middle name.”
“I doubt it.” He’d smiled at her then and she’d returned the favor.
“What’s your sign?”
“Oh, come on,” he said, momentarily disappointed.
“The sign that you’re wearing though you don’t know it. DUI? Trespass? Failure to appear? Those are the signs I’m seeing.”
“What?”
She gave him the once-over, her eyes moving from his face, down the length of him and back up again. In a quick scan she’d taken in his muddy boots, faded Levi’s, clean but well-worn work shirt, and three days’ growth of beard. “It takes more than a shot of Jack for me to dismiss the charges.” She finished her drink, set the glass on the table, and eyed the second shot of whiskey. Then her lips slid into that sexy smile that took his breath away. “But just so you know, I don’t roll that way. No bribes. You’ll just have to take your chances with the judge.”
“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“Sure you do.”
“You think I’m trying to bribe you?” he said, just as it was beginning to dawn on him that she was a cop. A keep-your-distance, avoid-at-all-costs cop. “You’re with the police?”
Her grin widened and she glanced at the barkeep. “Hey, Nadine, we got ourselves a Rhodes Scholar here. Buy the man a drink. On me.”
Nadine’s peach-colored lips tried, and failed, to hide a smile as she poured another and placed it on the bar. He’d raised his glass and touched the rim of hers. “Nate Santana.”
Her eyebrows tugged together a bit, as if she’d heard the name, then she said, “Regan Pescoli. That’s Detective Pescoli to you.”
And so it went. From a game of pool, then laughable arm-wrestling, to throwing back shots. But he didn’t need the trouble that came with getting involved with a cop, and not just a cop, but a detective with two half-grown kids and two marriages under her belt.
The kind of woman to keep away from at all costs.
But there had been something about her, right from the get-go, that had hooked him, and now, astride the paint, squinting beneath the brim of his hat, he was damned well going to find her. No matter what it took.
Was she crazy? Had she really heard a woman’s cry? Pescoli had spent what seemed like hours alternately trying to free herself, to escape while the creep wasn’t around, and lying on her cot, straining to listen, trying to determine if she wasn’t alone.
It made sense, she thought.
Star-Crossed kept his victims a while, healing them before tying them to trees and leaving them in the wilderness. He collected them, kept them in rotation, held them here at his lair, wherever that was, in separate rooms, and then later on left them to die.
Her heart lay heavy as she thought there might be others as well. Who knew how many. She remembered sitting on the corner of Alvarez’s desk, going through the women who had been reported missing in a five-state area, then culling out those who might have been passing through this area of Montana, women traveling alone, of any race or religion. There had been dozens…She looked at the door separating her room from the area from which he’d appeared, from where she instinctively knew he resided.
Or had she imagined the noise?
Had the howl of the wind sounded like a woman sobbing brokenly?
She had to find out.
“Hey!” she yelled, not for the first time. “Anyone here?”
Her voice echoed, seeming to mock her, making her feel more alone than ever.
“Hey!” Louder this time. “Who’s there?”
Again no response.
You’re goin’ out of your flippin’ mind! You’re alone, Pescoli.
Once more. “Is anyone there?”
She waited.
She heard nothing but the rush of the wind and her own thudding heart. Still, she knew her ears had picked up something earlier. And she had to find out. No matter what.
If someone else was being held captive, Pescoli had to save that person as well.
She considered the case, going over the events that had brought her to this point. At first the authorities had believed that the killer had hunted his victims, then left them to die only at certain times of the month, predominately around the cusp of the Zodiac signs, but that pattern had altered as his lust for the kill had increased—or so it seemed.
Now there was no lull before the storm, no twenty-odd days of reprieve between the womens’ deaths.
She strained to listen.
Heard nothing.
Maybe it was just her overactive imagination. Tired, she closed her eyes. Working at the damned weld had proved useless. And her body screamed for relief. To rest. To heal. She took in a deep breath and could almost hear Nate Santana’s voice. “You’re giving up? You, Detective?” A derisive snort. “Hell, I never would have figured you for a quitter.”
“Bastard,” she whispered, as if he could hear her. But, of course, no one could. Her throat closed as she thought of him.
She blinked against a rush of stupid tears, fought them back and told herself to quit thinking about the cowboy and concentrate on the task at hand. She had to fight through the pain and free herself.
Star-Crossed, that twisted son of a bitch, would be coming back, and soon.
Who knew when or if she’d get this same chance to save herself and whoever else was trapped with her here.
Setting her jaw, Regan threw herself into her task again and was rewarded with more pain. Mind-numbing, bone-rattling pain. Her wrist ached where the cuffs had dug into her flesh and her ribs and shoulders were on fire. She hauled herself to the cold floor and tried to kick at the weld without twisting her wrist even worse.
She couldn’t give up.
Not yet.
Not ever.
Where is Liam?
Trying to allay her fears, Elyssa shivered on her bed in the small room that Liam had so generously offered her. But he was gone, for much longer than usual, and she felt that uncertainty, the fear, began to gnaw at her again.
Don’t be silly. He’s been good to you. He’ll be back. You know it.
But he could have had an accident…
He was going to try and get his truck started and if that failed, snowshoe into town for supplies. She was still too injured to go with him, but he would try to get help, he’d told her.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered, his big hands smoothing her hair. “I’ll get you out of here. By hook or by crook.” She’d looked into his eyes and trusted him—of course, she’d trusted him! She’d touched his cheek, the side where the scratches were so visible.
“That’s what you get when you try and help a bear cub out of a tree,” he told her. “I’m just lucky the mama bear didn’t show up or I’d have a lot more than a few little scratches.”
“I thought bears hibernated in winter,” she responded and he chuckled.
“City girl. Don’t trust what you read in textbooks. Wild animals do what they want when they want. Whatever nature tells them to. They’re like people, you know. They can’t be pigeonholed.”
Was that true? Didn’t bears mate in the summer and spend the winters in their dens with their young? Or did they sometimes come out of their lairs to feed…That’s not what she remembered from her biology class in college. Before nursing school, she’d gotten her bachelor of science and had taken three terms of biology, but that had been a while back and she really wasn’t thinking clearly. And it didn’t really matter anyway. All that concerned her now was getting home safely.
“First, a hospital,” Liam had corrected when she’d mentioned that she wanted to return to her family by Christmas. “I know first aid pretty well, I have to, you know, living up here and y
eah, I had a few leftover pills to help you through the pain. But you’ll need to see a doctor before you hightail it back to Missoula.” He’d smiled then, a kind smile that made her feel a little guilty as she had a boyfriend already, a man who she hoped would surprise her with an engagement ring at Christmas, which, of course, wouldn’t go over well with her father.
Dad just didn’t understand Cesar, who, Elyssa had to admit, was a little rough around the edges. But he just needed a good woman to help him wrest his kids from that bitch of an ex-wife of his.
But here, with Liam, her feelings for Cesar had gotten a little confused. And he could be mean…but Liam, he was kind. Good. Had rescued her when he’d found her car at the bottom of the canyon after the Saturn’s tire blew and she’d lost consciousness.
She’d woken up to Liam trying to help her from the vehicle. He’d been out snowshoeing when he’d found her.
At first she’d been fearful, but as Liam tended to her wounds—a sprained wrist, twisted knee, and cuts and abrasions, possible cracked rib or two—she’d begun to trust him. He was gentle and caring, and everything he’d done to help her get well was exactly right. She’d taken enough nursing classes to know. And he’d tried to call the police, but his cell phone didn’t work all that well and hers had been lost in the wreckage…so she was here in this small room, tended to by a man who truly was a Good Samaritan. He had a crutch that was much too long but it allowed her to hobble through the three rooms of his cabin: the living area with its small wood-fired stove in the alcove, which served as kitchen, too; another bedroom, “his” room, on the far side; and a small bath. There was another door, too; one that was locked from its other side, which Liam had explained was a staircase that led to his work area. He “puttered around” in geology and it, along with astronomy, seemed to be his passions, though he made his living, he claimed, as a fishing and hunting guide, spring through autumn. Winters, he holed up here.