The Alvarez & Pescoli Series

by Lisa Jackson

  What good will that do if you can’t get free?

  Pescoli wanted to deck the jerk-wad, to knock him flat and peel off his disguise. “Like I said, you don’t know me at all.”

  “Really?” He placed a finger against his chin like a bad stage actor trying to portray being lost in thought. “I know that you’ve been married twice, to losers both of them. They both cheated on you, right? But you got Joe, your college sweetheart, back by sleeping with someone else.”

  Her blood was boiling, but she bit her tongue. Let him rant. Maybe if he gave up some bit of information he considered useless, she might glean something about him, something that would ultimately give her a clue to his identity.

  “That’s right…you were separated from Joe at the time, so that made it okay for you to act like the slut you really are.”

  He was enjoying her humiliation. Pacing from one side of the room to the other. Walking past her cot as she held the blanket over her. Coming closer with each pass. “What? No defense, Red?” And he seemed edgy. Good. This was better. Let him get agitated. Maybe he’d slip up.

  She said nothing and she noticed, through the shadows, a tightening of his lips, not quite completely hidden by his beard.

  “And now you’re sleeping with another scumbag.”

  She felt the muscles in her back tighten. He could damned well leave Santana out of it. It was all she could do to remain quiet. Still. When she wanted to kill him.

  “And you’re supposed to be so smart, Red. Clever. Able to figure things out. Save lives.” Again the clucking sound echoed through the chamber. He even chuckled, as if at her ineptitude. “But you’re a failure. Your own life’s a mess. Here you are, the captive rather than the captor. Pinewood County’s finest. Handcuffed with your own set of cuffs. Ironic, don’t you think?”

  He was pissing her off but good, which sent adrenaline pouring through her veins. “Guess we’re all a bit dull here in the Bitterroots, huh?” she drawled.

  He stopped suddenly and bared his teeth, hands clenching. For a moment she thought he would lose the hold on his own control. She braced herself, but then, after a moment, he resumed pacing.

  “It’s a wonder you were ever hired,” he shot back. “You’re a miserable excuse for both a woman and a detective.”

  As she watched him stalk back and forth she had a vision of someone she’d seen before…someone walking down a hallway at the department, someone…she couldn’t quite grab hold of the image. But she was certain she’d seen him while she’d been working. And then there were all of his disparaging remarks about cops. What was it about him and the sheriff’s department? Something in his talk suggested that he had a personal axe to grind, that the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department was his personal source of ridicule.

  Why?

  Had he not been able to get help when he needed it? Had the department made a mistake and someone he cared about been hurt or killed? Had he been personally wounded so badly by the department or some other arm of the law that he was out to show up cops, specifically the cops of Pinewood County? Or was he just a criminal who hated all cops?

  He sure as hell didn’t like being needled.

  Carefully, she observed him pace, getting closer, silently taunting her for being chained to the cot. His confidence had returned after her jab and he was almost swaggering as he passed and she wondered…if he got close enough…could she get the jump on him? He would have to be very close because her one wrist was secured low, but she had to try. She had no doubt that the son of a bitch was going to kill her.

  “But you’re not alone in your failure,” he said. “Do you know that your esteemed team of crack deputies and even…yes,” he was shaking his head now at the ineptitude of the police, “even the FBI were duped recently by a copycat?”

  “A copycat?”

  “Chandler and Halden, they flew up with Dan Grayson to Spokane.”

  This was a lie.

  “They thought they were going to break the case wide open and make a big bust, take down the Star-Crossed Killer,” he snarled. “And what did they get?” He stopped in front of her, staring at her through the amber lenses of the goggles. “Nothing! A big fat goose egg.” He snorted in disdain. “They arrested a goddamned woman who was pretending to be me.” He stared at her as Regan puzzled through his words. “Oh, that’s right. You didn’t know, did you? After I shot your tire out, Grayson and the dynamic duo were chasing their tails in Spokane.”

  There had been a copycat killer? One good enough to fool the FBI and the sheriff’s department? It didn’t seem right and yet, her captor was so damned serious…

  “I thought you’d like to know what your colleagues have been up to for the last day or so,” he said, nearing her. She felt all of her muscles coil. One or two more steps. “Chasing around in circles like the idiots they are.”

  Her heart was pounding, but she tried to remain outwardly passive. If he would just step a little closer…

  Her blanket slipped a fraction and she saw his attention tighten as he stopped right by her.

  Close enough!

  She shifted, swept her legs straight out from the cot and jammed him hard. White-hot pain ricocheted up her leg as he rocked on his feet. The blanket tangled his ankles and he lost his footing and fell.

  “Ahhgg!” He hit hard, his chin slamming into the hard stones.

  “Shit!”

  Regan was on him in an instant, the short tether of her handcuffs keeping her close to the cot.

  Before he could get to his feet, she yanked up on his hair, stretching his neck and wrapping the links of her handcuffs under his throat.

  “Hey!”

  She pulled harder, the chain digging into his soft flesh.

  He made a strangled cry, tried to roll away. Naked, riding his back, she pulled as hard as she could, trying desperately to cut off his air.

  But he was writhing. Fighting her, his surprise giving way to fury. “You bitch!” he sputtered, rearing up, nearly pulling her arm out of its socket.

  Pain bristled through her torso and she cried out.

  Still she hung on his back.

  He tried to get to his feet, but she drew her knee up, splitting his butt cheeks, trying to hit his testicles.

  She kicked.

  Her knee connected.

  He let out a howl that echoed through the rooms. Reverberated through her mind.

  “Bitch! Goddamned—” His words were cut off, his breath whistling and wet.

  Die, you son of a bitch! Die!

  Gasping and frantic, he dug wildly at the chain closing off his windpipe with his fingers.

  Pescoli’s arm felt as if it were being wrenched from her body.

  He twisted and turned, his fingernails raking his skin as he tried to force them between the skin over his windpipe and the sharp, tiny loops of steel.

  Gritting her teeth, she pulled harder, hoping to close his windpipe forever. Her shoulder screamed in pain. Was on fire. It was all she could do to hang on. Don’t let go. If you do, it’s over! Hold on! For God’s sake, pull!

  Again he reared, trying to get to his knees. Attempting to shake her off.

  She clung like a burr.

  He struggled.

  And she saw the back of his neck.

  Without thinking, she leaned forward, teeth bared. She bit down. Hard into the flesh where his shoulder and head connected. Tasted salt and sweat.

  He shrieked in pain.

  She bit harder. Closing her teeth.

  If she could nick his jugular vein or carotid artery, he would bleed out. Her teeth ripped into his flesh.

  He bucked hard.

  She nearly flew off. Twisted. She heard something pop in her arm. A tendon give way.

  Blood flowed. Metallic. Salty. Running from his body into her mouth.

  Keep at it!

  Don’t let go!

  He was sputtering now. Writhing and screaming. Determined to throw her off. He flipped over, so she was beneath him.

>   Bam!

  The back of her head crashed against the stone floor. Her right wrist felt as if it were severed from her arm.

  Pain exploded behind her eyes.

  Her jaw slacked and he tossed his head away from her.

  Using both arms, she ignored her pain and pulled even harder on her cuffs, determined to choke him.

  He pressed his weight down hard, crushing her. Her spine popped, her bare skin rubbed raw by the bare, cold stones. God, he was heavy. So heavy. And strong. Her lungs felt as if they couldn’t move, her bruised ribs ached. Her wrist…Help me, she thought, barely able to draw a breath.

  No, no, no. Don’t give up. You can’t.

  She bit into him again, blood streaming from her mouth.

  She felt as if she were drowning. Her lungs burning, blood filling the back of her mouth, as he shoved her even harder into the floor.

  She tried to keep up the fight, but her jaw loosened as she struggled for air.

  He was gurgling, still trying to pull the chain from his neck. Then he switched tactics. He convulsed, crashing his elbow backward. The joint landed with bone-jarring accuracy against her ribs.

  “Aaaawwww,” she cried, sputtering blood. The blow felt as if it shattered two of her healing ribs.

  Pain rocketed through her chest.

  She nearly blacked out.

  He threw his head back. Crack! His skull hit her forehead and crushed the bridge of her nose.

  More pain. Agonizing and brutal.

  More feeling of drowning in a sea of blood.

  She gasped, sputtering and spitting, still holding to her cuffs as if for her life. But her strength was slipping away and he grabbed hard on the chain, pulling it away from his neck, gulping for breath.

  No! She couldn’t let him get the upper hand.

  Oh, for the love of God…

  She fought to hold on, but it was too late. Her muscles no longer obeyed her mind. Vainly, desperately, she tried to keep the chain looped around his neck tight, but he shifted and pulled against her arm, twisting until she yelled.

  Don’t give up, Regan, do not give up…Oh God, help me. Please, please, please! Like lightning, blinding pain sizzled up her arm and shoulder.

  She felt the tide turning.

  She had no strength left…not enough. Nor could she keep up the pressure as he slowly pressed his weight into her, crushing her bruised ribs, intent on breaking them all. He kept up his head-banging as well, hitting her over and over again with the back of his head, pulverizing her face.

  Let go, Regan…give up…you can’t do it…

  She heard the hopelessness and despair in her own words even as her muscles let go. The blood on the chains was slick, and her grip loosened.

  With an effort, he peeled her arms over his head and rolled away, the fake beard, now bloody, falling off. She caught a glimpse of his jaw in the semidarkness, the line of his nose. But she was gasping, breathing hard, her vision out of focus, her body shuddering. Lying on the cold sharp stones of the floor, feeling blood, hers and his, drying on her body, she couldn’t move, couldn’t raise her head.

  She felt rather than saw him climb to his feet. Still breathing hard, he whispered, “You’ll pay for this, you goddamned cunt.” He spat on the floor, his promise still running painfully through her head. “And it starts now.”

  Fine, she thought. End it. I’m done. She was gasping, dragging in air, the taste and feel of him a revulsion. She loathed the man. Hated him. Wearing only his blood, she rolled her head to one side and tried to see him.

  “You just sealed her fate.”

  What the hell was he talking about? Her fate? No, she must’ve misheard. He meant your fate. Pescoli was too tired, in too much pain to care about his stupid mind games. She’d tried to escape and had failed miserably. Now he planned on punishing her.

  Was he planning to take her into the woods, to lash her to a tree and leave her to freeze to death? Fine. Bring it on. She’d find a way to escape. If she could just get her strength back, quit hurting for a minute…

  “You don’t get it, do you?” he said as he stood in the shadows at the door.

  She didn’t care. Couldn’t answer.

  He cleared his throat, spat again, and swore under his breath. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought he held one hand over the back of his neck where she’d nearly torn away his muscle…

  If she just had been a little stronger.

  “You think you’re the only one? That there won’t be consequences?”

  She didn’t know what he was talking about.

  Didn’t care.

  She hurt all over. And he’d won.

  For now.

  “There was a chance she might have survived, but now it’s over.”

  “She?” Did she speak aloud? Or, was it in her head?

  He was talking nonsense. Trying to rattle Pescoli, but it wouldn’t work. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Just leave me alone, she wanted to scream. Leave me be. She couldn’t even muster the strength to try and determine his identity.

  “You’re just too dumb to understand, aren’t you, Detective. Too self-centered to think that your actions would affect anyone else.”

  She was still having trouble breathing, her body starting to shiver almost convulsively with the cold.

  “But I’ll explain it to Elyssa. She’ll get it.”

  Who’s Elyssa…? Her mind was shutting down.

  “You’re not curious?” he mocked. “Don’t you want to know whose death sentence you just signed?”

  This is a ploy. Only a ploy. Don’t buy into it.

  With an effort, she rolled an eye in his direction. Deep down, she wanted to call his bluff, to call him a friggin’ liar, but something in the way he stood near the door, in the superior tone of his voice, gave her pause.

  “Elyssa O’Leary…surely you have a missing persons report on her.”

  Oh, please God, no. The name was familiar.

  She could almost feel the depravity of his smile crawl through the darkness. “Yes, I see you know her.”

  It was all making sense now. Sick, horrifying sense as she remembered thinking she’d heard a woman crying, softly sobbing. Pescoli had convinced herself that the woman’s broken sobs were only the product of her imagination.

  But how…?

  Her heart turned to ice.

  Cold, horrifying dread pounded through her brain.

  Elyssa O’Leary. Missing for several weeks…Only child…a student of some kind…

  “I wasn’t sure it was her time. Not yet. I might have given her another week or so…let her live through the holidays…But you convinced me, Red. She’s ready.”

  This wasn’t a bluff. He couldn’t know about the O’Leary girl…Pescoli licked her lips. Tasted his repugnant sweat and blood all over again. This was wrong. So wrong. “You’re a liar,” she accused him.

  “Only when I have to be, and I certainly don’t have to lie about this.”

  With a sick feeling, she knew he was telling the truth. The son of a bitch had picked this bleak moment for a stab at honesty.

  “When the storm breaks tomorrow, she dies. Christmas Eve.”

  Denial tore through Pescoli’s soul. She couldn’t let this happen! Wouldn’t! “Take me,” she whispered.

  “Oh, so you do believe me.”

  She closed her eyes and repeated hoarsely, “Take me.” Where there was hope, there was life. If she could buy the girl a few more days, Alvarez and the rest of the department might be able to locate this lair.

  “You need to think about what you just did. And there are others, before you…”

  Others? Plural? Oh, Lord, he plans to harvest more and keep me alive, then taunt me with their deaths! He intends to tell me about each one, every innocent woman that I will be unable to save. This could take weeks, or months…or years.

  Who knew how many women he planned to kill?

  “Then punish me. Please.” She hated to plead with him, to buy into hi
s twisted game, but she couldn’t have another woman’s death on her hands.

  “Oh, believe me, I am,” he said, his voice smooth as snake oil. “I’m punishing you and tormenting you. Forever. Elyssa O’Leary’s death. It will be your fault, Pescoli. Hers and the others. All your fault. Think about that. You signed their death sentences and you’ll live knowing you sent them to their fates.”

  She felt battered inside. Stripped bare. How many did this sick, sick man plan to kill? How many would she know were going to be slaughtered? “You can’t do this,” she whispered.

  “Who’s going to stop me? You?”

  “The police—”

  “Grayson? That cocky buffoon? Or that shrewd little partner of yours?” he taunted. “How about Nate Santana?”

  “You better hope he never finds you.”

  “Oh. I’m scared. Shivering in my boots.”

  “You should be.” Her voice cut like steel and for a second he actually quit treating her with contempt. “He’ll make you wish you were never born.”

  “Right.”

  “You can’t do this,” she repeated and watched as his mouth twisted into a smile of pure evil.

  “Watch me.”

  And then he was gone, the door opening and closing with a thud.

  “No, oh…oh, please, no,” she whispered, bleeding to her soul. Naked, shivering on the floor, Pescoli stared at the dark, closed door and knew with terrifying certainty that she’d just sent an innocent woman to her death.

  As surely as if she’d stabbed Elyssa O’Leary in the heart.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Screw playing by the rules!

  Santana climbed out of his cabin desk chair and walked to the window. There was still a cop car at the main house on the Long estate, but as he watched, it, like all the other county-owned vehicles, pulled away and drove down the long lane, taillights reflecting red against the snow, blinking as the Jeep passed behind trees.

  He wondered if he was being watched and found he didn’t care. Regan was missing, a maniac was on the loose, and somehow Brady Long’s death might be tied to the damned Star-Crossed Killer.

  After leaving the police to look into the tire tracks running along the edge of the property, Santana had returned to his cabin with Nakita. The dog had taken up his favorite position near the fire and was snoring softly, but Santana was too keyed up to relax. He’d already taken care of the livestock, then pulled out several maps of the area, including one issued by the forest service, then on the Internet he’d checked the latest satellite and topographical maps.