by Lisa Jackson
Slowly, painstakingly, she reaches behind her back and unhooks it, letting the scrap of red lace fall to the floor. Then she cocks her head and looks at me that same, silly way, her lips curved into a little-girl pout as her breasts are finally exposed. As if she, naughtily, has given me what I want.
I’ve seen her breasts before, of course, and they are gorgeous. Big enough to be noticed; a “handful,” I’ve heard others say. With dark areolas, darker than most.
I’m almost tempted.
Almost.
“You like?” she said, breathily. Proud of those big mounds with the dark nipples. Clumsily, she runs a finger over her stiff nipple, then drags it upward, over her throat to touch her lips. Her index finger disappears into her mouth and she makes a sucking sound.
So contrived. So predictable.
She glances at my crotch, expecting to see swelling.
There is none.
“Move it,” I order.
“But, Liam,” she protests, her voice cracking.
“There’s not much time. Take off your pants. Now!”
“Oh, God.” Her hand falls from her mouth, but she obediently unzips her ski pants and strips them off. Her thong is still in place. Red and green. A holiday thong. How nice.
“That, too.”
Within seconds the thong is disposed of and she looks at me. “Now what?” she whispers.
“I think you know.”
I reach into my pocket and find the handcuffs, dangling them in my free hand, the knife still brandished in the other. For a second she’s confused. There’s a hint here of a sexual game. “Put your wrists together. In front of you.” I don’t have to worry about her escape, don’t have to bother with forcing her hands behind her.
Nervously she complies and I slap the cuffs on her.
“What is this?” she asks.
“You’ll see.” I gag her then, but don’t blindfold her. I need her to be able to walk and see. This part of “the complex” as I’ve come to call it, is aboveground, three hundred yards away from my work area and the room where Regan Pescoli has been held underground. “Let’s go.” Prodding her with the knife, I urge her from her locked room, down the corridor of the cabin to the outside door. She hesitates when I open it, but my knife blade urges her forward, so she trudges barefoot through the snow. There’s a path that leads to the truck, one I’ve created myself, a break in the snow that follows the tree line, just in case anyone flies over. I don’t want to call attention to the cabin, the smoke from the fire will be enough.
Moaning a protest, Elyssa follows the broken trail. The sky is still black as night, dawn not yet appearing over the eastern hills. Stars wink high in the heavens and the moon offers a bit of silvery illumination.
She’s already shivering, her smooth skin prick-ling with goose bumps. She’s ahead of me, so I can’t see her breasts, but I know her nipples are hard with the cold, and beneath her gag, her teeth are chattering.
Get used to it, I think, as we reach the lean-to where the truck is parked, its cover already removed and folded. I eye the snowmobile. I would prefer to use it as it’s so much faster and more agile, could cut the distance down as I drive cross country. But it might draw attention, again from the air, and I’d need the stretcher.
And it’s not big enough.
Not today.
Feeling a bit of anticipation, I open the canopy and tailgate. I nudge Elyssa forward and shine the flashlight inside. The beam catches on two glaring, reflective eyes and Elyssa visibly jumps and shrieks.
“Get inside,” I say, the tip of my knife pressing against her back.
Elyssa jumps again.
My other captive, the one already lying in the truck bed, is naked and bound. Writhing beneath the canopy, as if she thinks she might escape, she hurls insults through her gag. Then again, she always has been a mouthy one. Not nearly as compliant as Elyssa.
Elyssa hesitates.
I cut her.
Just a tiny prick on her back.
But it’s all it takes.
She leaps into the bed of the truck and I slam the tailgate shut and lock the canopy.
“Two for the price of one,” I say, pleased with myself, though there’s still so much work to do. I climb into the truck and start the engine, backing out slowly, testing the wheels as I turn around and head down the mountain lane.
He doesn’t know it yet, but this is Sheriff Grayson’s lucky day.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Run, run, run!
Pescoli’s mind screamed at her, pushed her, kept her going to the point that she was out of breath.
And freaked.
Her lungs burning, fear sizzling through every inch of her.
Don’t go there. Don’t panic. Do not!
God, if she only had her sidearm!
Yeah, right…down here? In these friggin’ tunnels?
Forcing back the terror that caused the edges of her sanity to fray, she kept moving, swinging the beam of her flashlight along the narrow tunnels. Her door to freedom had opened to this, a subterranean maze. But she had to keep searching, looking for the other hostages, looking for a way out. Dust was everywhere, spiderwebs abounded, and droppings of vermin littered the tunnel floor as she strove to find a way out of her prison. Pain jabbed her ribs with every breath, her joints throbbed, her wrist burned where it was flayed, her legs were still wobbly, and her heart pounding crazily as she strained to listen, squinted to see, hoped beyond hope that she wouldn’t run into the bastard returning down one of these dark corridors.
Earlier, with no time to waste, she’d begun opening doors only to discover that she was trapped in some kind of intricate maze. Aside from the main room with the fireplace, big table, and the sicko’s armoire filled with the evidence of his crimes, there were hallways dug into the earth, all angling off in different directions.
An old silver or gold mine.
How in the world would she ever find the other women? Save them?
These hills were riddled with mines from a bygone era; though few of the old shafts and tunnels, she thought, were so intricate and large as this one.
There had to be a way out.
She just had to be patient.
Think logically.
While her mind was yelling at her to run.
And her mouth was dry with the fear that she was too late to save Elyssa O’Leary or anyone else.
You perverted son of a bitch, she thought, her grip tightening on the poker even as her muscles screamed in protest.
Calm down.
Take a deep breath.
Get your damned bearings!
What would Santana do? He, with his military background, backpacking, and river-guide experience. He, who was at home in the most treacherous terrain.
Remain calm.
Think logically.
Remember where you’ve been.
His voice resonated in her ears and in her mind’s eye she saw his visage: his dark eyes, set back well into his head, his bladed cheekbones that hinted at some Native American ancestor, and his lips, thin and hard, but easily teased into a smile.
Her heart twisted and she wondered if she would really ever see him again. If she’d ever really touch him.
And the kids.
God, she had to keep going for Bianca and Jeremy.
She kept the fading, yellow beam of the flashlight on the darkness ahead. Someone, probably the whack-job himself, had spent lots of time, money, and effort renovating the adjoining rooms for his twisted purposes.
Whoever the bastard was, he’d been planning his killing spree for a very long time. The depth of his plot was evident in the files he kept in the big armoire and this labyrinth of underground tunnels.
She’d taken a knife from the main room along with her flashlight and the poker she still carried, then she’d tried to find a way out of the maze.
She had no idea how long she’d been at it, but with every step she had the sinking, horrifying sensation that time was
running out, that around any corner she might run into him, that he was already searching for her.
Just keep going, she told herself over the pounding of her pulse. But she was exhausted, only getting through this on adrenaline and fear. The women who had been found in the forest came to mind, all five victims who had been held hostage here, underground, never given a chance before being marched out into the frozen wilderness and roped to lone trees in the worst winter Regan could remember.
Was she walking in their footsteps?
Had they been forced down these dark, close tunnels where it was so hard to breathe? Then there was Elyssa…God, please let her still be alive. And if there are others…all of them, please…
As her lungs filled with the dust in the tunnel, she swung the beam of her flashlight over the walls and ceiling. Spurs ran off the main underground corridor, but most of them had been blocked, the entrances boarded over, and from the amount of dust and dirt that had accumulated, she assumed he didn’t use them, that they weren’t his escape route.
She had to work slowly, so as not to get lost, and she’d marked her path with a stone she’d found, scratching the floor with arrows, reminding her of which path she’d followed and all the while, she knew that time was her enemy, at any second the monster would return.
“…and so this is Christmas,” John Lennon’s voice filled the interior of the car. “And what have you—”
Alvarez clicked the radio off. “Right on, John,” she said without any enthusiasm. Streetlights and stoplights glowed red, green, and amber, while the brick buildings of “Old Grizz,” the area of town near the river, were adorned in clear crystal-looking strands. She drove past the courthouse where a tree over twenty feet tall was festooned in colorful bulbs, and as she wound her way up the hill to Boxer Bluff, she passed the Baptist church where a snow-covered nativity scene was illuminated with spotlights. Hand-painted wooden figures of Mary, Joseph, and the manger were surrounded by sheep and the Magi.
Images of her own youth flashed behind her eyes. The life-size creche that her father and brothers dutifully resurrected each holiday season to stand in the front yard of the two-storied house in Woodburn, the small town in Oregon where she’d grown up with all of her brothers and sisters, eight children in all, a family, she thought now, with too little money and too much religion. Each year her parents had shepherded the kids to Mt. Angel, to the cathedral-like parish for midnight mass, then on Christmas morning, they would return to their home parish nearby. Her brother Pablo was always the jokester and getting into trouble.
There was a part of Alvarez that missed those early years and the closeness of her family, the noise of a house filled with voices rising in Spanish and English, the music that was so much a part of their family, the ever-present smells of her mother’s cooking.
But that was a long time ago.
Before “the incident” when she’d grown up fast, her innocence stolen.
Now she was a different person. Far different.
At the top of the hill, she wound her way through the streets to the sheriff’s department where only a few vehicles were parked. Cort Brewster’s rig was missing.
Which wasn’t unusual.
Shifts hadn’t changed yet, the night crew still on duty for a couple of hours. Alvarez thought she’d use that time to do some more checking on Brewster, then drive to the Long ranch to interview, again, Clementine DeGrazio and her sharpshooting son. Not much was known about Ross; a couple of speeding tickets, an absentee father, and an over-protective mother.
She pulled into her usual space, locked the car, and headed inside where, this early, the office was quiet. It was her favorite time at work, before the cacophony of a regular day started: phones ringing off the hook; cops questioning witnesses and grilling suspects; the banter among the staff. Before Star-Crossed had begun to strike, the workload and job had been interesting, but usually not extreme. Since Theresa Charleton’s body had been found, the amount of work had exploded.
Now Selena walked into the kitchen, saw the sludge in the coffeepot from the night before, and began fresh, rinsing out the glass pot before refilling it. There were a few pieces of Joelle’s fruitcake on one table, and only the crumbs from her cookies on the other.
Leaving the coffee to brew, she walked to her desk and fired up her computer. She checked her e-mail, read some reports, made mental notes about tips that had come in, forwarded to her from the task force desk. Nothing new. Surreptitiously she checked the undersheriff’s professional records, seeing how many shooting competitions he’d won, how many times he’d been cited for awards of excellence on the job, then read anything that was printed on the Internet on her boss. She still hadn’t officially clocked in, was working on her own time, so she justified her investigation, such as it was.
And still he was the undersheriff, had never risen above that position. Why?
Don’t go there, she warned herself again, just as she heard boots ringing down the hallway. Looking up, she saw Grayson pass in a cloud of fury. His dog was at his heels as he strode into his office.
More bad news?
She waited until the computer monitor went into its screen-saver mode, walked down to the kitchen, grabbed two cups of coffee, and headed to Grayson’s office. He was already on the phone, his expression hard. He glanced up at her and nodded at one of the steaming cups.
“…yeah, I know, but I think it would be best if you got your facts straight first. We’re trying to avoid a panic…What? I don’t know when the next press conference will be. As soon as there’s something to report.” He slammed the phone down and said, “Seen the paper?”
She shook her head as she handed him the mug.
He hitched his chin at the paper he’d tossed onto the desk. “Take a look for yourself.”
She sat in a side chair, next to the dog’s bed where the black Lab had taken his spot, and opened the paper. Bold headlines reported: SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT STYMIED BY STAR-CROSSED KILLER—DETECTIVE FEARED LATEST VICTIM.
“Oh, no.” She thought about her partner for the hundredth time this morning and couldn’t shake the sense of doom that had seeped through her insides.
“It gets better. Keep reading.” Grayson’s jaw was rock hard.
The next line, in smaller type, declared: Copycat Killer Arrested.
She read the remainder of the article by Manny Douglas, who reported that the “Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department and the FBI had been fooled into believing they had captured the Star-Crossed Killer with the arrest in Spokane.” With more innuendo than actual fact, Manny suggested the entire investigation was botched and that the local authorities were “lost” and “baffled.”
“He may as well have asked for my damned resignation,” Grayson said. He looked tired, the grooves in his cheeks more pronounced, dark circles beneath his eyes. “Journalism at its finest,” he said, then raked stiff fingers through his hair. “For what it’s worth, I lodged a complaint with his editor.”
“Well, whatever you do, don’t resign.” Alvarez tossed the paper into his trash can. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to believe your press, good or bad?”
“Not much good these days.”
She couldn’t argue the point.
He held up his cup. “Thanks for bringing me the coffee.”
She nodded. “Merry Christmas Eve.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t get used to it. I only pull out my gofer skills on the holidays.”
His lips almost smiled. “So, anything new?”
She couldn’t mention Brewster, not until she had something concrete, some evidence that linked the undersheriff to the crime, and the truth was, she wasn’t sure he was their guy. “I’m going out to talk to Clementine and Ross DeGrazio again. Clementine’s one of the few people who knew that Brady Long was going to show up at the Lazy L.”
“What about his fiancée? People he worked with?”
“Zoller’s working on them and Halden told me tha
t he’s talking to the FBI’s field agents in Denver. I haven’t heard back yet.”
“And your visit with Grace Perchant?” he asked, his eyes crinkling a bit. “You never said how that went.”
“It was interesting.”
“Uh-huh. She talk to any ghosts?”
“Many, I think. Wendy Ito warned her about Pescoli.”
“Of course she did.” He gave her a look.
Alvarez didn’t feel like arguing with him and really couldn’t back up her arguments with fact anyway. Alvarez was about to leave when Joelle Fisher, dressed in a festive holiday cape and laden with Tupperware filled with what looked like sweets, poked her head into the office.
“Any word on Detective Pescoli?” she asked hopefully. There was a tiny pipe-cleaner angel tucked into her blond hair.
If possible, Grayson’s expression turned grimmer.
“Oh, I see…Well, I brought some…things…More cookies and julekake, that’s a traditional Scandinavian bread, my husband’s mother’s from Norway, you know…” she said, then her voice trailed off. “Okay, I’m sorry, it is the Christmas season and when I’m upset I bake. I even have some dog biscuits for Sturgis—”
At the sound of his name, the big Lab thumped his tail and looked expectantly at Joelle.
“Yes, buddy…” she cooed. “Merry Christmas, Sturgis.” She was halfway into the room now and through the open door behind her, the increasing activity of the department was audible: the thud of deputies’ footsteps as they walked past the door; ringing phones; computer keyboards clicking; and over it all a light buzz of conversation.
Joelle left a small container on the corner of Grayson’s desk. It had a bright red bow and a card that said: Sturgis.
Grayson watched her but didn’t say a word.
“Well, I’d better get these goodies into the lunch room.” She turned on a gold high heel as if to leave.
“Joelle,” the sheriff said and she stopped. “When Undersheriff Brewster shows up, have him see me.”
Alvarez stiffened, cast a look at Grayson. Did he have suspicions as well?
The sheriff continued, “I want to make sure he dropped the charges against Regan’s boy. The kid’s got enough on his plate with his mother missing and today’s headline.”