by Lisa Jackson
Joelle’s pretty face puckered. “Oh, he told me yesterday that he’s got meetings out of the office and will be in a little after nine. But I’ll call him.”
“Do that.”
Grayson seemed surprised that his second-in-command hadn’t informed him about showing up late.
Joelle bustled out.
It was true enough that the undersheriff had a lot of duties that required him to be out of the office and his time spent behind his desk was naturally flexible, though, since the realization that a serial killer was stalking the county, Brewster and the rest of the staff showed up early and met to discuss the day.
Not so this morning, it seemed.
Alvarez returned to her desk and decided she wasn’t done yet looking into the undersheriff’s activities.
Sure he was a dedicated cop.
By all accounts a devoted family man.
An elder in his church.
Someone people looked up to.
A handsome, straightforward man.
He looked good on the outside, but there was always the chance that Cort Brewster had a secret life.
Elyssa had never been so frightened in her life. Now she knew that Liam, the man she’d learned to trust, was a cold-blooded killer, the one that she’d heard about before leaving school. She’d been vaguely aware that a sicko was prowling this part of the Bitterroots and somehow leaving women in the forest to die. She hadn’t paid any attention; she’d been so excited about going home for the holidays and she’d hoped that Cesar was going to propose.
That seemed so far away now.
Part of her other life.
Tears ran down her face as she lay in the bed of the truck, a bit of light visible through the canopy windows. The vehicle wasn’t moving now. He’d stopped somewhere and cut the engine. She’d barely been able to breathe, she was so scared as he’d opened the back of the truck and with gloved hands, pulled the other girl roughly out the back. Morning sunlight had reflected upon the snow, nearly blinding Elyssa, but she’d seen that they were in a forest, all white and quiet, no doubt a remote location.
The other woman, a prisoner like her, had cried out as Liam had dragged her onto the ground. Elyssa caught a glimpse of his knife and saw that the blade had a bit of blood on it. Hers, she knew, from when he’d roughly prodded her into this truck.
She thought about throwing herself outside of the vehicle, rolling out and knocking him senseless and trying to run. She wouldn’t get far, but maybe one of them, either the other victim or herself, would be able to get away.
Reach the police!
Find help!
But, as if he’d read her mind, he’d slammed the tailgate shut and locked the canopy.
Click.
The sound was soft, but it resonated through Elyssa’s brain, reminding her that she was locked away.
Alone.
About to die.
The glimpse she had of the other woman had burned into her brain: a tall, thin woman with small breasts, brown hair, and eyes that were wide and frightened. She’d begun screaming behind her gag as she’d been dragged from the truck. Elyssa had heard her frightened, strangled cries as Liam, if that was really his name, paid no attention.
Now there was nothing—no noise other than the frantic beating of her own heart.
And the silence was deafening.
Crushing.
Shaking, she sent up a prayer. Dear Lord in heaven, please help me. Help her…save us.
Tears drizzled from her eyes as she thought of her parents, how her mother would be hanging the stockings on the mantel and her father would be sitting in his chair, reading a newspaper, the television turned to some sports channel. And Cesar. Was he missing her? With his children.
Oh, God, how she missed them all.
How she wished she’d told them all how much she loved them.
How—
Footsteps crunched through the snow outside.
For a split second she thought someone might have come for her. A bit of hope lightened her heart.
Until she heard the door lock click.
Felt the truck sink a bit as he climbed inside.
Then heard the engine cough and start, roaring to life. With a crunch of tires, the pickup began to roll forward.
Elyssa O’Leary closed her eyes and prayed.
These, she knew, were the final moments of her life.
Chapter Twenty-Five
It was as if something was in the air. Something intangible, dark and evil.
Nate had spent a restless night, hoping Chilcoate would call, knowing he wouldn’t. His mind had spun with ideas and dead ends, going over the information about Regan’s abduction and the other killings in his memory. He couldn’t quiet the questions and images and when he had finally drifted off, his dreams had been splintered and sharp. One minute he was making love to Regan, his body slick with sweat, the scent of her enveloping him as he kissed her, ran his fingers along her long legs. He’d heard her voice, deep and smoky. “That’s it, cowboy,” she’d whispered into his ear. “Right there…yeah, yeah…oh, yeah…” and then she’d withered away from him, her face twisting in fear, and he was standing on the brink of a yawning, dark canyon, snow falling all around.
He’d awoken shouting her name and had finally given up on sleep, spending the next few hours swilling coffee, studying maps, trying to piece together how Brady Long had been connected to the other victims, or more importantly, the killer.
And why the hell had Ivor Hicks shown up?
While Long’s body was still warm, his soul not yet admitted into hell?
Ivor had arrived, at least three miles from his own place, little more than a shack at the base of Mesa Rock.
None of it made any sense, he thought, as he tried and failed to get Lucifer to take the bit. “Come on, boy,” he’d cajoled and tried to get into tune with the animal. Lucifer had let him pat his sleek black shoulders and hadn’t so much as pawed or tossed his head as Santana had placed the straps of the bridle over his neck. He’d acted as gentlemanly as he had the night before.
But the bit had set him off and rather than battle with the big colt, Santana had backed off.
Truth to tell, he wasn’t in the mood.
And Lucifer took advantage of it.
Giving up on the bridle, Santana went about his other chores, all the while thinking of Regan, wondering where she was, an icy fear that she might already be dead, tied to some lonesome tree in the middle of the forest cutting through his soul. Yesterday, when he’d visited Chilcoate, he’d felt in control, but after his scattered dreams a gnawing fear had taken hold.
Gritting his teeth, he shoved the image of Regan from his mind and began measuring oats for the horses. Once he was finished with his chores, then he’d check with Chilcoate.
Whether the sheriff liked it or not, Santana intended to run his own investigation.
Because Regan Pescoli’s disappearance was personal.
I’m jangled.
As I always am after I’ve accomplished my mission. But it’s too early and I’m not finished, I think, as I drive into the next storm. It’s barely started, just a few snow flurries of thick flakes, but if the sky and the weather service can be believed, soon another blizzard will roll through.
I hear her crying.
Irritating moans emanating from the back of the truck. Despite her gag and the whine of the engine and the hum of the tires, I can hear her.
Because I’m rattled. My nerves on edge.
Never have I done two in one day.
“Two in one. Two in one. Two in one.” This becomes my mantra and I say it aloud, in time with the wipers, but she just won’t shut up. Elyssa’s cries have a way of cutting through the noise and burrowing deep in my brain.
Yelling at her through the back window that opens to the canopy won’t help. She’ll just wail all the louder.
And I feel the bite marks on the back of my neck. Inflamed. Angry. Like my building rage.
; “Maybe music,” I say and snap on the radio with a flick of my wrist.
But I’m far from the radio towers, deep in the mountains, and all I can hear over the crackle of static is Burl Ives’s voice lilting on and on about a holly, jolly Christmas.
Not this year, I think and click off the radio. I concentrate instead on the job I have yet to do.
I’ve already picked out the area, far from the other one.
Won’t Grayson and his crew be surprised?
“Merry Christmas!”
I have to shift down as I turn a corner and start up the hill, the four-wheel-drive propelling the truck through the drifting snow.
Up, up, up. This one is not going to be left in a valley. I’ve picked this spot with great care. It’s perfect.
She lets out another moan.
What a whiner!
She deserves to die.
And she turned so quickly from vowing her love to that loser boyfriend of hers, to wanting me. A slut.
The wipers strain as the storm increases and the engine whines, tires slipping a bit as I drive to the ridge. I should have started earlier, as I knew the blizzard was on its way. I don’t have much time.
Come on, come on, I think, as the old truck fish-tails just before I round a final corner on this abandoned road. I know the clearing is just on the other side of the ridge. With some difficulty, I manage to turn the truck around, backing up, then pulling forward several times, just enough to point the nose of the vehicle down the hill for a quick escape. I can’t allow myself to become overconfident and get the truck stuck.
Not that the imbecilic cops would ever find it.
There is still another vehicle they haven’t located and probably won’t until the spring thaw, a white Volkswagen Beetle, crumpled and buried deep in Stone Ridge Canyon. Idiots!
Once my truck is pointed in the right direction, I park, cut the engine, and set the emergency brake.
Then it’s time.
She’s shivering in the back, making protesting noises as I open the door and pull her out. She is already covered with goose pimples, yet nervous sweat is visible on her body.
“No,” she attempts to yell through her gag and I hear the word, know the meaning though her voice is garbled and muted.
“Let’s go.”
She is crying now, pulling the limp dishrag routine on me, as if her legs won’t work. Some do this. Others try to flee. One tried to fight. In the end it’s all the same, and as I lift my knife again, she gets the idea.
I loop a length of rope around her wrists; there’s no time for chasing after her in the woods, and with my backpack in place, I prod her forward.
She doesn’t want to go.
As much of an idiot as she is, she realizes that this is the end: There is no escape.
She is shivering as she stumbles along, plowing through the unbroken snow, cutting her own death path.
I hurry her along.
There isn’t a lot of time.
I have places I need to be.
“Move it,” I say, as I know the cold has settled into her bones. Through the ice-draped thickets of saplings and over the top of a ridge, I force her to follow a deer trail I’ve used for hunting since childhood.
She’s visibly shaking now, either from fear, the cold, or both. Not that it matters. Down we walk, over a fallen tree where the jagged stump is now softened by the inches of white powder over it. The sky is obscured with clouds and the wind is blustery, blowing in fits and starts.
She contemplates running, I sense it, but she’s an obedient doe, one who has given in to the whims of men her whole life, the way she tells it. A domineering father and then a string of boyfriends who never were quite the Prince Charming she’d hoped for. She’d told me about all of them, including Cesar, the latest, the one she’d wanted to marry.
Elyssa, of all the women I’ve hand-picked, is by far the least confident, a mouse of a thing…I probably shouldn’t have chosen her, but her name…so perfect.
That thought brings a smile to my face as I realize that already my gift for the police might have arrived. If so, the sheriff’s department will be set on its ear.
Chaos is bound to erupt.
The news, today, will be much more interesting than that boring press conference Grayson held. Posed on the steps of the sheriff’s department with his stern expression, trying to appear like a U.S. Marshal on some old T.V. or movie Western. Yeah, Grayson, you boring tool, get real.
“This way,” I say as Elyssa stops at the icy remnants of the creek. I nudge her with the knife and she jumps, starts walking faster across the icy stream and up a rise on the far bank. We’re close now, having hiked nearly a mile. And she’s probably going numb, frostbite setting in.
I don’t want to carry her, so I say, “Run!”
She’s startled, nearly slips, but catches herself and with my knife within reach, she gallops awkwardly over the hill to the clearing, and there stands the lonely cedar tree. A perfect spot.
Her eyes round as she spies the tree.
She gets it.
She’s shaking her head, denying the inevitable, but I won’t hear any further protests and while she silently pleads with me, her eyes wide and beseeching, her cuffed hands reaching outward, I ignore her and without any trouble lash her to the tree, pulling her back tight against the rough bark, hearing the muffled cry as her skin makes contact.
I can’t take any more time and she’s failing anyway, her body leaning into her bindings, her hair stiff with the snow. As she whimpers, I reach into my backpack for my kit, then nail the appropriate note over her head and carve out the star in the perfect position with my knife.
She’s weak.
Pathetic.
Deserves to die.
Bits of bark drop onto her scalp and shoulders and I let it stay.
She’s not saying a word now, seemingly out of it, and that just won’t do. Hurriedly I pack my things, swing the backpack over my shoulder, and walk to the edge of the clearing. Then I pull my camera out of my pocket. “Hey!” I yell as I focus.
Nothing.
Damn it, I took too long!
“Hey! Elyssa!” My voice booms across these canyons.
Finally, she looks up and I click off the shot.
Not my best, I see, the digital image distorted a bit, but it will have to do. At least I caught the image of pure terror in her eyes.
Good.
I’m out of time.
And nature will take care of the rest.
I leave her then, jogging back the way we came, snow already filling the trail that we so recently broke through the snow.
This experience wasn’t the best. I like women with some fight in them, a little fire.
Like Padgett.
I wonder about her as I jog, my breath fogging the air, my skin breaking out in a sweat under my insulated clothing. Does she know about her brother? Has she heard? Finally she is free again.
And the demon is dead.
I cut across the creek, cracking the ice, seeing a trickle beneath it, then head up the hill, along the deer trail, almost slipping once, but catching myself.
Though Elyssa’s sacrifice has been less than exhilarating, the next will be one of the best. Better than either of the last two. Regan Pescoli is a worthy adversary, and the pain I feel in my muscles, the bites on my neck, are constant reminders that I must not underestimate her.
That would be an irreversible, fatal flaw.
I’m breathing hard as I climb the hillside, following the trail and knowing that even now Elyssa is expiring, the first one probably already dead.
Perfect.
A tiny zing sizzles through my blood at the thought that I ended her life. I had that power. This, the way I kill them, is slow. Slightly impersonal. I never feel that surge of supreme ecstasy I imagine a killer might feel who wields a knife.
But knowing that I controlled another’s destiny, a woman, I’m sure, who was put on this earth to ful-fill my needs, suffices
.
For now.
Over the final hillock, I spy my truck. Quickly I load up, toss my backpack and kit into the back. Despite my gloves, I feel the cold.
No time to waste!
I climb into my truck, spark the engine, then let off the emergency brake. Snow begins to fall as the tires grip and I work my way down the hill, easing down the steep slope, the snow tires digging deep, transmission whining.
It’s slow going, but eventually, around a final corner, I spy the county road in the distance. A few vehicles are traveling at a slow speed through the curtain of snow and I smile.
Once on a level surface, I increase my speed, frown at the clock, and tell myself it’ll all work out.
I need to take care of an errand or two, then return to the mine and make sure Pescoli is as broken and needy as she was when I left her last night.
My jaw tightens. It worries me a bit that the marks will be permanent; always a reminder that she almost got the better of me.
Almost.
Setting my jaw, I head home.
I need to clean up before I return to town, where, I anticipate, all hell is breaking loose.
It’s a good feeling and I turn on the radio once more only to hear Burl Ives’s voice and that irritating melody again. “Oh, by golly, have a—”
I push the button to a country-western station. For the love of God, what’s wrong with the DJs, playing that insipid song over and over again? Despite Randy Travis’s deep voice, I can’t get the whole holly jolly thing out of my mind.
As the windshield slaps at the snow I find myself humming to the catchy little melody.
It’s a damned curse.
“All I know is that Mr. Long called and told me that he would be visiting the ranch,” Clementine said.
“You mean Brady Long,” Alvarez clarified. An easy assumption; according to all reports, Hubert was on his deathbed.
“Yes.” Clementine’s lower lip quivered and she wrung her hands nervously. Her son, Ross, a tall, sullen kid, looked like he would rather be anyplace else on earth than standing in the vestibule of the home of a dead man and talking to an officer of the law. His head was shaved, a straggly goatee decorated his chin, and a tattoo peeked out from the neck of his ski jacket. Snow had melted on the jacket’s shoulders and Ross’s jeans were wet at the top of his boots, as if he’d been walking through deep snowdrifts. His face was a little red. The cold? Exertion? He nearly sneered at Alvarez and carried the air about him that suggested he would have liked the words Bad Ass inked across his forehead.