by Lisa Jackson
Her knees nearly gave way as she looked outside, the white, dazzling snow nearly blinding. She searched the room quickly for a weapon, anything stronger than the poker and she found some tools, a hammer, screwdriver, and pliers. She stuffed them in her pockets and wished like hell for her pistol. Any gun. But there were none in this room. Nor a phone or computer or any means of communication. She found a tiny bathroom and kitchen alcove in this stone and log cabin. There was a bedroom as well. With an old iron-frame bed and sagging mattress.
Where he stayed. She could smell him and it made her sick. She thought of him, how he’d attacked her.
His size.
His voice.
His walk.
All familiar. She knew that she should recognize him and an image teased at the edges of her mind, but never quite developed.
Keep moving. He could return at any second.
She opened another door, one that could be locked with a key.
Her heart dropped as she spied the small bed with its handmade quilt, the table next to it where a plate with remnants of food and a half-full water glass remained.
Elyssa.
This is where he kept her.
Healed her.
Tended to her.
Gave her hope.
And it’s too late.
He’s already taken her.
To leave her in the forest to freeze to death.
You failed.
Despair cut a deep swath through Pescoli’s soul. She told herself that the girl was doomed from the get-go. Didn’t the notes she’d found in his lair prove it? And yet, if she somehow could have saved her…
Don’t think of it.
Get out.
Get out now.
Before the bastard returns.
You can nail him.
Save the others.
Save yourself.
Just get the hell out now!
She was already moving to the door that opened to the outside. Whatever the obstacles she had to face in the frozen wilderness, it was a helluva lot safer than staying here.
She could get help.
Lead them back here.
And arrest the son of a bitch.
If she didn’t kill him first.
Carrying a cup of coffee, Alvarez walked into the task force room, where those on duty were gathering.
The notes that Manny Douglas left with them appeared to be authentic. Alvarez had checked, comparing them to the ones that had been placed with the victims. These new ones, when set directly over their older counterparts, looked as if they’d been traced, each letter perfectly positioned.
Of course, the new evidence would be scrutinized and tested, compared by experts, analyzed by the FBI, but it looked like there were two more Star-Crossed victims. Two more dead or dying in the forest, though not, it seemed, Regan Pescoli.
Yet…
She set her cup of coffee on the table already littered with half-full cups and notepads as others took seats, the sound of chair legs screeching across the floor accompanied by muted conversation.
Cort Brewster and Dan Grayson entered the room together and stood near the desk where Zoller was on phone detail. The meeting was informal, just a means to update as many as possible who were working the Star-Crossed Killer case.
Grayson said, “I’ll make this quick as we’re all busy. Manny Douglas from the Mountain Reporter showed up today.”
The reporter’s name elicited a catcall from Pete Watershed. “My favorite.”
There were mumbled snorts of disgust, as everyone had read the searing article. Grayson continued, “It seems that Star-Crossed has decided to communicate through him.”
“Douglas?” Watershed frowned.
“That guy doesn’t know the meaning of the truth,” Rebecca O’Day, a corporal deputy, said, shaking her head.
“Well, he’s now our conduit,” Alvarez said as she passed around copies of the notes Douglas had left at the station.
“So now the creep is runnin’ to the press?” Brett Gage asked. He was the chief criminal deputy, whose easy smile belied a will of steel. “Damn.”
“Two more,” O’Day whispered.
They all examined the message:
BEWAR THE SCION ’ H
“No R or P for Pescoli,” Trilby Van Droz said slowly. “But if you add them in, the third word could be scorpion.”
“There’s an apostrophe,” Alvarez pointed out. “A possessive.”
“Then, what’s this guy saying?” O’Day asked. “‘Beware the scorpion’s hell’? Or ‘Beware the scorpion’s hate’? Or ‘Beware the scorpion’s hiss’?”
“Scorpions don’t hiss,” Watershed pointed out.
Gage added, “It doesn’t have to be ‘scorpion.’ We can’t just guess and assume.”
“Maybe.” Grayson wasn’t convinced.
“Isn’t that why we turned this over to the FBI? So they can use their cryptologists?” Brewster said.
“We have a list of missing women. If their initials work into this puzzle, we might figure it out ourselves,” Alvarez said.
Brewster looked ready to argue, but Gage intervened, “Let’s not just get stuck on the notes. What else do we know about this mutt?”
“That he craves attention,” Alvarez said. “He made sure we got this information. He wants to be the hot topic. It probably bothered him no end that the copycat stole his press for a while.”
O’Day speculated, “Could be why he stepped up his game—two more, and bragging rights to the press.”
“But to Manny Douglas?” Gage scowled and leaned back in his chair. “You informed the FBI?”
Grayson nodded. “They’re on their way back from Denver and an interview with Hubert Long that went nowhere. The man’s comatose, not expected to live more than a couple of days, if that.”
There was a moment of silence as they were all lost in their own thoughts and ideas. Then Alvarez said, “Elyssa O’Leary and Brandy Hooper,” reading from the missing persons report she’d printed from her computer. “They’re the most likely candidates for Star-Crossed.”
“We haven’t found any vehicles registered to them,” Van Droz remarked.
“We will,” Watershed said. “Just a matter of time.”
“Well, if it’s Hooper and O’Leary, then it looks like Star-Crossed has been cozying up to medical students,” Zoller pointed out. “Start with Ms. Hooper. Twenty-seven, a resident at OHSU in Portland, Oregon, reported missing nine days ago when she didn’t show up at her parents’ home in Missoula. Reports were filed in Oregon, Idaho, and Montana. She’s the only girl we have on file with the initials B and H, which, when added to the E and O from Elyssa O’Leary’s initials, who, by the way is a nursing student, would give more credence to the BEWARE THE SCORPION’S…something with an H.”
“O’Leary has an apostrophe,” Alvarez said.
Everyone looked at her. “You think he went that far? To even add in the apostrophe?” Grayson asked.
“He has that much attention to detail,” she responded.
“Again. A lot of assumptions,” Gage said. “There’s always the chance that other girls with the same initials have been abducted. Someone who hasn’t been reported, or, at least not reported in this jurisdiction.”
“O’Leary’s parents believe her boyfriend, Cesar Pelton, is involved in her disappearance,” Zoller reminded them.
“Any confirmation on that?” Grayson asked.
Brewster shook his head. “Chandler was checking on that.”
Gage said, “For now, we won’t assume these women are dead. They could still be held captive by Star-Crossed, or just be unlucky enough to have the initials of some of the victims.”
“Fat chance,” Watershed stated. “We know he’s got them.”
“There’s a possibility we’ve got the wrong girls,” Alvarez said. “So we won’t notify their families, nor are we going to assume they’re dead. We’re going to find them, and we’re going to also find the girls these in
itials do represent.”
Grayson nodded his agreement, but Brewster shook his head. “I’m with Watershed. We know these are the girls.”
“What we need to do is find them,” Grayson returned. “And until we have concrete evidence that either Brandy Hooper or Elyssa O’Leary is a Star-Crossed victim, there will be no talking to the press or the womens’ families. For the moment Manny Douglas and the Reporter are keeping a lid on the contents of the notes, but they can’t wait to spill. So let’s go get this guy! Get the choppers in the air. Find them!”
He said it with fervor and everyone in the room quickly got to their feet. As they bustled out, Alvarez saw the worry in their eyes. They all believed that somewhere out in the Montana wilderness, two other women were already dead, their bodies blue and frozen.
Maybe three, if you counted Pescoli.
Jeremy felt like hell. He’d crashed on Tyler’s mom’s lumpy couch after taking off from the jail. Now his back felt like he’d been sleeping on a bowling ball.
He sighed and got himself into a sitting position. It was still better than the drunk tank. What a bad trip that had been, with the old guy yabbering on and on about aliens and old women and Yetis…and still no word on Mom.
If he could think of anything to do to help find her, he’d do it. But what could he do? Who could he call?
His cell phone was vibrating in his jeans pocket. He pulled it out, annoyed, and saw that Bianca had called him about a jillion times. And then there were her texts:
Where R U?
Come get me!
Call me!!!
I h8 it here!
Where’s Mom?
Every text with a damned exclamation point, as if she were wired. Or on something. Though as far as he knew, she was straight. Just a pain in the butt.
Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he got to his feet, used the bathroom, then splashed water over his face to wake himself up. He poked his head into Tyler’s room where Tyler was facedown on the bed in his clothes, his face buried in a pillow. He looked half dead, but then made a loud, smacking noise with his mouth as he shifted position.
Tyler’s mom was still sleeping, too. Jeremy could hear the sound of snoring through the closed door to her room. She was sawing some serious logs.
He grabbed his keys, cell phone, and wallet, then walked out of the second-floor apartment, down the stairs to the parking lot. It was snowing like crazy and there had to be four inches piled up on the hood of his truck. He started to put on his gloves, but only had one. Searching his pockets, he didn’t find the other, so he headed inside again, searched the couch, and couldn’t find it.
Great.
Outside again, he nearly slipped on the stairs, then walked through the snow to his truck.
Man, was he sick of the stuff.
When he moved out of the house, he figured he’d head to California, where there was hot sun and hotter chicks. He’d learn to surf and maybe work in a surf shop on the beach, or in a computer store, or something. He’d do anything, if he could just get out of this cold.
But first Mom had to come home. Had to. It just couldn’t be any other way.
His phone buzzed again. This time it was Heidi.
“Yeah?” he said, as he reached his truck and began batting the snow from its windshield with his one glove.
“What’s up?”
“Not Tyler.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“My dad said you were in the drunk tank.”
“Guess who put me there?” He was still pissed as hell at Heidi’s jerk of a dad.
“Well, he let you go,” she reminded him, in that wheedling voice that used to turn him on but now bugged him.
“’Cuz I shouldn’t have been arrested!”
“He thinks I should break up with you.”
“Not exactly a news flash, Heidi.”
“Are you mad at me?” she demanded, getting pissed.
“How would you like to spend the night in a drunk tank with an old guy who thinks he was transported to some alien ship? Not fun.”
“Where are you now?”
“Leaving Tyler’s.”
“Can you stop by and pick me up?”
“No!” Did she have any brains at all? “I’m not gonna go another round with your dad. I know he’s probably at work. I don’t care. I’ll talk to you later.”
He clicked off and climbed into the cab, then started heading toward the center of Grizzly Falls. He didn’t know where he was going, who he could possibly see. Who might help him find his mom.
He just knew he couldn’t count on the police.
The wipers slapped the snow aside but it kept coming down. Jeremy turned by the sheriff’s department and got a little heebie-jeebie shiver down his spine. Didn’t wanna go back there!
His cell phone buzzed again. Damn it, Heidi. But this time it was Bianca.
“I got your billion messages, okay? I’m just busy,” he said impatiently, turning the wheel and heading down the hill into Old Grizz.
“Come and get me!” she wailed. “I can’t stand it here. Where’s Mom? Have you heard anything?”
“No! I—” Jeremy sucked in his breath sharply. There, just climbing out of his truck, was Nate Santana, his mom’s lover. Maybe he was the bastard who’d kidnapped her. Maybe it was his fault!
“What?” Bianca demanded.
“Gotta go.” He clicked off, tossed the cell onto the passenger seat, then parked his truck next to Santana’s. Hurriedly, he climbed out, following the dark-haired man down the slippery, snow-covered sidewalk. “Hey!” he yelled. “Santana!”
The man cocked his head, then slowly turned around. Behind him, the neon sign of the Spot Tavern glowed through the white haze. Seeing Jeremy, Santana frowned, his harsh features growing even harsher. Jeremy strode up to him and they stared at each other through the falling snow.
Looking at him, thinking about him with his mom, thinking about everything that had happened to all of them these last few days, Jeremy felt anger boil up inside him. He wanted to kill the bastard!
“I oughtta rip your fucking head off!” he yelled furiously. “What have you done with my mom!”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
What the hell?
It took Santana a second to recognize Jeremy Strand, Regan’s son, with his tousled, didn’t-bother-with-a-comb hair and wrinkled pants. But there the boy was, standing just yards from him, eyes blazing, bare fists curled, standing on the balls of his feet, looking like he was ready to lunge.
“You think I had something to do with your mom’s disappearance?” Santana asked, stunned by the kid’s nerve.
“I know you’ve been doin’ her!”
“Hey!” Santana took a step toward the kid, pointing a gloved finger at Jeremy’s face. “That’s enough! I wish I did know where your mother was. I do. But I don’t. I had nothing to do with her disappearance.”
“Sure.” Jeremy spat on the ground. He was itching to take a swing.
“I don’t have time for this BS. Take your attitude and go home.” He felt the clock ticking, the seconds of Regan’s life sliding away. In a lower voice, he added, “I know it’s rough, man, but this isn’t helping.”
“Like you would know!” Jeremy’s jaw was set. Hard. He didn’t appear as if he were ready to back down, and now a couple of men who had been heading into the bar had paused near the parking meters, watching from beneath the brims of hats fast collecting snow.
Nate groaned inside.
Just what he needed: a crowd.
Next thing you knew a police cruiser would stop by.
“Just calm down,” he said, opening up his palm in a conciliatory gesture.
“You’re the only lowlife she hangs out with.”
Santana gritted his teeth. The kid was spoiling for a fight and Santana thought it might be a good lesson to take him on. They were about the same height, though Santana probably had thirty pounds on the kid. But sometimes, he knew from his
own experience, something physical, including a wrestling match or fistfight, was just what a testosterone-fired teenage boy needed to get his brain back. To think straight.
The guys near the meters weren’t budging. Hoping for some action. The door to the bar opened for a second, the sounds of conversation and music tinkling out, and then Ole Olson, a regular who was as wide as he was tall, walked onto the street. He was zipping up his coat and stopped short just outside the door, fascinated by the hint of a fight. This was no good.
“Listen, Jeremy, you need to go find your sister and wait.”
“My sister.” Jeremy snorted. “She’s a pain.”
“That might just be a family trait.”
“Hey! Don’t go knocking my family!” Jeremy bristled.
“It’s what your mother would want. For her kids to be together.”
“How would you know what she’d want?”
“I want her back, too,” he gritted. “And I’m trying to figure it out, so don’t get in my way!”
“Don’t take any shit, kid,” Ole, never long on brains, said, still trying to work his zipper. “Go on, what’re ya waitin’ for?” His fat hand yanked on the zipper tab so hard it snapped off. “Oh, hell.”
“Is that what you want? To knock me flat?” Santana asked.
“Yes.” Jeremy was emphatic.
“Then, come on. Take your best shot.” He figured Jeremy might take one swing, but he could duck it and pin the kid on the icy sidewalk, if he had to.
From the corner of his eye he noticed Ivor Hicks jaywalking from a parking lot across the street and making a beeline for the welcoming warmth of the Spot.
Jeremy saw the old guy, too. Watched Ivor walk through the door. If possible, his lips thinned more.
“I don’t have time for this,” Santana said, his attention on Ivor. Jeremy seized the moment, flinging himself through the air, throwing a punch that landed square on Santana’s jaw.
Damn!
Pain exploded on the side of his face. Instinctively, Nate grabbed the boy and twisted him around, using a move he’d learned in the military, which sent the kid to his knees.