by Lisa Jackson
The crime scene team was on its way, the area cordoned off by deputies.
“I’ve seen enough,” she said, turning away, sensing the grains of sand slipping through the hourglass. There was nothing left to do for Brandy Hooper, but maybe they could still save Elyssa O’Leary. Who are you kidding? You just said she’s dead. You know it!
But Regan Pescoli. She was still alive. Oh, God, she hoped so. And they had to find her.
“Billy Hicks did this,” Alvarez said, knowing it deep in her heart, urgency propelling her. Hicks was upping his game. What if he decided to kill again? What was to stop him?
“We’ll go to his cabin,” Grayson said.
The skies had cleared enough that the helicopters were up and Grayson had ordered the pilots to search the area near the old Kress Silver Mine. But it wasn’t enough for Alvarez.
“We need evidence,” Grayson reminded her as they headed for her Jeep. “Linking Billy to the crime.”
“We’ll find it.” She was already opening the driver’s door. “Let’s just get to his place.”
“Make it fast,” Grayson stated grimly.
Oh, God, oh, God, don’t give up. Don’t!
Regan was gasping for air, her mind racing as she tried to think of a way to save herself. Hicks was closing in on her; there wasn’t much time.
The snow had stopped and she could see farther, though the sun against all the whiteness was blinding and she still didn’t know where she was.
In a physical struggle with him, she would lose.
Since she’d lost the knife, she had no weapon aside from a screwdriver.
She had to outwit him.
Somehow.
But inside she was shredding.
The physical toll was too much, draining her mentally as well.
Gasping, her heart feeling as if it would burst, she slogged forward, downward to God only knew where. The trees had given way and she was in an open glen, it seemed, and ahead, an extremely flat area, rimmed by the forest.
What? Why was the ground so perfectly even?
A lake!
Frozen solid.
Snow covering the ice.
If she could reach the place before he caught her, the frozen water, maybe she could lure him out on it. He outweighed her by at least seventy pounds, and the rope was heavy, adding even more weight. There was a chance he would fall through first.
This is a crazy idea. You’ll fall through the ice and drown.
But so will he.
And she was running out of options. Fast.
Better to try anything than let the son of a bitch kill her without a fight.
Bring it on, Billy. I’m ready!
Chapter Thirty-One
I shouldn’t be surprised.
As I run after her, I know she’s a cretin.
Pescoli, the supposedly smart detective, is just like the others in that inept sheriff’s department that rejected my application. Well, take that, Grayson. How does it feel? To be the laughingstock of the whole damned country! That’s right, asshole, the press, from as far away as Nashville and LA, are looking at you and your ridiculous force being made to look like imbeciles by me, someone not good enough. Well, put that in your pipe and smoke it!
What the hell is she doing running straight at the lake? Another stupid decision!
No doubt Regan Pescoli laughed at me, too, over and over again. All those times I came to pick up my loser of a father from the cell where he was held, “sleeping it off.”
Yeah, she had some fun at my expense. Bitch! So much like all the others. Common, brainless, cruel whores!
The only kind woman I ever met was Padgett.
My throat closes at the thought of her.
Beautiful.
Sophisticated.
With intelligent blue eyes and loving hands.
She hadn’t laughed.
Hadn’t avoided me because I was crazy Ivor Hicks’s son.
Even when her father had banned us from seeing each other, she snuck out to be with me. At the time, so long ago, I wondered if her interest was only an act of defiance. But I hadn’t cared. I’d won the prize! She was the only bright spot in my otherwise dreary, pathetic life.
I smile at the thought of her, sliding a bit, and I catch myself. I’m getting a little winded, my legs beginning to cramp. I have to end this soon.
For me.
For Padgett.
I promised her then, as we made love under the summer stars, that I would always keep her safe.
Of course, it had turned out to be a lie.
How was I to know that Brady followed us? Took pictures of us in each other’s arms? Snapshots of Padgett’s naked breasts, of me holding her as I came? Who would have thought he would have taken something so beautiful and made it so ugly and dirty, showing the photographs to Padgett’s father?
The old man had been beside himself, had banned us from ever seeing each other again. If that hadn’t been bad enough, Padgett had made the fatal mistake of going boating with her brother.
And she nearly died.
That brainless asshole had tried to kill her!
There’s no doubt in my mind that Brady wanted her dead. Well, he’s gone now, too.
Because of me. Because of my patience. There were plenty of other times in the past fifteen years that I was near enough to strangle him, or stick a knife right through his black heart. But I waited. The opportunities weren’t right.
This time, however, everything fell perfectly into place.
And Brady bled out looking at me, knowing that I killed him, realizing that his sins were finally punished.
Everything I’ve planned for so long has worked out. Everything except for Pescoli, and that’s only a matter of a few more minutes.
I watch her run straight at the frozen lake. Where does she think she’ll go? Onto the ice? No way. So she’s run out of places to hide. Good.
I push myself, getting close enough to see the panic in her eyes as the bitch takes a quick glance over her shoulder.
That’s right, Detective, I’m coming.
Spurred onward, Regan headed straight for the huge expanse of even landscape, sunlight glancing off spots where ice still showed through the white blanket. It was her only chance for salvation.
She cast another quick look behind her.
God, he was so close. Maybe only fifteen or twenty yards!
He was smiling, but then, as if he suddenly understood her intention, shook his head. “Stop! You stupid—”
She didn’t wait to hear the rest of his oath.
Over the pounding of her heart, the pulse throbbing in her brain, his voice faded.
Despite the pain searing through her body she ran onward. Hard. Plowing a trail that he could follow straight at the lake. Her feet slid a little as she hit the ice, the snow slipping over the frozen water.
“No!” Hicks’s voice boomed across the wide expanse, and she just kept running, feeling nothing but solid ice beneath her, heading to the middle of the expansive lake. Cougar Basin, she thought as she spied Mesa Rock rising nearby. That’s where she was.
If there were only some way to call someone. Tell them. But she was all alone. No one in sight, only her own ragged breathing making a sound.
I should have brought a gun.
The rifle or her damned pistol!
But in my hurry of unloading the truck, in my panic to chase her down, I left the weapons in the truck and grabbed the rope. I didn’t want to use the guns, thought the crack of gunshot so close to my own home might attract attention I couldn’t afford. And I didn’t want to shoot her. What would be the fun of that—a distant taking of life? If a quick killing were what I needed, then I would have shot all the women in their cars, just taken them out as they were driving, then carrying them back to my place to nurture them, heal them, bring them to the brink of falling in love with me…
So I didn’t bring a gun, not even to intimidate her, as I knew it wouldn’t. And the damned truth o
f the matter is I thought catching her would be far easier than it has proved to be.
Now she’s running onto the lake! God knows part of it is frozen solid, and even in the middle there has to be several inches of ice, but still, it’s dangerous.
“Stop,” I command again and the idiot just keeps on running, slipping and sliding through the pristine layer of snow covering the icy surface.
I follow. It’s solid under my feet. Nothing shifting. It’s probably safe.
Probably.
And I’ll catch her.
But I have to be cautious. Listen for that cracking that spells death.
“There’s nowhere to go,” I yell, but she doesn’t even break stride. I should have known she would be more trouble than I thought. Damn it, why have I underestimated her?
Fury burns through me.
It’s time to end it. Now.
To hell with caution. I take off and run as if the hounds of hell are at my heels.
Santana drove as close as he dared to the house where Billy Hicks lived. The old cabin, over a hundred years old, had been built near the mine, in a clearing rimmed by trees. He parked behind a stand of pine, then, with an eye on the cabin, crept through the woods in its direction.
Nothing moved around the old house.
And no one showed in the dark windows.
A ruse?
He watched, mindfully aware of the seconds elapsing, spurred by the knowledge that Regan was somewhere nearby. But the house remained dark inside, no smoke curling from the chimney. It looked abandoned.
And there were tracks in the snow. Someone had recently been walking around outside, someone with a smaller shoe size than a six-foot-four man.
Regan?
His heart leaped.
He felt a sizzle of anticipation.
Had she escaped?
Nervously, he made his way to the front door, opened it, and stepped inside. But within minutes, he determined that she wasn’t inside, though someone had been. The spare bedroom, complete with tiny bed, had recently been occupied.
Had this been where he’d kept her? Locked her inside? Surely she could have escaped this place?
In a further search, he found the other bedroom, a stark room rimmed in plank walls, with hooks for clothes and an ancient cast-iron bed, made with military precision.
Hicks’s room.
He wondered if the bastard had brought Regan here? Stripped her down. Maybe tied her to the iron rails of the headboard while he…
No! He knew from the media reports that as demonic as the Star-Crossed Killer was, he didn’t sexually abuse his victims.
Quickly, he returned to the main living area where the fire had grown cold and several doorways led to deep tunnels. Was Regan hidden inside them somewhere?
No—the footprints indicated otherwise.
Unless they were from some other woman, one of the other victims whose initials were part of Hicks’s disturbed message to the police.
Still the entire house seemed unoccupied, recently vacated.
No sound emanated from the dark, subterranean hallways and he sensed that they, too, were empty.
And the footsteps outside.
Fresh.
Heart thudding, his mind conjuring up all kinds of horrible scenarios for Regan, he stood for a second in the middle of the house and closed his eyes.
He felt as if the place were dead inside, no living creature drawing a breath.
Damn. Opening all the doors to the tunnels, he bellowed, “Regan! Regan Pescoli?” He waited, his voice echoing back to him as he listened hard, hoping for some sound of response, the faintest reply.
Nothing.
Not the tiniest sigh.
Nor the cock of a gun if Hicks had heard him and were siting on him.
Again he tried. “Regan, it’s Nate! Where the hell are you?” he yelled at the top of his lungs, his voice booming.
If Hicks was lying in wait somewhere, Santana had certainly blown any element of surprise.
But he felt nothing.
Sensed no stirring.
Just dead air.
For now he had to trust his gut instincts. He hurried back outside and running, followed the trail of small footsteps partially covered in snow.
Alvarez was driving as if the devil himself were chasing her, wheeling around corners, heading into the hills surrounding the Kress Silver Mine and the cabin Billy Hicks called home.
Her cell phone was vibrating like hell in her jacket pocket and she grabbed it and flipped it on when they reached a straight stretch.
Grayson, riding shotgun, was already talking to the 911 operator. He hung up and said, “Somehow Nate Santana figured out that Hicks is our boy.”
“I just heard.” Alvarez hit the redial button. “Let’s find out what he knows.” She braked for a corner, but the Jeep held as she headed north and suddenly Mesa Rock was looming over the surrounding hills.
Santana didn’t pick up. “He’s not answering,” she said.
“Shit.” Grayson muttered, “He’s too busy playing the Lone Ranger. You’d better step on it.”
She did.
Santana read the tracks all too well. At the shed where Billy Hicks’s truck was parked there were suddenly two sets of prints, the smaller ones he assumed to be female, possibly Regan’s, and now a larger set. Most likely belonging to Billy Hicks himself.
The killer was hunting her down.
Relentlessly.
Santana felt a deep jab of guilt. He’d known Billy all of his life, should have recognized that he was cold. Brutal. Merciless.
So, go get him.
Find Regan.
Two weapons were lying behind the seat of the truck. A rifle and a pistol.
He grabbed them both.
Taking off at a dead run, feeling that he was already too late, he followed the tracks. His soul was heavy with dread.
What if she was already gone?
What if he reached her just to find her mercilessly lashed to a tree, her body frozen and blue?
Don’t think about it. Just find her!
His cell phone jangled and he nearly dropped the damned thing as he tried, and failed, to answer it while wearing gloves. Still jogging, he recognized Alvarez’s number and yanked off one glove, only to miss the call.
He kept running, the same long-distance pace he used in the military, his eyes moving from the trail to the area ahead as he hit the REDIAL button.
She answered after two rings. “Alvarez.” Before he could ID himself, she said, “I got your message.”
Thank God!
“We know about Hicks.”
“I’m near his cabin now. The house is empty. But his truck was parked in a shed on the property, to the south of the house, beneath a rise. From the tracks at the vehicle, I can tell that two people are heading due north through the trees. My guess is Pescoli escaped, and he’s tracking her down. I’m following.”
“This is a police matter, Santana. I can’t authorize you to—”
“Just get the hell out here. Fast! And send helicopters over the ridge, just south of Mesa Rock!” Before she could respond he gave her a quick rundown of what he knew, finishing with, “Get the damned dogs, snowmobiles, and choppers out here. I’m heading north.” He clicked off and increased his pace.
He slid a bit, then saw where the tracks separated, where she’d apparently fallen down the steep incline, sliding and twisting in the snow. The hunter had bigger feet, and he skirted the edge of the drop-off. He followed the hunter’s trail at a dead run. Tree branches slapped his face, snow dropping onto his shoulders and hair, but he sped through the forest with the agility learned from years of tracking game.
Running faster, he plowed across the clearing at its base, darting after the prints that looked fresher, no longer covered in snow.
He was getting close!
Into the woods he sprinted, still heading north, spying a hawk as it soared upward.
Where were they heading?
&nbs
p; What the hell was at Cougar Basin besides the lake?
They’re heading to her death. He’s forcing her to the tree where he’ll kill her.
Jaw rock hard, holding tight to both guns, Santana ran steadily through the wintry forest, closer to whatever hideous scenario the psycho had planned. He didn’t know how much ground he had to cover, but whatever the expanse, it was too damned much!
Regan was halfway across the lake. Her lungs were on fire, her thighs and calves screaming in pain, her useless arm aching with each jarring step.
Hicks was only a few feet behind.
She hoped, prayed, for the ice to give way under his weight, but so far it held firm.
“Pescoli! It’s over,” he yelled, but he was breathing hard, struggling, too.
She kept moving.
“I mean it.” In his hand was his knife, and he was close enough to her that he could throw it at her.
She kept running, zigzagging, keeping him off guard. Beneath the snow the ice was slick, her feet slipping as the sun shone bright, only a few clouds remaining, the air so crisp it was brittle.
It was as if they were the only two creatures in the universe: a wounded, failing woman and a gasping, looming man who was closing the gap between them. The shoreline surrounding the lake was far away, snow-laden trees glistening in the wintry sunlight.
“It’s your time, Pescoli.”
“Like hell.” God, he was close. Her pulse pounded in her ears, her eyes burned with the cold.
“I said, ‘It’s your time,’ now!” He lunged. Thrusting his body through the air, his knife raised, he threw himself at her.
She flinched, shifted quickly to one side. Sliding. Sliding…
Crash! He hit her hard, but she was still on her feet. “Shit!”
She kept running.
Sliding.
Putting icy distance between them.
She glanced around. Couldn’t help herself.
Angry as a wounded bull, he’d pulled himself to his feet. “There’s nowhere to run. You may as well give up!”
He was heading in her direction again, his face red, his eyes filled with a burning hatred. But she’d bought a little time.
Try to get him to fall again. And this time, jump on him. Use the damned screwdriver!