by Lisa Jackson
Nothing.
Now what?
She felt cold as death, as if the wind outside were blowing through the bones of this old house. Her skin crawled as she thought of all the things that could go wrong in the dark, without heat, without light, with a homicidal maniac on the loose....
“Stop,” she told herself sternly.
Fumbling her way to the kitchen, where she’d left the flashlight, she banged her knee once, bit back a curse, then automatically groped for the light switch before stopping herself, then finding the flashlight on the counter. She pushed the button; and a weak yellowish light signaled that the batteries inside were nearly gone.
Eli.
He would know where more batteries were; and besides, she needed to haul him and his blankets downstairs so they could stay close to the fire.
Glancing outside to the darkness, where no exterior lights offered the slightest illumination, she said, “Come on, Trace!” The lights had gone off in the barn and stable, too. . . . Surely he’d return ASAP.
In the meantime . . .
Following the weak, thin light from the flashlight, she mounted the stairs. Darkness seemed to sink into her from every corner of this old, unfamiliar house. She rounded the corner of the landing and heard another thud against the house.
What the hell was that?
Eli?
Swallowing back her fear, she thundered up the remaining stairs, swung around the newel post in the hallway, and pushed open the door to Eli’s room.
The bed was empty; sheets and blankets had slithered onto the floor. “Eli!” she cried, searching crazily, swinging the beam of her flashlight through the room. “Eli!” She threw open the closet door and found nothing but clothes, then ran through the bathroom and Trace’s room, the flashlight growing weaker but giving up no trace of the boy. “Eli!” Oh, God, oh, God! Where was he?
Now in a full-blown panic, Kacey was sweating despite the cold, fear clawing at her throat. She looked through the third bedroom, around the draped furniture, under the hems, through the maze of boxes and pictures stacked around the bed and mattress, pushed up against the wall. “Eli!” she called and then, thinking he might be as frightened as she was, said, “It’s Kacey, honey. Where are you?”
Oh, sweet Jesus, she’d lost him!
CHAPTER 34
Pescoli drove.
She didn’t care that Missoula was out of their jurisdiction.
She didn’t give a rat’s ass that the FBI was stepping in.
She wanted answers and she wanted them now.
So, while Alvarez was on the phone with one of their junior detectives who’d been left in charge of turning Gerald Johnson’s life inside out, Pescoli squinted through the windshield where the wipers were having trouble keeping up with the relentless snow falling from the night sky.
It was times like these she craved a cigarette and if Alvarez weren’t such a health nut, Pescoli, who’d learned her glove box stash of Marlboro Lights was totally depleted, might break down and stop at a local convenience store for a pack of smokes and a super-sized cup of Diet Coke. That’s the combo she needed to keep her fired up.
Gerald Johnson lived in a gated community, part of a resort that flanked a private golf club where the buy-in was more than her house was worth and the dues would eat up more than a chunk of her salary. She only hoped the bastard was home.
Armed with Kacey Lambert’s theories and Alvarez’s sketchy proof, she and her partner were going to see the old man, shake him up. Though she’d come to the party late, disbelieving Alvarez’s suspicions that the victims could be related by blood, Pescoli was now on board. She’d finally bought into the wild idea that women were being killed because they were 727’s sperm bank daughters. Why, was another matter. Who, the most critical piece of all.
The weather was a bitch, but then, this was Montana in the winter. What did she expect?
“. . . okay, got it,” Alvarez said into her cell as the radio crackled with news of a robbery and fleeing suspect on Main Street. “Keep looking. Anything you can find on Johnson, his kids, and the clinic ... call me back.” She clicked off and glanced at Pescoli, her face tense as oncoming headlights flooded the interior with glaring light for a few seconds. “Leona’s on it.” Leona Randolph was a junior detective who had recently joined the department. Highly skilled in all things technical, Leona had the command of the Internet that amazed Pescoli. Though the girl was only a few years older than Jeremy, Leona was light-years ahead of him in maturity, ambition and direction. Her son could take a lesson!
“I think the turn-off is about a mile ahead,” Alvarez said as the snow blew down in sheets, making visibility almost an impossibility. Pescoli slowed out of necessity. The traffic had been reduced to a crawl. Now, when she felt time was of the essence, that the killer was escalating, that the clock was ticking, she was stymied by the blizzard.
“There’s the private road to Cougar Springs,” Alvarez said, pointing, just as the beams of Pescoli’s headlights washed up against a wide turn.
They plowed through the snow and up a road that wound through the sparse timber of a mountain resort and past a gatehouse where Pescoli flashed a badge at the guard and mentioned Gerald Johnson’s name. Once the gate swung open, she put the Jeep into a lower gear and drove it up the steep, winding lane. A quarter of a mile in they passed a three-storied glass and cedar lodge, warm lights glowing from windows that climbed to the sharply pitched, snow-covered roof. Tonight only a few cars, unidentifiable as they were half-buried in the snow, were parked in the lot.
Still upward they drove past forested lots with huge, rambling houses tucked into the hillside. Many of them, the summer homes, were dark, only a few showed warm patches of light blazing from windows—those owned by people who lived here year-round or spent their holidays on the nearby ski trails.
“Rough life,” Pescoli muttered.
“Boring life,” Alvarez added.
“I might be tempted to take a year or two of ‘boredom’ like this.”
“Oh, sure. You’d be climbing the walls inside of a week. Back on the force within two.” She slid a look at her partner. “Who are you trying to kid? Me? Or yourself?”
“Both of us, maybe,” she muttered.
“What’s eating you?”
“My kids. What else?” She would have liked to blame her pent-up anger on the case, and that was part of it, of course, but with Jeremy, who seemed hell-bent on being a big, fat zero, and Bianca, whose grades were slipping and was turning increasingly boy crazy, was the real source of her angst. And it didn’t help that she was getting pressure from Santana.
“Turn here,” Alvarez ordered.
Pescoli cranked on the wheel, slid just slightly, then her tires caught and the Jeep whined up a final bend where the road emptied into a circular drive belonging to Gerald Johnson.
“Showtime,” Pescoli said as she parked in front of a garage large enough to house a fleet of vehicles. Gaslights flickered near each of the carriage-style doors mounted on the stone facade. Snow blanketed the walkways, but Pescoli followed Alvarez to the front door. As Alvarez poked a gloved finger at the bell, the door suddenly opened and Gerald Johnson, appearing more forceful and athletic than he had in any of the pictures Pescoli had seen, greeted them.
“Officers,” he said, “Floyd at the gatehouse called and said you were on your way.” He stepped back from the door. “Come in. Ever since Acacia left my office this afternoon, I’ve been expecting you.”
Pescoli and Alvarez were allowed into the Johnson home, and just as they were asking Johnson about the clinic where he’d been a sperm donor, Gerald’s wife appeared on the upper landing and then quickly descended the wide staircase.
“Don’t, Gerald! I don’t know what these people want, but don’t tell them anything!”
“We’re here because of several recent homicides of women,” Alvarez said. “Their deaths, which we originally thought were accidents, have been on the news.” She pulled a plas
tic envelope with the pictures from her pocket. “Elle Alexander whose van was forced off the road, Jocelyn Wallis who, we believe, was pushed over the side of Boxer Bluff, possibly Shelly Bonaventure—”
“The actress in that god-awful vampire series?” Noreen Johnson asked, disbelieving.
Pescoli nodded. “And now, most recently, a local woman named Karalee Rierson.”
“Karalee,” Noreen squeaked, a hand flying to her lips.
“You know her?” Alvarez asked.
“I know of her.”
Alvarez handed Noreen the pictures and she took one look at the photo of Karalee Rierson and almost retched. “Oh, God. She was the nurse at a clinic where Gerald . . .” She turned to him, examining his grim expression.
“We believe they’re homicides made to look like accidents,” Alvarez said.
“Homicides?” she repeated. “Murder? But what do we have to do with any of this? I . . . I don’t know the others. Just Karalee.”
Pescoli said, “We have reason to believe they may have all been fathered by Mr. Johnson.”
“What? Fathered them?” Noreen flapped a hand at them. “That’s insane! Gerald, do not talk to these people!”
Alvarez watched the woman’s features, where a gauntlet of emotions, everything from despair, to denial, to rage, played across her face. Dressed in designer jeans and a silvery knit sweater that covered her hips, she was rail thin, nearly bony, the expensive diamonds at her throat, wrist, and fingers accentuating the bones and sinews that were visible beneath her tanned skin. Her near-white hair was cut boyishly, the skin of her face stretched taut as a drum, her makeup excessive.
“We don’t know these women! Barely even spoke to that Kara girl. Gerald, seriously!” She shook her head vehemently and said to the detectives, “We’re not talking to you without an attorney present. I know my rights.” She slid a slim phone from the pocket of her jeans and punched a single number. “I’m calling Judd.” To Gerald she lifted a pointer finger and admonished, “Not another word.”
He spread his hands. “They’re not accusing me of a crime.”
“I don’t care. They’re tricky. I’ve seen Law and Order!” She had the phone to her ear. “Oh, damn.” Meeting her husband’s gaze she said, “Judd’s not picking up!” Then, looking at the ceiling, she left a message: “Judd? It’s Mother. Call me ASAP. It’s an emergency!”
“For the love of Saint Peter, Noreen, he’ll think I’m in the hospital,” Gerald protested.
“Fine!” She hit another speed-dial number, waited, then rolled her eyes in frustration. “I can’t get Clarissa, either! Where the hell is she?”
“Noreen, you need to calm down,” Gerald said.
“And you need to not tell me what to do!”
Gerald suggested to Alvarez and Pescoli, “Let’s go into the den.” He motioned them toward double doors to the right of the staircase where a gas fire hissed, flames reflecting on the windows and the black sheen of a baby grand piano. A huge framed flat screen over the mantel was tuned to a sports network, a half-drunk glass of scotch on a table near a leather recliner. Cut flowers on a coffee table were starting to die, their blooms fading slightly, their scents nearly gone.
“It’s Mother. Call me! Emergency!” Noreen yelled into the phone again, as if by raising her voice, whomever she had phoned would pick up. The high heels of her boots clicked angrily as she marched stiffly into the den. “I can’t rouse anyone! Where the hell are they?”
“Honey, it would be best if you just chill out a little,” he husband suggested. He waved the detectives into side chairs as he settled into the recliner and clicked off the television. The latest sports scores disappeared and the screen briefly went black to be replaced, automatically, by a family portrait.
“I will not ‘chill out!’” She rotated the slim phone in one hand while she glared at her husband. “Why does it seem like my children are avoiding me? Screening their damned calls?” Her scorching gaze landed full force on Alvarez. “Why are you here?”
“Noreen, please—” Her husband held out his hand, fingers splayed, beseeching her to shut up. “Let me handle this.” To Alvarez and Pescoli, he said, “I told you I was expecting you because Acacia Lambert came to my office today. She had the same information you just told me about.”
“Who came to the office?” Noreen cut in, pacing back and forth in front of the fire. “Acacia who?” she was shaking her head, obviously not understanding. “What are you talking about, Gerald? But there was something more than curiosity in her imperious gaze; there was a hint of trepidation. Of fear.
“My daughter,” he said softly.
His wife’s expression froze. “What the hell are you talking about?” She whispered the question, her gaze darting to the officers for the briefest of seconds. “Clarissa is our daughter.”
“Not ours, Noreen. Mine,” he clarified and Alvarez could almost see him sweat. “With Maribelle,” he admitted.
“Maribelle?” Noreen stopped short. “That nurse who used to work for you?” She was nearly shivering with rage.
“Acacia’s nearly thirty-five now,” Gerald said softly.
Something deep inside Noreen broke. Her shoulders slumped and tears welled in her big eyes. “I knew you two were ... intimate. Of course I knew, but . . .” Noreen’s voice quivered. “And I’ve stayed your wife. Through that other debacle, when you claimed him, hired him, paraded him out like some precious puppy. And I suffered through that excruciating embarrassment.” Her nostrils flared and her lips curled back over white-capped teeth. “I’ve even had your bastard’s whore of a mother here, in my house.” She pointed a finger at the thick carpet covering the hardwood. “I’ve suffered through that humiliation as well!” Jabbing her finger at the floor, she started to sob. “But this ... another one?” Tears slid down the severe slope of her cheeks, “Don’t do this ... don’t you tell them ... I can’t believe, not after that pathetic Lindley woman and her boy . . .”
“My son’s name is Robert and he’s a man.”
“What’s wrong with you? Why have you done this? And with whores! You swore to me, do you remember, swore on our children’s lives, that you’d broken it off with that wretched Collins woman!”
“I did.”
She shuddered and looked as if she might throw up. “But you had a child with her. And she was married, then, too. Probably pawned that kid off as her husband’s.” When Gerald didn’t respond, she said, “What is it with you? You didn’t father just one bastard child. That wasn’t enough. Now there’s another! Do our kids know?” She seemed to shrink from the inside out. “Oh, God, they were there at the office when she showed up, right?” When he didn’t answer, she said more loudly, “Right?”
“That’s probably why they’re not answering their phones,” Gerald said. “I told them I was going to tell you tonight.” He glanced down at his half-drunk glass of scotch. “I just hadn’t worked up the nerve yet.”
“Funny how easy it is to father an army of children, but you don’t even have the spine to talk to your wife!” Noreen said under her breath.
“Just listen, okay,” he suggested, and let out a heavy sigh.
Noreen crossed her arms under her small breasts and jutted out her jaw defiantly, but held her tongue as he explained what he knew of Acacia and how he’d stayed out of her life, but when asked, acknowledged being a sperm donor.
“So you knew that he’d been involved with the fertility clinic?” Pescoli asked Noreen.
“That was so long ago,” she said. “But yes. I knew that Gerald . . .” She waved one bony hand. “That was different. Clinical. Nothing intimate. Not like having an affair and fathering children with whores!” The tears began again. She found a tissue and dabbed at mascara-stained tears drizzling down her cheeks. “I don’t understand. That really doesn’t explain why you’re here. Even if, even if he did ... well, sire these women for lack of a better word. How do you even know that?”
“It’s the one thing that conn
ects the victims,” Pescoli said.
“Victims?” Noreen was torn between horror and disbelief. “Oh God! Why these women? Why now? And what does it have to do with him?”
Alvarez said, “That’s what we’re here to find out.”
Calm down, Kacey told herself. Eli has to be here. He has to. “Eli!” she yelled, more loudly. “Eli, honey, where are you?”
Frantic, her heart racing with fear, Kacey searched the house top to bottom once more. Her flashlight was losing power, its beam weak as she moved slowly, room by room, calling out Trace’s son’s name. Her pulse was pounding erratically in her ears, dread propelling her as she swept the pale light under beds, into closets even, dear God, down the laundry chute to the basement.
Still no sign of him.
“Come on, Eli. Where are you?”
The house was getting colder by the second. Through the upstairs she went another time and there, in the third bedroom, she saw a crack, heard the whistle of air seeping through a window that wasn’t quite latched. She tried to slam it shut, but it wouldn’t catch.
Throwing her weight into it, she heard ... what? The skin on her scalp crinkled as she caught her breath and listened.
Another noise. From the floor below! Footsteps?
“Eli!” She slammed her knee against and old cedar chest as she raced to the hallway, then flew frantically down the stairs. The flashlight’s faint beam bobbed and wobbled, casting shadows.
Around the corner and into the living area she ran, where the fire crackled and hissed and the corners were cloaked in darkness.
“Eli?” she said, her voice sounding loud, even echoing as the wind battered the house. “Honey?”
But she saw no one on the main floor.
Not Eli.
Not Trace.
Not the dogs.
But she felt a presence ... Something different, like the scent of fresh, night air clinging to the darkness.