The Alvarez & Pescoli Series

by Lisa Jackson

Her fingers curled around the shotgun’s barrel and she yanked the old gun from the closet. The Winchester was dusty, unused, but she didn’t care. Praying that the rifle was armed, she checked the chamber.

  Empty!

  Of course. He had a kid. Was careful. Frantic, the cell phone winking out every ten seconds, she scoured the closet. There were no bullets nearby, no boxes of ammunition on the shelf, nor in a dresser where she rifled through T-shirts and underwear, socks and jeans. “Come on, come on!” The nightstand, too, was empty, no loaded handgun, no bullets for an ancient rifle.

  Precious seconds ticked by.

  Her heart was racing, her brain on fire.

  “Where . . . oh, God, where?” She didn’t dare bluff the killer; knew better than to take an empty rifle to the stable.

  Fear spurred her. She hauled the rifle downstairs and through the living room where the fire was dying.

  Where would he keep the ammo? Far from the gun, yes, but where it was safe and could be accessed by him, not so easily by his child. Close to the door, because he would only use it outside? Quickly she went through several drawers in the kitchen, opening them, searching them with her fingers, slamming them shut, then seeing, as the cell phone’s light faded again, the handle of another flashlight!

  Oh, please, she thought, feeling precious time slipping past. Even now Trace could be bleeding, dying ...

  She flipped on the flashlight, and a sure, strong beam lit up the room. Quickly she went to work, searching the remaining drawer, when she spied the tallest cupboard mounted above the refrigerator. The same place her grandfather had hidden his ammunition. Could it be?

  Hurrying, counting her heartbeats, she hauled herself onto the counter, then yanked the door open. Next to a nearly empty bottle of whiskey was a metal box. Locked tight. No way could she pry it open. She needed a key ... oh, God, where? She raked her gaze around the room and spied Trace’s key ring that she’d knocked over searching for his cell. Quickly, she pulled the musty box from its hiding place, hopped to the floor, and scooped up the jangling keys. With shaking fingers she separated the keys and found one that was tinier than all the rest.

  “Please, oh, please.” She shook the other keys away from it and threaded it in the lock. Click!

  Thank God. She popped open the box and found the mother load: a box of shells.

  “Take that, you miserable son of a bitch,” she said under her breath as she thought of the killer.

  Mentally thanking her grandfather for her lessons years before, she loaded the rifle quickly, pocketed an extra pack of shells, and prayed to God she wouldn’t have to use either as she headed outside again and into the storm.

  “Shit!” Trace’s attacker swore loudly, his voice reverberating through the stables.

  Who the hell was this lunatic? Not that it mattered. In that respect, the killer was correct. For the moment, Trace just had to figure out a way to stop the son of a bitch before he did any more damage.

  Moving slowly, dragging himself toward the wall, Trace tried to come up with a plan.

  Over the rage of the wind he heard the distinctive sound of the would-be killer drawing in his breath through his teeth. “Shit!” the man growled again, then let out a yowl accompanied by the soft, whooshing suck of the pitchfork’s tines being yanked from his body. “You fuckin’ cocksucker!” Pain echoed in his voice. “You’re gonna pay for this. You hear me, O’Halleran?”

  Trace didn’t respond, just kept low, pulling himself with his hands as he slid silently along the floor, edging toward the wall.

  The horses were out of their minds with fear, hooves shuffling, shoes ringing against the stalls from slamming feet.

  Sarge—or was it Bonzi?—too, was upset, growling deep in his throat. A warning.

  No! Don’t!

  “And the dog,” the gunman said aloud. “He’s dead, too! Where are you, you mangy mutt?” Now, there was satisfaction in his voice. “Oh . . . there you are, Cujo. Come on, boy,” the assailant cajoled as the horses snorted and stomped. “See what I’ve got for you!”

  Fury singed through Trace’s brain. If he could just get the drop on this son of a bitch, he’d kill him. He felt his blood flowing, reached down to feel it wet and sticky from his leg wound. But he’d be damned if he was going to lie here while this maniac killed his dog, then went after Kacey or Eli.

  No doubt she was the true target. His son, like Sarge and Trace himself, were just extraneous, obstacles that had to be cleared to the killer’s main objective: Dr. Acacia Lambert.

  Travis scooted backward, felt blood flowing out of his leg, his head slightly dizzy from the adrenaline rush. He reached the wall.

  “Here, doggy, doggy . . .” The killer’s singsong voice masked a groan of pain. The bastard was hurt worse than he’d admit.

  Good. Suffer, you bastard. And while you’re at it, die!

  Trace reached over his head and felt the handle of the shovel. With a wide, sharp blade it was perfect for scooping manure or shoveling snow, and tonight, he hoped, as a weapon to kill a murdering psychopath.

  “Come on, boy—” The son of a bitch made twisted, little kissing sounds as he moved closer, still invisible in the darkness.

  Trace’s fingers coiled over the smooth wooden handle.

  BAM!

  The door to the stables banged against the wall.

  Horses nickered in terror.

  Trace jumped as a rush of cold air swept into the room.

  “What the hell?” The gunman turned his attention away from the dog.

  No! Trace went into full-blown panic. Kacey, no! She was the only one at the house ... or Eli. And the killer knew it!

  “Get away!” Trace screamed.

  “Sister,” the attacker drawled smoothly, almost gleefully. “About time you showed up!”

  CHAPTER 37

  Damn it all to hell!

  Alvarez listened to her message from Kacey Lambert and mentally kicked herself from here to hell and back. Furious, she punched in the emergency number and talked to dispatch who said there had already been a distress call logged and deputies sent to an address for Trace O’Halleran, that gunshots had been reported. Hanging up, she dialed Kacey’s number but was sent directly to voice mail.

  “Too late,” Alvarez said grimly to Pescoli. “Looks like he’s at the O’Halleran place.”

  “What? No!” Noreen let out a cry that rose to the coffered ceiling. Alvarez, standing just inside the Johnsons’ front door with Pescoli, threw a look over her shoulder.

  “I was afraid of this,” Judd said. “You know he’s never been right, Mother. Even from the start. When he pushed Aggie down the stairs.”

  Alvarez held up a hand, stopping her partner from yanking on the door handle.

  “It was an accident,” Gerald said, sinking into his chair again as Alvarez stepped back into the den with its cheery fire, fresh-cut flowers, and simmering lies.

  “It was,” Judd insisted. “Of course it was an accident. But essentially, that’s what happened.”

  “You told me,” Gerald reminded his son, looking up to meet Judd’s narrowed eyes, “that Aggie got tangled in her blanket.”

  “I know. That’s right,” Judd said smoothly, almost as if he’d practiced the line. “And then Cam ran by and knocked her down. She got wrapped up in her damned blanket and fell.”

  Noreen shuddered.

  “To her death.” Gerald glared at his son.

  “We’ve got to go,” Pescoli said tersely. Alvarez rejoined her as she opened the door and the breath of winter blew through the room, rattling umbrellas in a nearby stand. To Gerald, his wife, and oldest son, Pescoli added, “You all stay put! Don’t go anywhere.”

  “It’s not Cameron,” Noreen wailed, but Judd Johnson’s tense face said it all. His mother, appearing far frailer than she had just half an hour earlier, collapsed in his arms. Tears rolled from her eyes and she sobbed against his expensive coat, her voice muted as her shoulders shook. “It’s . . . it’s not Cameron. It
can’t be!”

  Pescoli was already out the door.

  The last look Alvarez caught of Gerald was of the big man seated in his leather recliner near the fire, holding his head in one hand, reaching for his glass of scotch with the other.

  “I’ll drive.” Pescoli was already out the door and Alvarez was only a couple of steps behind. As she climbed into the passenger seat, Pescoli engaged the engine and threw the rig into gear. The Jeep lurched forward. Alvarez pulled the door shut as they reached the end of the circular drive and she’d barely gotten her seat belt connected when they were heading onto the slippery road winding down the hillside.

  “What the hell happened?” Pescoli asked.

  “Something going on at the O’Halleran place,” Alvarez said, thinking of the man whom she was now certain was the killer. “Looks like Cameron Johnson is escalating. And he’s starting with the people there.”

  “And killing his sperm bank sisters?”

  “Or anyone who’s in his path.” Alvarez repeated what she’d heard on voice mail.

  In the dark car, her face pale, Pescoli muttered, “The bastard’s a raving lunatic!” She drove as fast as she dared, past the lodge and gatehouse, then cast Alvarez a glance as they reached the main road. “Don’t suppose you have a cigarette on you?”

  Alvarez sent her partner a “dream-on” look, then punched in Kacey Lambert’s cell phone number again and waited.

  The call went directly to voice mail once more.

  Trace’s fingers tightened on the shovel’s handle.

  “I wondered if you’d show up,” the killer said, and there in the doorway, silhouetted against the white drifts, Kacey stood, feet wide, a gun in her hands. But she couldn’t see into the darkness. Couldn’t guess where they could be.

  Click. The bastard cocked his gun.

  What was Kacey thinking?

  “Get back!” Trace screamed. Frantic, he yanked the shovel from the nails that held it to the wall. Twisting the blade of the shovel in front of him, he started scrambling backward to the door to save her, push her away, use his body as a shield, any damned thing to protect her!

  “Too late.” A brittle, hollow laugh echoed behind him.

  “Watch out!” Dragging his useless leg, sensing the streak of blood he was leaving on the floorboards, he forced himself to the doorway. “He’s got a gun!”

  “So do I,” she said calmly. Too calmly. “Stay down!”

  Blam!

  Her gun’s nose sprayed fire, her silhouette slipping away, behind the exterior wall.

  Trace had flattened to the floor even before she pulled the trigger, the room spinning around him, his neck twisted as he stared at the doorway.

  Craaack! Click! Craaack! Click! Craaack!

  The killer fired in rapid succession, sending the timbers of the stable shaking and the horses squealing and snorting, rearing in sheer terror. Steel-shot hooves pounded the walls of the stalls.

  The dogs, too, were barking madly.

  Over it all, he heard a single heart-stopping cry.

  Kacey!

  He rolled over and tried to get to his feet, to stumble forward, but his leg wouldn’t work. The best he could do was drag himself through the smoke and fear that rose to the rafters.

  Another horrifying moan. As if her soul was being ripped from her body.

  “NO!” He screamed. “NO!”

  A satisfied chuckle crackled from behind him; the killer’s sick pleasure oozing through the aftermath.

  You sick cocksucker, I’m going to get you.

  “Trace!”

  What?

  “Trace!” Kacey’s terrified voice reached him, a distant weak cry diluted by the rush of the wind. As if she were truly exiting this world and he was truly losing her.

  But she’s alive! There’s still time!

  “Hang on!” he ordered brokenly. “Hang the hell on!”

  Using the shovel to drag himself forward, he pulled himself closer toward the doorway, to the frigid air blowing snow into the stable. Somewhere behind him, he heard the uneven footsteps of the killer, but he kept moving, didn’t care that the rifle might be trained on the back of his head.

  Through the doorway he crawled into the night, the cold a welcome slap to his swirling senses.

  He saw her then. Unmoving. A crumpled form lying in the snow just outside the building, strands of her hair being lifted by the wind.

  NO! NO! NO!

  Oh, dear God . . . let her still be alive.

  “Kacey,” he choked out. “God, please ... Kacey.” Again he heard a noise behind him. The wounded footsteps of the assassin. Was the bastard going to kill him now?

  He thought he saw her move. Oh, sweet Jesus! Yes, there it was again: one foot was twitching. He crawled closer, to where he could see the rest of her body, and noticed a terrifying, spreading darkness staining the snow beneath her. “Why?” he whispered, fury tearing through him. Why had she come to his rescue?

  “Too late, lover boy,” the big man behind him was saying, breathing hard. Far in the distance—too far—sirens shrieked over the howl of the wind.

  Exhausted, breathing hard, Trace looked over his shoulder and saw a huge, shadowy shape fill the doorway. The rifle was at his shoulder, night goggles covering his eyes, but he leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. Trace saw dark splotches begin to color the snow beneath the man’s left arm. So the pitchfork had done some damage.

  “You’re dead now, you son of a bitch,” the killer warned, his voice a watery hiss.

  That’s when Trace noticed the gun in the snow.

  Lying at the end of Kacey’s fingers, its barrel pointed away from her.

  Still holding the shovel as protection, Trace lunged, one arm outstretched. He missed, his fingers brushing the gun’s muzzle and causing it to spin, burying deep in the snow.

  The killer laughed, a gurgling, demonic sound that echoed through the night. “Nice try, bastard!”

  Click!

  Trace sprang.

  Swinging his shovel, the blade knifing through the air, he landed in a drift a foot from the gun. Snatching up the weapon, he nearly passed out in the process. All he could think about was Kacey. Sweet Kacey. How she’d tried to save him and died in the process.

  “Say your prayers, cowboy,” the killer ordered, hobbling closer, his rifle aimed straight at Trace. “You’re gonna get to join your girlfriend.”

  A tremendous growl erupted from inside the stable.

  The killer glanced back, momentarily distracted.

  Both dogs catapulted through the open doorway.

  Snarling, ears flattened, heads low, fangs showing, they split: one turning left, the other right. They determinedly circled the killer, and snapped and lunged, like hungry wolves ready to bring down prey.

  “Shit.” The killer didn’t hesitate, just took aim at the bigger dog.

  Bonzi!

  “No!” Trace yelled, trying to stagger to his feet and falling backward.

  Bonzi leapt, exposing his big chest and belly, white teeth flashing against his dark lips.

  BLAM!

  The killer jerked. Squealed. His rifle spun out of his hands.

  BLAM!

  Again the assassin’s torso bucked, his arms flying wildly.

  He dropped, falling onto his knees. Blood bloomed over the front of his jacket. His head lolled and he stared at the growing stain as if he couldn’t believe it.

  “Where is he?” a woman demanded, her voice stern in the night.

  Trace, dizzier still, looked over his shoulder. What? Who was . . . She drew closer, a rifle to her shoulder, the sight of her gun—his rifle—centered on the wounded man.

  Kacey?

  But—?

  He looked down at the woman he loved—Kacey—lying pale as the snow that was beginning to cover her as the sirens shrilled more loudly.

  “Where the hell is Eli, Cameron?” this new Kacey demanded, holding her rifle on the flailing, injured man. Trace thought he might be halluc
inating. Two of them . . .

  The newcomer—Kacey?—was still advancing.

  But it can’t be . . . She reached the wounded man and kicked his weapon away from him. The would-be assassin let out a last, gasping groan that rattled, wet in his lungs, then didn’t move.

  Pulling her gaze from his masked face, she turned, finding Trace’s eyes before she saw the blood flowing from his thigh, the snow around him discolored and dark from his blood.

  “Oh, Jesus! Trace!”

  Woozy now, the blackness pulling him under, he watched, sliding onto the ground, as she ran to him as if in slow motion. Kicking up snow, the rifle in one hand, a flashlight bobbing in her pocket, she crossed the short, powdery distance and fell to her knees at his side. “Oh, God, you’re hurt!”

  “Kacey,” he whispered and reached for her, wanting to wrap his arms around her, to hold her close, feel her warmth, smell her hair ... But his eyes wouldn’t stay open and he was spinning, further and further away ...

  “Wait . . . Let me see how badly you’re injured.... Oh, dear Christ, Trace . . .” He heard her sharp intake of breath and saw that she was focused on the dead woman lying next to him. “Oh, my God. Who?” she whispered, then clearing her throat, she moved close to the woman who was nearly her twin. Leaning over the body, she searched for a pulse at the woman’s neck, pushed her ear next to her nostrils. “Gone,” she whispered, then dragged her gaze from the body that was so like her own. Touching him on the shoulder, she said gently, “We have to get you to a hospital!”

  He was drifting away, his eyelids leaden, “But Eli?” he forced out. “Where’s Eli?”

  “I don’t know,” she said softly, holding him close. He drank in the smell of her, felt her warm, wet cheek against his own as the wintry world, like one of those snow globes turned upside down, seemed to spin around him.

  “No,” he said fighting to stay conscious. He had to find his son. Had to!

  “We’ll find him,” she promised over the shattering wail of sirens. “You just hang in. You hear me? Trace? Trace! You just stay with me . . .”

  But he didn’t. One second he heard her voice, the next he was floating away, wondering how this woman he loved could be two, one dead, one alive.