Authors: Lisa Jackson
Afraid to Die (12 page)
“I'll get coffee going. You were already out?”
“Yes.” He had his pat answer. “Research. New article I'm writing.”
“Of course.” She yawned and stretched and he noted she wasn't interested in anything he did anymore. Not really. Hadn't even asked about his work. Just didn't damned care. It was as if he were invisible, as he had been all his life. Half listening, he heard her shuffle toward the back of the house, the bitch who held the purse strings, who wouldn't so much as sign on a loan he'd wanted a year ago.
She'd probably forgotten all about that.
He hadn't.
Yes, it would feel spectacular to actually place a blade to her throat, probably her favorite little paring knife, and watch her blood spurt into the ice water. For her, things would be different. Special.
While she was bustling in the kitchen making breakfast, unaware of his ultimate plans for her, and the aroma of coffee was seeping through the house, he watched every bit of information he could find online. He kept the volume low, of course.
“Oh, my God,” she said. “Did you see this?”
“What?” He tried to sound bored.
“On the news! Some woman found dead in a block of ice! At the church! Our church!”
“Oh, yes.” Calmly, he got up from his desk and found her standing, empty coffeepot in hand, water running into the drain as she stared at the small screen of the TV she'd placed on an old microwave stand in the corner near the table. “I was there,” he said, turning off the water and hearing the old pipes creak as he turned his attention to the small screen, where a reporter stood in front of the church and explained that the frozen body of an unidentified woman had been found in the nativity scene at the Presbyterian church just outside of town.
She was young and beautiful, holding her microphone to her glossy lips, wide eyes staring into the camera.
“You ... you were there?” his wife said.
“Driving by. Stopped to see what the commotion was all about. No one knew anything, of course.”
“I'm surprised you stopped.”
“Well, there was a roadblock, I was detoured so I thought I'd check it out.”
Now
she was interested in what he did. Of course.
Now
she was interested in what he did. Of course.
“Preacher Mullins and Lorraine? The girls? They're okay.”
“You heard what she said. The body they found was unidentified.”
“It's awful,” she whispered and reached for the faucet again, then filled the glass pot. Carefully, not spilling a drop, she poured the cold water into the coffeemaker's reservoir. “I don't know why this keeps happening here. It's as if Grizzly Falls is jinxed or something. Like there's some curse cast over the town.”
“Why what keeps happening?”
“Murders! Someone killed this poor woman! And just last Christmas and the one before ... you remember. Horrible!”
“This seems a little different to me,” he said, tamping down his anger. “More planned out.”
“Because the body was left at the church?” She shuddered. “That's worse. The church should be a place of comfort and solace, a haven. Whoever did this made a mockery of everything I hold sacred.”
His blood began to race in his veins and he knew arguing further would serve no purpose and she, a woman with an IQ so much lower than his, might suspect something. “That might not have been the intention,” he said as the screen flickered to an advertisement. He reminded her, “Breakfast?”
Turning, she looked up at him and some of her indignation fled as their gazes met. He saw that tiny widening of her pupil, an indication of fear. Good. She knew her place but sometimes needed to be reminded. He placed a loving hand on her shoulder, feeling her flesh through the thin bathrobe and lacy nightgown beneath. Then he squeezed. Not too hard. Just enough to gain her attention.
She wanted to yelp. He felt her muscle tense. But she didn't cry out. “Of course,” she whispered, lowering her gaze.
Good girl.
She knew better than to draw away.
Good girl.
She knew better than to draw away.
“Perfect.” He rained a smile upon her and patted her shoulder, then playfully wagged a finger under her nose. “Don't dally.”
“No, no ... of course not.” Blinking rapidly, she turned back to the cupboard, where she pulled down another tin of coffee. Her fingers shook a bit, but she didn't spill so much as one bit of grounds as she measured out the scoops.
His world righted again, he returned to the den and checked several news Web sites as the aroma of brewing coffee mingled with the smell of wood smoke. Minutes later the sizzle of pancake batter hitting the griddle. The cakes themselves would be perfect four-inch discs, all smooth and golden. The syrup would be warming, homemade, in a jar his grandmother had used for just that purpose. The woodstove would still be burning, warming the old kitchen and smelling of a nostalgic past ... his youth, with his grandmother and her mother, perfect ... unmarred by the other one, the bitch who had borne him.
He wouldn't think of her now, pushed her far away, to a corner of his mind reserved for the darkness and the pain. Once again, he forced his attention to the streaming newscast.
His stomach rumbled, but he kept his eyes on the computer screen. The clock built into his computer reminded him that he still had two minutes until breakfast, so he ignored the hunger pangs as he watched yet another short clip.
He wasn't completely satisfied with the coverage of his work. Most disappointing was that, so far, there was no footage of the sculpture itself. None! All his painstaking work, his meticulous attention to detail, his perfection ... and not a glimpse.
So far ...
But he knew how to deal with that.
He would have to be careful.
At the precise time, he walked into the kitchen, where the aroma of maple syrup mingled with the coffee and wood smoke.
And his pancakes, waiting on a warmed platter, were perfect and golden. Three. Just three. No more. No less. The syrup was warming, too.
Yes, his wife had done well this morning.
He would have to reward her.
Everything was as it should be ... then he heard the music; the radio turned to a station other than that which played Christmas tunes twenty-four-seven, and he felt his old rage resurface.
She
knew
that during this time, only Christmas music was allowed; it was all part of the season. Anger flooded through his veins to pulse in his ears, thundering in his brain at her defiance.
knew
that during this time, only Christmas music was allowed; it was all part of the season. Anger flooded through his veins to pulse in his ears, thundering in his brain at her defiance.
He walked, stocking-footed, to the living room, where the Christmas tree sparkled, adorned to his precise specifications, and the mantel was graced with the same spun glass as it had been for nearly a century, the tiny cardboard town with its perfect little lights stretched out over the old oak plank his great-grandfather had hand-planed.
As if she'd heard him back in the room, the radio music changed and “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” halfway through the first chorus, again played through the hidden speakers.
He was furious but calmed himself by running his fingers over the smooth wood of the mantel, though he was careful not to disturb the “snow.”
She wasn't perfect.
Of course.
But he expected her to obey him.
He'd been very specific about that from the get-go and they'd even had the old vows inserted in their private marriage ceremony.
He'd remind her.
Tonight.
“You don't think we have another one, do you?” Alvarez asked once she and Pescoli had driven their separate vehicles to the office and had met in the lunchroom, where, already, Joelle's booty of the day had been picked over.
“Another one?” Pescoli asked.
“Psycho homicidal maniac.”
“Oh, I'd bet on it.”
It was now after ten, the ice-entombed body had finally been removed, taken to a giant freezer in the crime lab, and neighbors who lived close to the church had been or were being questioned. So far, no one had heard or seen anything, which was frustrating as hell. One of the closest neighbors, Jordan Eagle, a local vet, had been up with an emergency. She'd driven to her veterinary office just after midnight, and home again around three, but she hadn't noticed anything unusual.
“Then, I was really tired,” she'd admitted. “Just concentrating on getting home as the snow was really coming down and, to tell you the truth, I probably wouldn't have noticed anything unless it was right in the middle of the road.”
So they were back to square one. As soon as the ice surrounding the body had melted and any trace evidence collected, they would positively ID the body, but Alvarez agreed with Pescoli: The victim was likely Lara Sue Gilfry. Even through the distortion of the ice, she was recognizable, and the scar on her leg and tattoo over her ankle sealed the deal. Staring into the dead woman's eyes through a thick, obviously sculpted sheet of ice had been a shock. A lot of killers hid their victims, though there were always those who put their handiwork on display. Never, to her knowledge, in a crèche at a church.
“You think we have a serial?”
“Make that a bizarre serial killer and, yeah.” Pescoli was nodding, eyeing the leftover cookies on a silver snowflake platter. “I think we might.” Frowning, she selected a reindeer-face cupcake with only one pretzel antler still attached. “So what's with this place? Why is Grizzly Falls suddenly the meeting ground for all the homicidal nutcases in the area?”
“You tell me. You've been here longer than I have.”
“That's right.” She found a cup and poured herself some coffee from a glass carafe warming on the coffeemaker's hotplate. “You came here from San Bernardino, right?” The coffee poured in a thin, dark stream and Alvarez mentally kicked herself for letting the conversation wander even the slightest bit toward her past.
“Yeah. Has anyone contacted the person who made the missing persons report on Lara Sue Gilfry?” Alvarez was already heading down the hallway toward her office.
“It's being handled and don't duck the issue: you and O'Keefe. Want to fill me in?”
“No.”
“I read the report.”
Great.
Alvarez felt her stomach drop. Worse yet, she nearly ran right into the sheriff as Dan Grayson rounded the corner from his office. Luckily she wasn't carrying a cup of hot tea as she did a double step around him.
Alvarez felt her stomach drop. Worse yet, she nearly ran right into the sheriff as Dan Grayson rounded the corner from his office. Luckily she wasn't carrying a cup of hot tea as she did a double step around him.
“Let me grab a cup,” he said in that drawl she'd always found fascinating. “Meet me in my office and bring me up to speed on this ice-mummy case. That's what the press is already calling it, you know.”
Pescoli said, “Probably better than human Popsicle.”
“Just barely. And don't mention that to Manny Douglas,” he warned, referring to a particularly nosy and irritating reporter for the
Mountain Reporter
, a local newspaper. “He's gonna have a heyday with this one.” One of Grayson's bushy eyebrows lifted and he cocked his head toward his office. “I'll be right in.”
Mountain Reporter
, a local newspaper. “He's gonna have a heyday with this one.” One of Grayson's bushy eyebrows lifted and he cocked his head toward his office. “I'll be right in.”
“Ice mummy?” Pescoli repeated as she followed Alvarez through the door of Grayson's office and dropped into one of the desk chairs. “Not all that clever. So are you going to tell me about San Bernardino and Dylan O'Keefe, or am I going to have to make a call to my friend who works there?”
“Is it really that important?”
“Maybe not. But since a kid wanted in an armed robbery broke into your place with O'Keefe hot on his tail, yeah, maybe it is.”
There was just no getting around this. “Later,” Alvarez said, not wanting Grayson to hear more than he needed to.
“I'll hold you to it.”
From his dog bed in the corner, Sturgis lifted his head and thumped his tail.
Alvarez's heart twisted a little when she thought of her own dog and wondered where Roscoe could be. “Good boy,” she said automatically. Again Sturgis wagged his tail, before yawning widely, showing a pink mouth and gleaming teeth, then hearing Grayson's boot steps in the hallway, actually standing and greeting the sheriff at the door. Grayson balanced a coffee cup in one hand and leaned over to scratch the dog's ears with the other.
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