Authors: Lisa Jackson

Afraid to Die (34 page)

BOOK: Afraid to Die

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She spent the next half hour finishing a few loose ends, then actually spent a few minutes in the restroom, combing her hair and adding lip gloss. Her reflection appeared tired, worn out; no amount of makeup could hide the dark smudges under her eyes or mask the lines of strain at the edge of her mouth.

“Too bad,” she told herself, and wound her scarf tight around her neck before she told Pescoliâher non-partner on this caseâthat she'd be back in a couple of hours.

“You don't have to work round the clock,” Pescoli said from her station, where a half-eaten tuna salad sandwich sat on a napkin and stunk up her work area.

“Neither do you, but you're still here.”

“I just want to nail this sucker's ass.”

“You and me both. I'll see ya later.” She walked outside to a night that was brutally cold, then dashed to her Subaru, which ran despite a bullet hole or two.

Inside she switched on the engine, turned the heater on high and pulled out of the lot. God, it was cold. As the heater finally started blowing warm air, she drove to the road that wound down Boxer Bluff. Once she was down the hill and across the railroad tracks, she followed a slow-moving van to the road overlooking the river, only a few blocks from the courthouse and less than five from where Brenda Sutherland's body had been found early this morning.

The roads were no longer blocked, but traffic was light, thankfully, since the storm was still blowing snow through the rustic streets of this, the old section of town.

She pulled into the hotel's small parking lot and noted that several cars were buried in snow, nearly a foot covering their roofs and hoods. The space she chose had been shoveled and it was close to the front door. Erected at the turn of the last century, the clapboard building was four stories and built with a Western facade and wide, wraparound porch. Clear lights had been strung along the roofline and a huge Christmas tree guarded the front door. Through each window, chandeliers were giving off a warm, inviting light.

As she cut the engine, her cell phone buzzed, indicating she was receiving a text, and though she thought about ignoring it as this was her personal time, she couldn't. O'Keefe might be sending her a message, or there could be a break in the case, or ...

She touched the screen and froze as a picture appeared. A picture of Gabriel Reeve. But, no ... it wasn't just a picture, it was a small recording. She pressed the play button and he became animated.

“You have to help me,” he said as her heart nearly stopped. “You have to do what he says ...” He glanced to the side and there was a whisper, a man's chilling lowered voice. “Tell her to drive to Cougar Pass. No cops. Just show up. If she doesn't, you'll be dead.”

Gabriel, ashen-faced, eyes round and scared to death, repeated the message. “You have to come to Cougar Pass. Please. He says he'll kill me.” His voice broke and again the man said, “Tell her âno cops.' If she has any kind of backup, you're dead. You got that?”

“D-Don't tell ...” Gabe repeated, looking panicked, and Alvarez saw a movement behind him, a shadow. Her heart froze as she recognized the sharp blade of a knife poised right above her son's left ear. And ... oh, God, it had blood on it. The sharp blade glinted silver and dripped red. Oh, sweet Jesus.

Was he going to slit Gabe's throat right now?

No! Don't!

Panicked, fear gripping her heart in its deadly talons, she cried out, “Stop! Don't hurt him! For the love of God!” But, of course, neither Gabe nor his abductor could hear her desperate pleas. Gabe, too, was frantic, scared out of his mind. “No cops!” he ordered, repeating what he'd been told. “Mom, he says, âno cops,' or ... or ... he's gonna kill me!”

Chapter 32

“T
hanks,” O'Keefe said, accepting his glass of Scotch from a waitress whose name tag read Tiffany and who looked too young to be serving alcohol. The room was crowded, conversation humming around him, a fire in an ancient grate burning, the interior of the hotel warm and glowing with lights in the cold, winter night. “Just leave the wine there.” He pointed to a spot across the small table from him. “She'll be here any minute.”

“Sure.” Deftly, Tiffany placed the glass of merlot where he'd indicated and then hurried off through the crowded restaurant of the hotel. Everyone, it seemed, who could get out had come up with the same idea that O'Keefe had, and he'd been lucky to get a reservation for a window table. He'd hoped for a view of the river and the falls, which were starting to freeze, but he'd taken the spot overlooking the parking lot and was just glad that she'd be showing up soon. Ever since she'd told him about the pointed card she'd received from the killer, he'd been more nervous than ever, didn't want to think of her as the target she surely was.

So the hours spent apart from her had been difficult and all of his platitudes to himself about how she could take care of herself, trust her cop instincts, or handle any perp just didn't cut it, not when he considered the sadistic determination of this psycho.

Swirling his drink, causing the ice cubes to dance, he told himself that he was going to quit fighting his feelings. He loved the womanâbe that bad or good, smart or stupid. He couldn't imagine living his life apart from her and he sure as hell wasn't going to let some sick son of a bitch mess with her life.

He took a sip from his glass, tasted the smoky flavor of Scotch on his tongue and told himself to relax when he saw her car wheel into the lot to cruise into the last parking spot.

Good.

He could relax now. His heart filled a bit at the sight of her and he waited, watching her fiddle with something ... Her phone? She didn't make a call or take one before he realized she'd received a text message. Taking another sip, he watched her through the curtain of snow. She tossed down the phone, started the engine and, as quickly as she'd cruised into the lot, she backed up and took off, snow spraying from her tires as she barely paused as she entered the street.

The case!

There had to be a break in the ice-mummy case.

He found his phone and dialed, hoping she'd pick up. She had a hands-free device, so he expected that she would answer and give him a short explanation.

Nothing.

Four rings and then voice mail.

Not good.

Rather than wait, he found his wallet, tossed several bills onto the table and strode out of the restaurant, nearly knocking over a busboy with a load of dishes, and cutting around an elderly woman with a walker. “Excuse me,” he said, though he didn't mean it as he shouldered through the doors and around a middle-aged couple who were just entering.

Down the steps he flew, and onto the street where his Explorer was parked. After jumping inside, he started the engine and threw the Ford into gear. Within seconds he was following the road Alvarez had taken, flipping on his wipers and cranking up the defrost as well as calling her again on her cell.

No response.

It's all right. She's a cop. They have emergencies.

He didn't believe it for a second. Not when the creep had called her out on that freaky Christmas card. The message, “All I Want for Christmas,” was crystal clear.

Again his call went straight to voice mail. “Hell!” He flipped on his wipers, searching, looking for her car and not seeing it. “Come on, come on.”

Relax. She'll call you ... It's the case ...

But he couldn't stop the tightening in his chest and the feeling of dread stealing over him as he paused at a red light, searching the snowy streets, looking for any trace of her car.

But she was gone.

Not a trace of her little Outback anywhere.

A snowplow was scraping the street near the railroad tracks and a small SUV was climbing the hill, heading toward the newer section of town, but Alvarez's vehicle had disappeared.

Damn it all to hell!

He tried to calm himself.

It's going to be all right. She's fine.

But he didn't believe it for an instant.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” he told himself and pulled out his phone once more.

Alvarez's heart was beating faster than that of a frightened hummingbird. She knew she was making a mistake and walking full on into a trap. She would have advised anyone in the same situation to call the police or the FBI, any agency equipped to handle a situation like this, but she couldn't make the call. This was Gabe, her son, and she didn't doubt for a second that if she screwed up, the monster who held him would take his life. Probably on camera and send it not only to Alvarez, but the media as well.

“Sick freak.” Driving faster than she should have, she weighed the options. What were the chances of saving Gabe on her own? With the help of all the police resources?

She slid around a corner and tried to get a grip, forcing her racing heart to slow.

It all came down to Preacher Mullins's Presbyterian church, Pescoli decided as she stared at the legal pad on which she'd made notes. There were printouts spread all over her desk area, and her computer was still cross-referencing every bit of information they had on the victims. But she liked to write. To doodle. To think rather than allow a machine to do all the work for her.

So, she'd come back to the church. Again. She'd thought it might be the key before, as the Presbyterian church was the one connecting link to most of the victims. Lara Sue Gilfry had been to that particular church a couple of times and, in death, encased in ice, had been placed in the nativity scene at the Presbyterian church. Though there were other crÃ¨ches in the area, six in all, five at different churches and the sixth in the front of the parochial school, for some reason, the freak had chosen Preacher Mullins's private crÃ¨che to display his first victim.

Why?

Originally, Pescoli had thought it was because of the location or the size of the figures, but now she wasn't so certain. The killer had pinpointed that crÃ¨che for a reason.

Then there was victim number two. Lissa Parsons. She, too, had been a parishioner at Mullins's church, though her attendance had been spotty of late.

Brenda Sutherland, also, had been active in the parish, had even been there for a meeting on the night she was abducted.

Yep, all three connected directly in one way or another to Mullins's parish.

The fourth woman who had gone missing, Johnna Phillips, had never been a member at Mullins's church, but her ex-boyfriend Carl's aunt attended ... That was a stretch, but at least some connection, and so far, they weren't certain Johnna was a victim or potential victim of the killer.

So how does Alvarez fit into this?
“There's the rub,” Pescoli said aloud.

Alvarez, by her own admission, had been raised Catholic in some tiny spot in Oregon and hadn't, to Pescoli's knowledge, attended any church since leaving home. Her baby had been adopted out through the help of the Catholic church and then, sixteen years ago, as far as Pescoli could tell, Selena Alvarez's relationship with God had either ended or become personal to the level that she never attended church, not even on Christmas or Easter.

She was the one piece of this particular puzzle that didn't fit. Closing her eyes, she leaned back in her chair. “How does she know you?” she whispered as if the lunatic were standing in the room with her rather than holed up in his damned lair somewhere not far from Grizzly Falls.

As she walked into the task force room, she called Alvarez, wanted her to think about any connection she might have to the church or someone within the church. It was a long shot, but ...

As soon as the call connected, it went straight to voice mail, so Pescoli left a voice message and then wrote a quick text, which, because of her children, she'd learn to do rapidly, without really thinking. Then she hit send and stood in front of the large map of the county, eyeing the different-colored pins representing different areas of this part of the state. Though terrain wasn't included on the political map, she knew where the mountains rose, the cliffs fell and the forests covered the ground.

So many places to hide.

But the victims had all been found within two miles from the heart of the city. He had to be close by. Someone who knew Alvarez ... She'd checked out the people Alvarez had dated. Kevin Miller, Grover Pankretz, Terry Longstrom and now Dylan O'Keefe. Aside from O'Keefe, there was no history of violence and Alvarez didn't know any of the ice sculptors who'd shown up for that festival ...

She looked at the pictures of the suspect, blown up and pinned to the same wall where the victims were pictured, their personal information noted. How were they connected?

Johnna Phillips's photograph had been included, though the question mark beside her name hadn't been erased.

In a dark moment, she imagined she saw Alvarez's name on the wall, a picture of her posted as one of the Ice Mummy Killer's victims, and in that briefest of seconds, Regan Pescoli's blood ran cold as ice.

This was nuts!

Gabe couldn't believe what was going on.

Freezing in the back of the dark pickup, handcuffed to the sides, he and the cop lady were captive of some sick prick. He knew who the freak was. The jerk who had tricked them was the frickin' Ice Mummy Killer and he was going to kill them both. And the dog, too. It was alive, drugged maybe, and the deputy, she was alive, too, but bound and gagged, and when she'd tried to go for her gun, he'd stabbed her; the freakin' madman had plunged the knife deep into her side and then taunted both of them with it. She was losing a lot of blood, moaning and out of it. The dog, too, just lay in the cold back of the pickup's bed, a canopy over them.

The bastard had made Gabe record the video sent to Alvarez and he'd wangled the knife he'd used to slice the deputy at him to keep him in line.

Scared to death, huddled in the back of the damned pickup, Gabe wished he'd never left home, never gotten involved with Lizard and his stupid friends. Jesus, God, this was a mess. All those times he'd been mad at his mom, or his little sister had bugged him, or he'd been pissed at Leo for being so damned perfect taunted him now, rolled around in his head, and he wished he could take every one of them back. Even finding his “real” mom because he was mad at Aggie and Dave. How dumb was that?

His wrists were chafed raw from him pulling and straining against the handcuffs and his fingers and toes felt numb from the cold. While the prick had kept the truck idling here in the woods, keeping himself warm in the cab, the rest of them were freezing. Gabe's nose was numb, his teeth chattering uncontrollably, though he thought that might be more from fear than the elements.

This freak was going to kill them. All of them. Gabe had seen it in his dead eyes how he wanted to dispose of them all. The deputy and dog, half dead already, and Gabe, yeah, the guy would love to slice his throat. As for Selena Alvarez, the cop, Gabe wanted to believe in her, to trust that she was smarter and stronger and would be able to kick the bastard's ass, but the truth of it was that she, too, was going to die.

And the prick who held them, he was going to love killing her.