Deep Freeze (35 page)

“Maybe they’ll find Lynnetta.”

“Let’s hope,” Rinda said, and hung up.

Jenna continued to watch the television. She felt empty inside as the reporter, Brenda Ward, a pert little redhead in a blue parka and gloves, squinted against the falling snowflakes and explained about Lynnetta Swaggert being abducted. From Lynnetta’s disappearance, the newscast segued into stories about the other missing women, and Jenna felt as if she had a huge stone in the middle of her stomach. The weather report was next, along with a reminder that the schools were closed. Jenna, thoughts on Lynnetta, barely noticed. Finally she snapped off the TV.

They spent the day inside. Both girls, though they didn’t say it, were bored to tears and neither one was interested in a) baking an early batch of Christmas cookies; b) helping string interior lights and putting up all the decorations except for the tree; or c) playing cards or any kind of board game. They both preferred their own company.

Cassie talked on the phone, instant-messaged on the computer, or watched some soap opera on television. Allie, with Jake at her side, broke a fresh trail through the snow to help Hans with the horses. Two hours later, she returned, her cheeks red, her nose running; Jenna made her hot cocoa and a peanut butter sandwich and urged her to practice the piano. Begrudgingly, she agreed, and now, as Jenna sat at the table going over her checkbook, the clear notes of several Christmas carols wafted into the den.

Jenna was able, through Harrison Brennan, to get through to the electrician, but of course, Seth Whitaker had barely arrived when Harrison, hell-bent on helping out, drove through the open gates. He parked next to Turnquist’s truck. Over Jenna’s protests, Brennan helped his friend, and though Jenna sensed that Whitaker would rather have done the job himself and made tracks to his next project, he didn’t complain, even when Harrison handed out orders.

“If he’s bothering you, I’ll ask him to leave,” Jenna said to Whitaker as she, dressed in ski gear, carried out a thermos of coffee. Brennan was a few feet off, standing near Whitaker’s white truck and out of earshot as he rewound a roll of wire. He wore a tight-fitting jumpsuit made out of some thin, insulated material and a thick jacket and ski mask.

“I’m okay.” Whitaker, bundled in a heavy jacket and pants, a hunter’s cap with flaps covering his ears, was intent on his work at the gate post and barely looked up. His toolbox was at his feet, getting buried by the blowing snow.

“All right, but I know he can be bossy.”

“Comes with being in the military, I guess,” Whitaker said, as he screwed the faceplate on the keypad at a gate post. “Here. Time for a quick lesson.” He took the thermos from her gloved hands. “Now, depress the key that says PID—that’s Personal Identity. Put in three numbers that mean something to you and hit the PID key again.” She punched in two, two, six. “My birthday,” she explained.

Whitaker snorted. “Well, that’s okay for now, but in the future, use something that’s a little more obscure. Now that you’ve entered your PID, you need to punch in a code of four numbers—these are the ones that will change daily. Go ahead, use any numbers. We’ll change the code again, once you understand how it works.”

Jenna keyed in one, two, three, four.

He grinned, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “Fair enough. Now hit reset.” He pointed to a button with the tip of his Phillips screwdriver. She did as requested. “Okay, now try your new code.” Once again, she keyed in the numbers. After the last digit, the gate swung open. She used the same process to close the gate and return it to its locked position.

Whitaker kicked open his toolbox and dropped his screwdriver onto the tray holding wrenches, pliers, and screwdrivers. Then, as he kicked the lid closed again, he began twisting off the thermos lid. He seemed satisfied with his work, even grinned. “You can do the same thing up at the house. I’ll wire it in.”

“What’s to prevent anyone from taking off the faceplate and resetting it themselves?”

“Nothing. As long as they have your PID. So that’s why I suggested you come up with something more creative than your birthday. Got it?” He poured a stream of coffee into the thermos cap.

“Yeah, I think so. I just hope I can remember the codes if I change them every day.”

“You might want to work out some kind of system that only you and your kids know. Like adding thirty-three to the total numbers. You just punched in one, two, three, four, or one thousand two hundred and thirty-four. Tomorrow you’d add thirty-three and your code would be one thousand two hundred and sixty-seven, or one, two, six, seven. The next day you’d add another thirty-three and the code would be one thousand three hundred, or one, three, zero, zero.”

The numbers spun in Jenna’s head. “I think we’ll come up with something simpler.”

Whitaker shrugged and sipped the coffee. “Whatever’s easiest for you to remember.”

“Got it figured?” Harrison asked as he carried the coil of wire to the gate and joined them.

Turning her back to the wind, Jenna reached into her pocket. “Never.” She pulled out a small cup. “I thought you might need something to warm you up.”

Harrison’s blue eyes met hers and a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, barely visible through the ski mask. As if he were touched by her act of kindness. Lately, the words they’d shared had been sharp. “Thanks,” he said, accepting the cup. “It is a mite cold out here.”

“Like ten below,” Whitaker agreed. “If you add in the wind chill, it’s even worse.”

Smiling as the snow swirled around them, Whitaker handed Brennan the thermos. “What about you?” he asked Jenna.

“I’ve got a cup inside. I’ll let you two freeze out here and drink mine by the fire,” she teased.

“Nice,” Whitaker mocked.

“Come in when you’re finished and you can warm up.”

“Soon,” Whitaker muttered. “We’re about done out here.”

“Thank God—it’s colder than a well-digger’s butt.” Brennan looked at Jenna, his blue eyes assessing. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I’ve never really minded the cold. Winter’s usually my favorite time of year.”

The sheriff’s department was a madhouse. Even though the FBI and Oregon State Police were involved in the kidnapping and murder cases, the department was stretched thin, plagued with new problems. With damage from the storm, icy roads, shut-ins, power outages, and idiots like the kid who broke his pelvis in eight places while trying to scale Pious Falls, his men and women had more than they could handle. The press had convened in Falls Crossing en masse despite the bad roads.

A search party had been started for Lynnetta Swaggert. The group was largely made up of volunteers—neighbors, friends, and members of the church—who were already tired from tromping through the snow-covered woods and fields looking for Sonja Hatchell and Roxie Olmstead. Even the Explorer Scouts, young people who aspired to be cops and were often used in searches, were weary, cranky, and cold to the bone. A usually eager group, they were dispirited with the prospect of yet another search.

Carter sat at his desk behind an ever-growing pile of paperwork, a couple of empty coffee cups, and a stack of phone messages he hadn’t returned yet. Most of the paperwork would have to wait. The missing women were the highest priority, and Lynnetta’s husband was making the most of the grim situation.

The Reverend Derwin Swaggert had been on the television, dry-eyed but shaken, spouting about God’s will and asking for prayers for his wife. A candlelight vigil was planned for this evening, and The reverend was encouraging everyone to pray not only for Lynnetta but for the other missing women as well.

Morale was low.

Deputies and office workers alike needed a break.

Even BJ wasn’t herself.

She stopped by his office and shut the door. “You know, I have a problem with Ian Swaggert, a big problem. He’s still hanging around Megan, and the kid is trouble, but this…” She lifted a hand and let it fall to her side. “This is real bad.”

“We could still find her.”

“Alive!” BJ snapped. “We need to find her alive.”

Jerri tapped on the door and dropped two sheets of paper on his desk. “Fax for you,” she said. “From Jenna Hughes.”

BJ said, “What kind of fax?” as Jerri left and closed the door behind her again.

“A list of makeup studios who specialize in monster-making.” He quickly scanned the list. “Companies that might use alginate for molds.”

“What are you talking about?” She was interested, leaning a hip against his desk, reading the list upside down as he explained what he’d found out and how he thought the alginate might be the link between Mavis Gette’s murder and Jenna Hughes’s stalker.

“You’re serious about this?”

“Absolutely.”

BJ studied the list and scratched her arm. “I don’t know, it’s pretty far-fetched,” she said. “Did you tell the feds or OSP?”

“I called Larry Sparks. He said he’d check it out. Run it by the FBI. They’ve got a profiler working on the serial kidnapping case now, but they’re still not convinced the cases are linked, so maybe this’ll help.”

“Or maybe they’ll laugh you out of the office.”

He snorted. “It wouldn’t be the first time.” Running a finger down the typed names of the companies, he said, “Now, what we need is a roster of their employees and anyone with roots up here, maybe someone who was working for them in California and moved north.” His eyes narrowed and he tented his fingers under his chin as he leaned back in his chair, making the old metal groan. “And we need to find out if any of them are or have been missing alginate. Did you have any luck finding out if any suppliers shipped to anyone around here?”

“Other than the dentists?” She shook her head. “No.”

“What about Portland? Or Vancouver? Even Seattle. Somewhere within driving distance.”

“Still working on it.”

“Good.”

Another tap on the door and Jerri stuck her head in. “KBST is camping out in front,” she said, “and one of the reporters, a”—she glanced at her note—“Brenda Ward, wants to interview you.”

“Not now.”

“She asked for a statement.”

Carter leaned forward. “Tell her to call Lieutenant Sparks of the Oregon State Police.”

Jerri ducked out of the office and BJ picked up the list. “Mind if I make a copy?” she asked.

“Go for it. Once you get a printout of any employees who have moved recently, or quit, or taken a leave of absence, we’ll cross-reference it with our list of people who have rented or bought the movies, not just around here, but in the greater metropolitan area of Portland, maybe all of northern Oregon and southern Washington. If that doesn’t work, we’ll expand the search.” He crushed an empty cup and tossed the crumpled remains into his trash. “But I have a feeling this guy’s close.” His eyes narrowed as he thought. “And efficient. Maybe knows his victims. There wasn’t any sign of a struggle in the church, nor at the scene of the Olmstead accident, nor at the parking lot of Lou’s Diner. Either this guy somehow disables his victim without a struggle or blood loss or he cons them into helping him out. Remember Ted Bundy? Sometimes he wore a cast, I think, or bandages to disarm his victims, make them less wary.”

“Roxie Olmstead wrecked her car. No conning there.”

“He could be smart enough to adjust to each situation. If one way doesn’t work, he uses another.”

“Let’s hope he’s not smart,” BJ said, “but just lucky and that his luck is about to run out.” She grabbed the two sheets of Jenna Hughes’s fax and started to walk out of the room. “Oh, wait,” she said. “I thought you might want to know that there are a couple of lines from the poems that I came across on the Internet.
Today. Tomorrow. Endlessly.
It’s from a poem written by Leo Ruskin—have you heard of him?”

Carter shook his head.

“Similar to a New-Age Timothy Leary. Writes poetry that means nothing to me, but get this—the line was going to be used as a promo line for
White Out
, the Jenna Hughes movie that never was finished.”

Carter’s head snapped up. He drilled BJ with his eyes. “Wouldn’t she remember that?” he asked. “Her husband was the producer of that movie and it lost millions.”

“You’d think, but maybe she wasn’t in on that end of things, and then her sister was killed and her marriage fell apart. She could’ve blanked the whole business out, if she ever knew it at all.”

Carter felt a rush in his blood, a surge of adrenaline, the same excitement that he always felt when he was about to solve a case. This could be it. “Where is Ruskin now?”

“Still searching.”

“Find him. Find out all of his previous addresses. And when you start with the makeup studios and firms in L.A., start with the one hired for
White Out
.”

“Will do,” she said as she left the office and Carter’s phone rang. As he picked up the receiver, he hoped he’d just gotten lucky.

What was this?

Dear Lord in heaven, what was going on?

Lynnetta opened a bleary eye and shivered.

It was so cold…freezing…Her skin was probably turning a dozen shades of blue. Yet there was a dullness to her, as if her brain was filled with mud. Blinking, she slowly looked around the vast room…or was it a warehouse?…She couldn’t tell from her position in a chair, a recliner of sorts. Somewhere music was playing, but it sounded far away and when she blinked, she saw women standing on a stage. Half of them faceless, naked, bald, but three dressed, their hair combed, their faces…Lynnetta swallowed hard. They were all Jenna Hughes! No, that couldn’t be. They were likenesses of Jenna, strange mannequins.

What was this?

She rolled her eyes upward. Above her head was the long, stainless-steel arm of a dentist’s drill…shining bright in the dim lights. Glinting like pure evil.

No…this couldn’t be right. Something was wrong here. Very, very wrong. She had to get a grip or wake up or…She heard a sound, a soft rasp that set her teeth on edge.

She was groggy and certain that she, like Alice, had fallen down a rabbit hole. Everything was surreal. Bizarre. Topsy-turvy. She blinked again to clear her vision and her mind.

But it didn’t hone the dullness.

In her peripheral vision she saw him. The man who had startled her in the theater. But now he was naked.

Oh, no.

She remembered being in the theater under the stage. She’d heard a noise as she was putting away the dress she’d hemmed. Thinking the sound was just the cat nosing around where he shouldn’t, she’d called to him. As she’d rounded the corner to Rinda’s office, she’d come upon a man who had been waiting for her in the darkness. She’d thought he’d held a gun and had tried to run. But he’d grabbed her, placed the cold metal against her neck, then zapped her. Electricity had shot through her body. She’d crumpled, but he hadn’t been finished and slammed a needle into her arm.

Fear slithered down her spine as she tried to see him more clearly, attempted to recoil. But she couldn’t escape; she was bound to this damned chair and realized with a sickening feeling that she, too, wore nothing. Her skin was pressed against cold leather. Oh, Lord, was he going to rape her? Why? What had she done to deserve such a wretched fate?

Tears filled her eyes, but still, through the blur, she saw him, his genitals exposed, a tattoo she couldn’t make out upon his chest. He was holding something in his hand, something she couldn’t quite see.

Help me,
she silently pled.
Please, God, help me.

Who was this man? She thought she’d known him, had seen him in town, but he’d changed. He was slimmer than she’d remembered, his hair thinner and dyed a different color. As if he was wearing a disguise…or had worn one for all the time that she’d known him.

Even his eyes were different. Cruel. Like glittering blue rocks set deep into his skull. The purest form of evil she’d ever witnessed.

She swallowed hard as she stared at the contraption in his hand. It was a dental appliance, a rubber dam with stainless-steel frame, equipment that would force a mouth open.

No!
She began to panic, though her mind was mush. She had to get out of here! Now! Oh, God, there was no escape. She was bound to this chair. Over the music and the sound of her own frantic heartbeat, she heard a voice.

Stay calm, Lynnetta, I am with you.

Was it God’s voice she heard…yes? Or a hallucination from some weird psychedelic drug that was being piped into her bloodstream via the IV pierced into her wrist. She glanced down at her hand and for the first time noticed the bandage…a thick strip of gauze wound tight over her fingers, binding them together. What was that all about? There was a dark red stain…no doubt blood…on the gauze, seeping through from her ring finger…Yet she felt no pain and something about her hand seemed weird. Frantically attempting to wiggle her fingers, she failed. Probably because of whatever drug was flowing through the darned IV. There had to be something in the clear liquid that was keeping her mind fuzzy, dulling the pain.

So why was her hand bandaged? Had she struggled? Fought? She couldn’t remember. Didn’t have time to think.

He was coming closer.

Fear screamed through her bloodstream.

Trust in me
. The Father’s voice again, trying to calm her, hoping that her faith would sustain her.

Please, Father, have mercy
, she prayed, closing her eyes as she felt Lucifer’s hot breath upon her cold face. She thought of the martyrs who had gone before her, the fearless souls who had accepted God’s fate. For some reason, The Father was testing her, but she would fear not…He would deliver her. She was certain of it.

She thought of springtime and her dear, departed parents, then of Derwin, a hard-driven man, but a man who had loved her…and she thought of her son, Ian, not yet an adult, tempted by all that was available to youth these days.
Be with them, dear Lord
, she prayed, and despite whatever torture this evil incarnation of Satan had planned for her, she would never lose her faith. Never! Soon, she would be home. Soon, she would be with Him. She, like those before her, like Jesus who had suffered on the cross, would endure the agony on earth to accept her eternal reward.

I’ll be with you soon. Sweet Jesus, I’ll be with you soon
.

Her eyes still shut, she complied as the monster roughly forced the rubber dam into her mouth, didn’t so much as squeak as he tightened it so that her jaw was opened painfully wide, her lips pulled harshly back, her tongue and teeth at his mercy. She flinched only slightly when she heard the hum of the drill, but closed her mind to everything other than her prayer.

Our Father, who art in heaven…

The drill squealed against her teeth, shrieking wildly as the scent of burning enamel filled her nostrils, and she knew it was only a matter of seconds before the ungodly drill bit hit a nerve.