Left To Die
Authors: Lisa Jackson
Tags: #Suspense Fiction, #Traffic accidents, #Montana, #Police, #Mystery & Detective, #Serial murder investigation, #Fiction, #Serial murders, #Crime, #Psychological, #Women detectives - Montana, #Thrillers, #Police Procedural
CHOSEN TO DIE
Jillian remembered someone near her car at the accident, a dark figure hovering nearby.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “So you heard the shot. Then what?”
For a second, MacGregor didn’t answer and the soft hiss of the fire slipped through the room. “Then,” he finally said, “there was the sound of the crash.”
Her throat turned to sand. Memories of the car’s horrific spin and plunge through the dusky canyon cut through her mind.
“Yes,” she said hoarsely.
MacGregor came a little closer, closing the distance between them. “Do you think you were a target?” he asked again.
“I…yeah, I think so,” Jillian said.
“And who would be out in the middle of the worst storm in a decade, lying in wait with a rifle, ready for target practice? Tell me, Jillian,” he insisted, near enough now that she could feel the heat of his body. “Who do you think would want to kill you?”
Books by Lisa Jackson
SEE HOW SHE DIES
FINAL SCREAM
WISHES
WHISPERS
TWICE KISSED
UNSPOKEN
IF SHE ONLY KNEW
HOT BLOODED
COLD BLOODED
THE NIGHT BEFORE
THE MORNING AFTER
DEEP FREEZE
FATAL BURN
SHIVER
MOST LIKELY TO DIE
ABSOLUTE FEAR
ALMOST DEAD
LOST SOULS
LEFT TO DIE
Published by Zebra Books
Left to Die
Lisa Jackson
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Dozens of people helped me with the creation, writing and research for this book. I’m sure I won’t remember them all, but I would like to thank the following individuals for their time, effort, support and, as always, sense of humor while the author sometimes lost hers:
Ken Bush, Nancy Bush, Matthew Crose, Michael Crose, Kelly Foster, Marilyn Katcher, Ken Melum, Roz Noonan, Gayle Nachtigal, Fred Nachtigal, Mike Seidel, Larry Sparks, Niki Wilkins and probably a zillion others who remain nameless.
Prologue
Bitterroot Mountains, Montana
November
He’s going to kill you.
Right here in the middle of this snow-covered godforsaken valley, he’s going to kill you! Fight, Wendy, fight!
Wendy Ito struggled, battling with the ropes that cut into her bare flesh, feeling the sting of a fierce arctic wind as it howled through the mountain ridges that surrounded them.
She was alone. Aside from the psychopath who had captured her.
God, why had she trusted him?
How in the world had she thought that he was her rescuer? That his mission was to heal her until, after the blizzard, he could call for help or take her to the nearest hospital?
Had she been lured by his sincere concern as he’d come upon her wrecked car? Had it been those blue, blue eyes? His smile? His soft words of assurance? Or had it been because she’d had no choice, because without his aid she would surely die alone in a deep, forgotten ravine?
Whatever the reason, she’d believed him, trusted him.
Fool! Idiot!
He’d proved himself to be her worst nightmare, an evil wolf in sheep’s clothing, and now, oh God, now she was paying the price.
Shivering, certain she would die, she was naked and lashed to a tree, the thick rope cutting into her bare arms and torso, a gag so tight over her lips that she could barely breathe.
And he was close. So close she could feel the warmth of his breath sifting around the trunk of the sturdy pine, hear him grunt as he put all his strength into securing her, see a flash of white neoprene ski pants and parka from the corner of her eye.
Another tug on the rope.
She gasped, her whole body jerking even tighter against the scaly bark of the tree. Pain shot through her and she set her jaw. She just needed him to get close enough so that she could kick him hard. Hit his shin. Or his nuts.
She couldn’t let him get away with this. Wouldn’t!
Her heart raced and she tried to come up with a way to save herself, to break free of her bonds and climb up the snow-covered deer trail he’d dragged her down. Oh, she’d fought him. Wriggling and fighting, flinging herself at him, trying to find some way to free herself, to avoid being brought down here to whatever fate he’d planned. She could still see the fresh tracks in the thick snow. His steady, evenly placed big boot prints and her smaller, wild, erratic barefoot tracks made when she’d tried to get away, even as he’d prodded her with his damned knife. There were drips of blood in the white snow, proving that he’d cut her, that he’d meant business.
Dear God, help me,
she silently prayed to the gun-metal gray heavens threatening more snow.
He laced the restraining ropes ever tighter.
“No!” Wendy tried to scream.
“No! No! No!”
But the foul gag covered her mouth and kept her cries muffled and weak while the panic surging through her blood caused her heart to thunder.
Why? Oh God, why me?
She blinked back tears but felt the salty drops fall from her eyes to stain and freeze upon her cheeks.
Don’t cry. Whatever you do, do
not
let him see that you fear him. Don’t give the son of a bitch the satisfaction. But don’t fight, either. Pretend to give up; fake it and act like you’ve accepted your fate. Maybe his guard will slip and you can somehow get hold of his damned knife.
Her stomach clenched even tighter and she tried to keep his weapon, a hunting knife used for gutting game, in her sights. Razor sharp, it could slice through the ropes easily. Just as easily as it could pierce and cut her flesh.
Oh God…
Her knees went weak and it was all she could do not to bawl and beg, to mewl and plead, to offer to do anything he wanted if he would just not hurt her.
Go ahead, let him see that you’re resigned to your fate…but keep your eye on the knife, with its menacing, deadly blade.
She was shivering harder now. Shaking so violently that slivers from the bark were digging into her skin. Was she trembling because of the bitter Montana wind, gusts she was certain were blowing down from Canada and the arctic? Or was she quivering from the fear that tore at her insides?
Beneath the gag her teeth chattered and she felt the raw wind buffet her as he worked. She caught glimpses of his legs, warmed by thick hunting socks and the white ski pants, his heavy, fur-lined parka protecting him from the very elements to which she was exposed.
This lying son of a bitch had no intention of saving you, of healing your wounds after the horrible car wreck. All along, the sick bastard kept you alive, citing the storm as a reason he couldn’t get help, only to kill you. In the time he wanted. In the manner he wanted. He was savoring the anticipation, while you half fell in love with him.
Bile rose up her throat and she nearly wretched at the thought. He’d known it. She’d seen it in his eyes, that he’d read her utter dependency, her silly, stupid and pathetic desire to please him.
If she could, she’d kill him.
Right here. Right now.
She heard him grunt in satisfaction again, as he pulled the taut rope even tighter, forcing her buttocks into the sharp bark, her shoulders to be held fast. She could still kick, but he kept himself far from the damage she might inflict. Even with one leg still sore from the accident, she thought she could wound, and wound badly, because of all her training in the martial arts.
But he was careful to stay on the far side of the tree and keep away from her heels. And the cold was beginning to take its toll. She had trouble focusing, thinking of anything but the ice in her flesh, the sheer frigidity settling in her bones.
Blackness pulled at her vision.
Each breath she drew was labored and thin, her lungs on fire from lack of oxygen.
Maybe unconsciousness would be the way out. The blackness was soothing, taking the sting out of the wind.
But then she saw him move so that he was in front of her, staring at her with his cruel, relentless gaze.
How had she ever thought him handsome? How had she ever fantasized about him? How had she ever considered making love to him?
Slowly he removed the knife from his belt. Its cruel metallic surface winked in the shifting gray light.
She was doomed.
She knew it.
Even before he slowly, inexorably raised the blade.
Chapter One
“Goddamn, son of a bitch.”
Ivor Hicks usually didn’t mind the cold, but he didn’t like the thought that he was being forced to hike in this section of the mountains after the recent blizzard. For the love of God, there could be an avalanche if he coughed too hard, and he was liable to ’cause his lungs felt heavy, as if he might be coming down with something.
Probably from the damned aliens, he decided, though he quickly rid himself of the thought. Criminy, no one wanted to believe that he’d been abducted in the late seventies, used for an experiment that involved his lungs, blood and testicles. The blasted ETs had left his drained and exhausted body in a snowbank two miles from his mountain home. When he’d come out of the drug-induced coma, he’d found himself half frozen, lying in his jockey shorts, an empty bottle of rye whiskey on the other side of a hollowed-out log that was home to a porcupine and beetles. But not one of them damned law enforcement boys wanted to listen to him.
At the time, the deputy he’d complained to, a smartass kid of about thirty, hadn’t even bothered to swallow his smile of disbelief. He just took a quick statement, then hauled Ivor to the local clinic for treatment of frostbite and exposure. Doc Norwood hadn’t been so outwardly disbelieving, but when he’d sent Ivor to the hospital in Missoula he’d suggested psychiatric testing.
Damned fools.
They’d all just played into the aliens’ hands. Crytor, the leader of the pod, who had teleported him into their mother ship, was probably still laughing at the earthlings’ simpleton explanation of alcohol, dehydration and hallucinations that the doctors were sure had been the cause of his “confusion.”
Well, they were just dumb asses all around.
Using a walking stick, Ivor trudged up Cross Creek Pass, his hiking boots crunching in the snow, the sky as wide and blue as an ocean, not that he’d ever really seen one, but he’d seen himself Flathead Lake, which was one big-ass lake. Must be the same, only much, much larger, if those televised fishing excursions on the Fish and Game Channel could be believed.
