Left To Die (12 page)

God and the Fates are on my side.

“Okay, so what have we got?” Alvarez asked as the Jeep, buffeted by the wind, slid on the icy terrain.

“You mean besides diddly-squat?” Pescoli was driving, her eyes narrowed as she tried to keep the rig on the road. Despite the windshield wipers slapping frantically at the continuous flakes, visibility was nil in the near whiteout. The road they were driving had already been closed, the plows unable to keep up with the storm. Ahead of them, the vehicles driven by the officers at the scene slowly eased along the uneven mountain terrain.

“Yeah, besides that.” The police band crackled and the defroster blew enough hot air that Alvarez pulled off her gloves with her teeth, then unzipped her jacket. The interior smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and the cup holders were filled with half-full drinks.

“We’ve got his MO.” Pescoli glared through the window as she drove, her gaze fastened on the snowy road, her eyebrows pulled together.

“Which so far only links the Subaru to the other cars we found.” Alvarez didn’t like the turn of her thoughts. She was certain the crumpled Subaru would show up registered to a woman who had gone missing, a woman who even now was being held hostage somewhere within the surrounding five miles. So close, and yet eons away in this blizzard.

As Pescoli drove, Alvarez put a call in to the State of Washington DMV, finally connected, only to be placed on hold. When the clerk on the other end returned to Selena, he refused to give her any information over the phone but promised to fax the car’s registration, as well as e-mail it to the sheriff’s department. By the time Alvarez and Pescoli returned to the office, the car owner’s identity would be available.

Not so the killer’s.

“So if this car has been in the ravine two, possibly three, days, how much longer do you think he’ll keep her alive?”

“Don’t know,” Alvarez said, concentrating on the taillights of Watershed’s rig, the closest vehicle in their mini-convoy of county-owned pickups, SUVs and cars. The tow truck was behind them all, dragging what was left of the Subaru to the lot where it would be gone over again and again as investigators looked for evidence pointing to the killer. If only the guy would leave a fingerprint, or a hair, or some damned piece of evidence for them to work with.

So far, the killer had been lucky. No hairs, no fibers other than from the yellow plastic rope used to bind the victims to the trees, no fingerprints on the notes or vehicles, no witnesses to his crime. They had bullets, no casings, and poor impressions of boot prints in the snow. The blood samples the department had collected were all from the victims, and the damned carvings in the trees, all of which seemed to have been cut by some kind of hunting knife, gave no indication, except for a guestimate, of the killer’s height. There had been no semen left in or on the victims, no evidence of rape.

Their profile of the killer was weak.

What they believed was that the killer was a male who wore a size-eleven shoe and was between the height of five feet ten and six three. But again, this was primarily assumption. The paper the notes were written on was common computer paper, available in any office supply store or department, the ink from the pens unremarkable, a common blue from disposable ballpoints.

And the notes he left, damn. What the hell did they mean?

Pescoli down-shifted as they came to a hairpin corner and Watershed’s truck slipped a bit. “Son of a bitch,” she muttered under her breath as her rig slid, then found enough traction to right itself. “Remind me why I don’t live in Phoenix or San Diego. You know, where cold is seventy?”

“You’d hate Phoenix. And the desert gets cold at night.”

“Not
this
cold. But okay, then San Diego. I think I might move there. Next week.”

Alvarez couldn’t help but smile at the image of Pescoli, in her boots, jeans and down vest, roller-skating on a sidewalk near a beach in Southern California.

“Laugh if you want to, but I’m doin’ it. When we get back to the office, I’m searching for job openings from LA south.”

“Good luck.”

Pescoli actually flashed a quick we-both-know-I’m-full-of-crap grin.

The roads improved closer to town, where traffic had beat the snow into slush that was bound to refreeze. De-icer trucks were busily spraying the streets as both pedestrians and vehicles battled the elements.

Pescoli eased into the lot. She parked her Jeep as close to the main door as possible, then switched the engine off. Alvarez zipped up her jacket, pulled on her gloves and tugged her hood over her hair as she stepped out of the vehicle and hurried inside.

Once at her desk, she peeled off the layers again, then found the fax from the Washington DMV. According to the car’s registration, it belonged to a thirty-six-year-old woman named Jillian Colleen Rivers, whose address was listed as Seattle. An e-mail came through as well, with a picture of Jillian Rivers as good as any of those licensing photos could be.

“Jesus,” Alvarez said, staring at the picture of a woman who might already be dead. Shoulder-length dark brown hair, eyes listed as hazel on the license but appearing gray in the photo, strong nose, small mouth, easy smile, high, pronounced cheekbones, maybe the hint of freckles.

Alvarez dialed the number of the Seattle PD, connected to a detective who worked homicide and explained the situation.

“We’ll check it out,” Detective Renfro assured her. “Just give me a couple of hours.”

“You got it. And see if this woman has any outstanding warrants or priors.” But as Alvarez hung up, she knew that Renfro wouldn’t be able to locate the woman.

No way.

Jillian Rivers was probably a model citizen, like the other women left in the forest to die. And as such, well on her way to being the sadist’s next victim.

Thud!

Jillian heard the noise, tried to rouse, but couldn’t.

What was it? A door slamming?

Vaguely she was aware of pain in her leg and ribs. Jesus, they ached.

Trying to think past the pain, she attempted to lift an eyelid. It didn’t budge.

Dear God, where was she? She’d been in a car wreck, yes, that was it…and someone had come to help her…but she couldn’t think, couldn’t piece together her thoughts. In the distance she heard a high-pitched keen that, in her dazed thoughts, she decided might be the wind. As if it were racing through some deep ravine.

Oh God, what had happened?

Time was meaningless.

Her life seemed far away. Distant.

But she was no longer cold, and though she knew she should wake up, the blackness that had been her companion for God only knew how long kept her wrapped in its warm cocoon.

And she succumbed to its gentle lure.

She needed to sleep.

To heal.

She’d deal with the rest later….

She is awake.

I am sure of it.

Something in the air has changed. Her moaning stopped a while ago, and I know she’s awake and frightened.

They always are.

But I will placate her.

Get her to trust me.

For now, though, I need to let her be alone.

In the dark.

To learn to fear the isolation.

When she realizes I am her only human connection, she will have no choice but to depend upon me. It will take only a few days and in those days she will heal.

Resisting the urge to open the door to her room, I pick up the heavy book of astronomy I’ve inadvertently dropped to the floor and return it to my worktable. After squaring it precisely with the other books stacked in one corner of the planks, I stand and stretch, my eye catching sight of the bar in the doorway to my sleeping area. The smooth steel rod is mounted near the top of the frame. Soundlessly I walk to it, reach up, grab the cool, smooth steel and take a deep breath. Then I flex every muscle, drawing my face up to the bar and lifting my legs at a right angle to my body. I hold the pose for several long, slow minutes, waiting until my muscles start to scream, and then even longer, as I tremble and sweat with the effort of maintaining the perfect pose.

Only when I am certain I can’t hang on for a second longer, I count resolutely to sixty and release, dropping to the floor. I wipe my sweaty palms and jump up again, this time doing a hundred chin-ups in quick succession before I again lift my legs in front of me, again hold the position, legs outstretched, toes pointing, my strident muscles visible through taut skin, my body shaking from the effort.

This is part of my regimen.

Discipline.

Mental and physical discipline.

Directly in front of me, in a mirror on the far wall of the bed chamber, I see my reflection and check to make certain the pose is perfect.

It is.

Of course.

I hear her moaning again, more softly, and I smile, for soon I will open the door, “rescue” her all over again, hold her, reassure her, convince her that I will do everything possible to make her safe and bring her back to health. She will ask about her friends, her family, EMTs and hospitals and getting back to civilization, and I will explain about the lack of communication, but will tell her that as soon as the storm blows over, I will get help.

All I have to do is keep her alive for a few days.

And then, once the storm passes and she is able to hobble, the next phase will begin.

She will learn about discipline then.

About pain.

About mind over matter.

I release my pose and land deftly on the floor, barely making a sound. The moaning has stopped again.

Good girl. That’s it. Be brave.

I nearly open the door to her room, but resist again, and walk to the window, where ice has crusted and white snow blows in great flurries. The panes clatter a bit over the rush of the wind, but the fire inside snaps and dances.

Though I am naked, not a stitch of clothing on my body, I am warm, sweating and satisfied.

Everything is going as planned.

“So what do we know about Jillian Rivers?” Pescoli asked the next day as she and Alvarez stopped for coffee at the Java Bean, Grizzly Falls’s answer to Starbucks. While she poured herself a cup of coffee from the self-help pot, then paid for a double-cheese bagel, Alvarez ordered a soy chai latte, a frothy confection sprinkled with cinnamon and served in a mug that could double as a cereal bowl.

They sat at a small table near the window and stared out at the continuing storm. The coffee shop was nearly empty, one barista serving up the hot drinks to the few customers who had braved the bad weather.

“She’s single, but been married twice. The first husband died in a hiking accident in Suriname about ten years ago. Body never found, but yes, the insurance did pay, and she remarried a defense lawyer from Missoula, Mason Rivers, but that didn’t last long. She lives in Seattle, where she makes brochures and pamphlets, kind of a one-woman show. She takes the pictures, does the artwork and layout and writes the copy. No kids. One sister, Dusti Bellamy, who lives with her husband and two kids in one of your favorite towns.”

“Which one is that?”

“San Diego.”

“Oh.” Pescoli grinned. “And I was betting on Phoenix.”

“Jillian Rivers’s mother, Linnette White, is alive and well, though her father is dead. Linnette also lives in Seattle, but not with her daughter. Jillian lived alone. The Seattle PD have sealed her home and checked the scene, but so far there’s no indication of where she was going. I haven’t called the mother or sister yet. That’s on the agenda for this morning.”

“You’ve been busy,” Pescoli observed as she slathered peanut butter and cream cheese on her bagel with one of those cheap little plastic knives.

Alvarez looked up sharply. “I don’t have kids.”

“Yeah. I know.” Pescoli nodded, scraping the excess cream cheese off the knife and onto her plate. “Sometimes, believe me, that’s a blessing.” She bit into the bagel, the flavors blending on her tongue.

Alvarez’s eyes darkened just a bit, but the shadow, if it existed at all, disappeared in a second. “You wouldn’t trade them for the world.”

“Doesn’t mean they can’t be pains in the butt.”

“Too much like their mother.”

Pescoli grinned and took a long swallow of the hot coffee. “Don’t tell them that. I like to tell them all their bad traits are genetic and not from my side of the family.”

“They seem too smart to buy it.”

Pescoli snorted. “Probably.” She polished off her bagel while Alvarez sipped from the massive cup. They’d been partners for three years, ever since Alvarez had moved to Grizzly Falls from San Bernardino, and though they were about as alike as oil and water, they got along. Respected each other. In Pescoli’s opinion Alvarez was wound too tightly and needed to get out more. Sure, she took all kinds of martial arts classes and had trophies for her abilities, from sharpshooting to archery. She’d also mentioned something about running a marathon, the Bay to Breakers in San Francisco or some other damned long race, maybe a butt-load of races, but Alvarez didn’t have a social life. Spent her time with her nose in books, her fingers clicking a mouse as she searched for information on the Internet, and honing her mind and body to precision with classes at the university and athletic club.

In Pescoli’s opinion, Alvarez needed to knock back a few double margaritas and get herself laid. Those two simple acts would do wonders for her partner’s temperament.

Pescoli was certain of it.

Chapter Eight

The FBI agents weren’t anything like they were portrayed in the movies, Alvarez thought, crossing one ankle over the other. She, along with other members of the task force working the serial murder case, sat at the big table in the task force room. Cups of cooling coffee, pens, notepads, gum wrappers and a crushed empty pack of cigarettes littered the long, fake-woodgrain surface of the table, while pictures of the crime scenes and notes about the victims hung on one of the walls, an enlarged map of the area on an adjacent wall.

At least, Craig Halden wasn’t typical. Shipped out from the field office in Salt Lake City, Halden seemed like a personable enough guy. His brown hair was trimmed neatly, yes, but was far from a military cut. He had an easy, country boy charm about him, probably from growing up in rural Georgia. He called himself a “cracker” and he was jovial enough, though beneath the affable, easygoing-guy exterior Alvarez sensed that he was a sharp, dedicated federal agent.