Left To Die (22 page)

“Doesn’t matter, the man’s a damned mountain goat.”

Alvarez eyed the surrounding area, looking for the spot in the road where the Prius was hit.

As if reading her thoughts, Watershed pointed up to the next ridge. “We think the car was shot up there. It’s a little off the beaten track if she were returning to Spokane, but when it’s clearer weather there’s a ridge across the canyon. From there a shooter with a sniper rifle might be able to make the shot. If conditions were right.”

Alvarez squinted against the falling flakes and coming darkness, trying to understand what madness would consume a person and make him lie in wait in the bitter cold. She imagined seconds ticking off before he took aim and fired, blowing out the tires of his victim’s vehicle.

None of the victims’ phone records had helped. The friends who’d left messages on their cell phones, MySpace pages and other computer lists—none had yielded any clues. The three victims had nothing in common aside from the fact that they’d been stalked, abducted, then abandoned, naked, tied to trees, to die alone.

Deep in her jacket, Alvarez shivered, her thoughts turning to Jillian Rivers. Was she even still alive?

Jillian used the time that MacGregor was out of the cabin to snoop. She didn’t know anything about him, so this was her chance. She maneuvered around the cabin with one crutch, ignoring the pain as she carefully searched through drawers and cupboards, looking for some clue as to his identity, his life, his past. She felt a little guilty, as if she were a trespasser, but all she had to do to allay the sense of wrongdoing was remind herself that he’d brought her here. She was his guest, and prisoner.

From the books in the bookcase she gleaned that he was interested in hunting, fishing, astronomy, backpacking, survival in the wilderness, first aid and medicine. In drawers, he had maps that covered the states of Montana, Idaho, Washington and Wyoming. Topographical maps, road maps, forest service maps, even satellite maps.

But there wasn’t a framed photograph in the place; not on the mantel, walls, bookcase or tables. Not one single snapshot. It was as if he kept the images of his life hidden, even from himself.

“How odd,” she said under her breath, then wondered if she was wrong. Dead wrong. This cabin might just be his mountain retreat, his second home.

His lair
, her mind taunted, as if he were the serial killer she’d heard something about. Rationally, she’d pretty much dismissed the idea, but irrationally, on a purely gut level, she reminded herself to tread lightly, to be on the alert, to remember that she didn’t know anything about her savior except what he told her.

It could all be a pack of lies.

It took a little effort, but she managed to feed the fire, tossing a couple of chunks of fir into the grate and not hurting her ribs too much. As the flames rose, crackling hungrily, she replaced the screen. Using her crutch, she hobbled past the table to the far side of the room. She’d just reached the bookcase and was going to examine some of the titles when she felt it—that sensation that someone was watching her. She froze and turned, glancing around the empty room. No one was inside, and even the dog had curled up by the door, content to wait, eyelids closed.

No one is watching you.

She glanced up to the ceiling, searching, ridiculously, for a hidden camera.

“You’re getting paranoid,” she told herself but couldn’t keep her pulse from racing, her heart from beating a little faster. Using her crutch, she made her way to the windows. It was getting close to dark, twilight shadowing the rugged hills, and she had to squint to see into the shadows.

Snow was falling, but slowly, and she thought there might be a chance that the sky would soon clear. In her mind she prioritized the tasks of returning to civilization. First get to the hospital, then call her mother and Emily, her neighbor, about her cat. She’d have to deal with the insurance company about the car, check her phone messages to see if anyone had work for her and…and…She froze, thinking that she would still have to track down Aaron, if he were truly alive.

And if not? What if this is a wild goose chase? What if someone lured you here just to shoot at your car and cause the accident? What if Zane MacGregor is a part of the “accident”? What if everything that’s happened to you is scripted?

“Oh, shut up!” she said so loudly Harley lifted his head and let out a startled little woof. She felt like an idiot. “Sorry,” she said, but couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her, a pair of malevolent eyes glaring at her with hatred from the twilight shadows.

She edged away from the window. Whoever had shot at her car had used a high-powered rifle, and even though the overhang of the roof was low, Jillian was backlit by the soft, warm glow of the fire and lanterns. Someone who forced a car over a ledge wouldn’t think twice about shattering a window.

And then there was MacGregor.

With his rifle.

She licked her lips and eased away from the light so that she, too, was hidden in partial darkness.

Who are you, you bastard?

And what do you want with me?

Her fingers tightened over the handle of her crutch as she thought of the reason she’d shown up here.

Her first husband.

Supposedly dead.

From deep in the cabin she glared through the window, trying to locate the source of her fear.
Okay, you prick, how the hell are you connected with Aaron?

Pescoli was eyeball deep in reports. Lab reports, notes on the victims’ relatives and friends and cell phone bills. She’d read each of the women’s backgrounds until she felt that she knew them as well as their siblings did. All of the victims, it turned out, had traces of Valium in their systems, so Pescoli figured the guy who’d held them had restrained them all with drugs, probably tranquilizers and pain pills. The FBI was already all over the local distributors, hoping to find a link to where the killer could have gotten the drugs.

The trouble was, each of the victims had prescriptions. Legal prescriptions for anxiety, pain and sleep.

Her back was beginning to ache a bit; she’d never been one to sit for hours on end. She just had too much restless energy and had to keep moving. She never would have been able to handle a desk job. As it was, the time she spent at her desk, reading through files and clicking on the damned mouse of her computer, was enough to drive her crazy.

She walked down a hallway and saw, for the first time in days, a sliver of late-afternoon sunlight shining through the windows, bright rays cutting through the clouds, which were collecting again. For a few seconds, the light was nearly blinding as it bounced off the thick drifts of snow piled outside around the parking lot and the yard where the flagpole stood. Old Glory moved slightly in the breeze, the State of Montana’s flag, too, billowing a bit, gold fringe glinting in the sun.

Thank God for the tiny break in the weather, even if it was predicted to be short-lived.

Now, if there was only a break in the case.

She walked to the kitchen, poured herself a cup of “Joelle’s Special Blend,” according to the note left on the counter, and headed back to her desk.

Taking a sip as she sat in her chair, she thought the coffee tasted the same as it did every day. “Special blend, my ass,” she whispered, setting the cup down and scanning the lists of friends and relatives of the three women one last time. None matched, nor did towns where they lived, schools they attended…anything. As far as she could tell, the women didn’t know each other. But they were all targeted by one guy who had connections with each one; she was sure of it.

Her cell phone rang and she recognized her son’s number on the ID. She let it ring twice and reined in the urge to answer with “Where the hell are you?” Instead, she picked up and said neutrally, “Detective Pescoli.”

“You called me?”

“Yeah, Jer, I did. You’re supposed to be with your fa—with Lucky this weekend.”

“I didn’t want to go.”

“Why?”

“It’s boring over there.”

“And?” she prodded, twisting her desk chair around so that she couldn’t see her computer monitor or the notes spread over her desk.

“He’s not my real dad.”

“He raised you.”

“Part of the time, cuz he had to,” Jeremy shot back indignantly.

“Look, Jeremy, this is part of the deal. You know it and I know it. You spend every other weekend with Lucky.”

“It’s your deal, not mine,” he said. “I didn’t get any say in it.”

“I guess I need to remind you that you’re the kid.”

“I’m almost eighteen.”

She winced. Hadn’t she uttered the same words with the same passion to her own parents? “This might come as a big surprise to you, but just being eighteen doesn’t mean you get to do anything you want.”

“I’ll be an adult then!”

If only.

“Jer, the rules won’t change just because you’re another day older. Eighteen shmeighteen. I think it just means that legally I can kick you out of the house.”

“What?” His shock waves radiated through the airwaves. “Kick me out? Great, Mom, real supportive.”

She wasn’t going to be lured into that argument. “Well, for the moment, you’re not eighteen and you need to hustle your butt over to your stepfather’s place.”

“But I was going to stay with Ryan tonight. Play video games.”

“Take it up with Lucky.”

“Way to pass the ball, Mom.”

“I gotta go. If I don’t hear from your stepdad that you made it over there or worked things out, there will be hell to pay.”

“Aren’t you tough?”

“Yeah, Jer, I am. Love you!” She hung up then, before she could hear another word of protest. The truth of the matter was that she could collar a suspect in a restraining hold, cuff him, toss him into the back of her rig, take all kinds of verbal abuse and put it right back at the damned perp, but when it came to her kids, hell, she was a wimp. A stupid, crazy-about-them, died-in-the-wool wuss and it pissed her off. She cradled the phone in her hands for a second, thinking about calling her son back and starting over with a cooler head. Instead she gritted her teeth, reminded herself that if she were on the outside looking in, if one of her friends were dealing with their rebellious teens, she would have told her friend to hang up.

“Sorry, Jer,” she said and twirled her chair around to see the image of Wendy Ito’s corpse stare back at her. “What the hell happened to you?” she asked the eerie photo. “Who did this?”

Whoever had shot out the tire had to have been a helluva marksman, one who could hide and wait, with his sniper rifle at the ready, and be able to fire off a shot in perfect timing to hit the vehicle dead-on. She had been going over lists of ex-military sharpshooters, winners of marksmen competitions, members of the local gun clubs and hunting associations. The lists were long, but so far she hadn’t found anyone with obvious ties to any of the three victims.

“Who are you?” she muttered, feeling the urge for a cigarette. She settled on a stick of nicotine gum instead, telling herself she had to quit again, or at least cut back. She was up to half a pack a day and that could escalate in a hurry if she didn’t nip it in the bud.

Her cell phone beeped again and she caught a glimpse of the incoming number. Her heart did a stupid little flip and she remembered the last time she’d seen him, lying across the bed in the motel room. “Pescoli,” she said in a soft voice.

“Busy?” His voice was husky and rough and just the sound of it made her think of sex. Ridiculous.

“What do you think?”

“I think all work and no play makes Regan a…”

“Dull girl?”

“I was going to say bitchy.”

“Bitchy? Isn’t that sweet?” she said sarcastically. “And I love you, too.”

“I know,” he said, even though she’d been teasing.

“Get over yourself.”

“I thought we could get together.”

“With lines like that, how could a girl resist?”

“Okay, I take it back. You’re never bitchy.”

“Liar,” she said, but smiled. He had that ability. To burrow beneath her thick skin and get to her. It was damned irritating. He wasn’t right for her. She knew it and he knew it; in fact, he’d said as much. But then there was that chemistry thing that couldn’t be denied. They made each other laugh, had fun together and were good in bed. In fact, even Lucky paled as a lover, and though Pescoli hated to admit it, Lucky had been damned good.

But now he was second best. Second to Nate. The outdoorsman.

“So, let’s get together.”

“I’m pretty booked.”

“I’m just talkin’ about a drink after work.”

“Just a drink?” she asked, knowing better.

“Well…we’ll see.”

She wasn’t that easily conned, but she felt a little zing of anticipation slipping through her bloodstream. “It’s never just a drink, now is it?”

She envisioned his slow grin, a crooked slash of white teeth against his tanned skin. “No, Regan, you got me there. With you, it’s never just a drink.” His chuckle was low and knowing. “Give me a call when you get off.”

She thought about saying something dirty to his “get off” line, but bit her tongue. No reason to appear crass, even if her retort was clever. He hung up, and Pescoli tried to tell herself that she wasn’t interested, that he was just no good for her, that she wouldn’t call him or meet him in one of their favorite bars…but she knew it was a lie.

She’d meet him. She couldn’t help herself.

He was like a damned cocaine habit.

One she wasn’t going to give up any time soon.

The bitch wouldn’t stop moving.

Even after nearly an hour.

In that time the weather had changed again, moving from clear sky in patches to storm clouds gathering, looking more fierce than ever.

Jesus, it was cold.

And Jillian Rivers wouldn’t stand still.

She would come to the window, appearing as a ghostly shadow, nearly close enough to catch in the gun sight, but then, almost as if she knew there was danger, she’d slip back into the interior of the cabin, making the shot tricky.