Silver Sparks (29 page)

“The sharp rise east of the house. There’s at least one more body in there, too.”

“
What?
You mean there was another missing girl? I thought it was just those other two, a long time ago.” Panic crept into his voice. “Besides, I only did her in my car, I never . . .” He stopped, wild eyes narrowing to slits. “I’m not talking to you anymore. I’m talking to my lawyer.”

“Fine. I’ll see you both at the police station.” Todd turned abruptly and walked out. Cal followed, his mind buzzing with confusion.

Todd stopped in the empty hallway. “I didn’t say the second body was a girl. And I didn’t say how long the body had been there.”

“I know.” Rafe had jumped to conclusions. The
wrong
conclusions.

“I saw him in that movie where he played a racecar driver,” Todd said. “The kid can’t act worth a damn.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think he knew about that mine.”

Cal nodded slowly. “I don’t either.” It was infuriating. Just when all the puzzle pieces seemed to be coming together, this scattered them all over the board. “But I’m certain he was with Emily and those other two girls before they disappeared. Maybe someone else disposed of the bodies for him.”

“Or maybe someone else killed them.”

He didn’t want to admit it, but it looked possible. Rafe was a sneaky, lying creep who used and abused women—he was sure of that much. But it was possible someone else around him was just as sick and abusive. Someone who might look down on the women who threw themselves at Rafe and went home with him for one-night stands.

The pieces were starting to move back into place. Maybe someone was charged with taking the girls home when Rafe was done with them. His personal security guards would be an obvious choice. Plus, they were all beefy enough to be pumped up on steroids, which would give them an aggressive attitude. They might easily overreact, like the one who’d gone after Maggie.

Maggie—he had to tell her about this. He pulled out his phone and called her. He hadn’t been aware of his tension until she answered and he let out a quiet sigh of relief. “Where are you?”

“Outside, near the equipment barn. I needed some air.”

“Stay there. I’ll pick up Amber and meet you.”

Maggie pocketed the phone, walking aimlessly. She wasn’t up for this, but she had to face Cal’s outrage sooner or later. They hadn’t discussed what constituted a reckless impulse, but she was pretty sure stripping on a bar in front of a whistling, stomping crowd of men would qualify. The longer she put off their breakup, the more it would hurt.

Pine needles rustled behind her. “I believe we need to talk.”

Maggie gasped and spun around. Parker Jameson stood three feet away, dressed in his usual three-piece suit even in the middle of the night. Maybe he slept in it.

She didn’t have to ask what they needed to talk about. It would be the same thing they always talked about—Rafe. His image needs and her stubborn demands. Only this time, she and Cal had the upper hand, and she was going to get her way.

She hadn’t noticed the cigarette he was holding until he raised it for a long pull, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

“Only when I’m having a bad day.” He smiled faintly. “This has been a
very
bad day.”

Not as bad as hers, but at least it was some consolation that she’d helped put the De Lucas and their lawyer in a tight spot. “You heard about the mine?”

“I did.” He gave her a considering look that was not nearly as unfriendly as she’d expected. “And what a coincidence that it should be you and your friend who discovered the bodies there.”

He seemed strangely calm in spite of his bad day, but that might be normal for a soulless minion of Satan. “There’s nothing coincidental about it. Cal knew Rafe is a murderer, he just had to prove it.”

“Yes, Mr. Drummond has been persistent in going after my client.”

His placid expression was starting to bug her. Why wasn’t he more worried? “Because he’s guilty.”

Jameson gave her a condescending smile. “Because Mr. Drummond wanted to make him
appear
guilty. Of course, that’s to be expected from serial killers, trying to make the evidence point to someone else.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Are you talking about Cal? You’ve got to be kidding! If that’s your idea of a defense, I can tell you no one’s going to believe it.”

“Naturally, you’d defend him. You’ve let your emotions delude you.”

It was true a lot of emotion surrounded her feelings for Cal. Love, especially. But that wasn’t delusion, it was a deep, heartwarming truth, one that looked like it was about to become a heart-wrenching loss. “I’m not the one who’s deluded.”

Jameson shook his head sadly. “Consider it from an objective point of view. Cal Drummond is estranged from his mother, openly criticizing her lifestyle. When his sister seems to be emulating that lifestyle, wantonly chasing after celebrities, Cal confronts her. In a rage, he kills her.”

“What!”

“Perhaps he didn’t mean to, but I suspect he did. Because she wasn’t the first.”

She snorted a laugh. “What’s in that cigarette?”

“He killed at least twice before,” Jameson mused, ignoring her question. “Right here in Barringer’s Pass. He chose women known to be easy, women who were looking for a man who would show them a good time, maybe solve all their problems. Rather like his mother’s relationship with men, wouldn’t you say? That seems to be the thing that sets him off. Do you see the pattern?”

The way he twisted things around made her dizzy. “Cal never met those girls. But Rafe did—he’s the one with a pattern of dead girlfriends.”

“Ah, yes. Rafe. For some reason Mr. Drummond decided to make my client look guilty. Perhaps he was envious of Rafe’s well-known success with women? Whatever the case, he invented this idea that Rafe was involved in their disappearance, and planted it with the family and friends of the two women he had killed, all the while pretending to conduct a murder investigation—which he is unauthorized to do, by the way. Of course, it would be difficult to convince those families that they had been manipulated by the De Lucas, when the De Lucas were the ones who set up a reward for finding their daughters’ killer. They also established charitable funds in the girls’ names as a memorial to them. The families were quite touched.”

She stared, speechless. The De Lucas had been more thorough than they’d guessed. No wonder Cal got no help from the families of the missing girls.

“Convincing argument, isn’t it?” He took a satisfied pull on his cigarette.

“No.”

“More so than your case against Rafe. But then, you haven’t heard the most convincing part.” He paused, making sure he had her attention. “While my client was sitting in the Alpine Sky’s security office tonight, nursing his wounds and talking with the police, Mr. Drummond flew into a rage over the lewd behavior exhibited just an hour earlier by his own girlfriend, who apparently chose to dance on top of a bar, nearly nude, in front of a gawking crowd. Rather alarming to any man, especially one as judgmental as Cal Drummond. And as vengeful.”

She didn’t know whether to be outraged or to laugh in his face. “Are you implying Cal’s going to kill me?”

“Sadly, yes.”

“Don’t get your hopes up. Cal’s not a killer. Rafe is the one who snaps and loses control. I know you’re paid to keep his image clean, but you can’t change who he is. And Cal isn’t the least bit like that, no matter what you think.”

“Of course he isn’t.” He gave her a tolerant smile. “You misunderstand. It’s the scenario we’ll use in court. Psychiatrists will confirm that Mr. Drummond’s unfortunate childhood permanently damaged his opinion of women. I believe his history of reporting his mother to social services, in addition to his mother’s own actions, will go far to support our claim.”

It wouldn’t work. It couldn’t. Could it? “You’d go that far to protect a killer?”

“As you said, it’s my job. But to be fair, Rafe didn’t kill those girls. He simply choked them into unconsciousness. He has a bit of a temper, but you can’t blame him, really.”

Oh, she really could, but she didn’t think Parker Jameson was open to arguments.

“A woman who would allow herself to be used like that has to know that different men have different preferences. To offer sex, then pretend she only meant a certain kind of sex . . . well, you can’t blame a man for taking what he wants in those circumstances, even if he has to do it forcibly. Unfortunately, the De Lucas can’t have stories like that getting around. My job is to keep Rafe’s image clean; the girls had to be silenced.”

She tried to swallow, but her mouth felt like it was full of sand. “Who . . . ?” There was no good answer, but one was better than the other. “You mean you had Rafe’s bodyguards . . . ?”

“No.” He flicked the cigarette butt to the ground.

That’s what she was afraid of. “It was you.”

Jameson smiled. “I knew you were smart.”

Chapter
Seventeen

H
e was lightning fast. He grabbed her arm and spun her around, then kicked her behind the knee. Her leg buckled and she dropped to her knees before she knew what had happened. He knelt behind her, straddling her lower legs as he slipped one arm around her neck and pulled her against him. From the corner of her eye she saw his other hand move and heard a soft click. A blade flashed.

“Remember this?” His voice feathered the hair next to her ear, soft and seductive, and she flashed back to the attack on her front porch. Him! Only this time with a real knife instead of a gloved finger. “I’m beginning to like having you in this position,” he murmured. “Too bad it has to end.”

He bent her back, exposing her neck. Her mind raced as fast as her heart.
Do something!
She tried to grab him, grab anything, but her scrabbling fingers couldn’t reach the dirt. Her left hand flailed uselessly at air, while her right hand hit the long bough of a pine tree. It was all she had. Grasping the thin limb, she directed it toward his face and stabbed.

It was a sloppy aim—needles poked through her hair and pricked her cheek. But enough of the long, sharp needles must have found his face, because he screamed and reflexively reached for his eyes. The knife slid harmlessly to the ground.

Maggie scrambled to her feet.

“Bitch!” Jameson staggered to his feet, too.

She ran.

“You can let go, I’m not a child.” Amber trotted to keep up with Cal’s long strides, her hand firmly caught in his.

“All the more reason to hold on to you,” he grumbled. If Cal had ever thought of her as a child, he didn’t after that dirty-dancing demonstration. She’d terrified him. How had their mother ever thought she could turn Amber loose without supervision? That was no way to raise a kid.

“Explain it again,” she demanded. “Are you
sure
Rafe didn’t kill Julie?”

“No, I’m not sure, but it’s a strong possibility.”

She humphed her dissatisfaction as she kept up her walking-jogging pace. “Then who did?”

It was the same question that churned in his gut. “I don’t know.”

He slowed as they reached the shelter of the trees. He didn’t see Maggie, so he raised his voice and called her name. No one answered.

“Where is she?” Amber asked.

“She said she was here, just a few minutes ago. She couldn’t have gone far.” It was also possible she couldn’t hear him over the deep rumble of the diesel engine he heard beyond the trees. He pushed through the breakwall of pines until he saw the source, a large snowcat idling in front of the open doors of the equipment barn. He could see better on this side of the tree line, too, thanks to the luminous glow of the barn lights and the snowcat’s running lights. It was enough to see that Maggie wasn’t standing along the line of trees. And barely enough to see the faint white spot on the ground near his feet.

He bent to pick it up. A cigarette butt. A warm one. “Damn, I need a flashlight.”

“Hang on.” He watched as Amber dug through her purse and came up with a set of keys with various charms and doodads hanging from it. One was a miniature flashlight. She flicked it on. “It’s not much.”

“It’s enough. Thanks.” He gave her an appreciative smile before squatting to shine the light on the ground.

“What are you looking for?”

“This.” As she squatted beside him he used his other hand to indicate the faint footprints of a smooth-soled shoe.

“Those are big feet,” Amber said doubtfully.

“Maggie was wearing hiking boots. But you’re right, those aren’t hers.” He shone the light a short distance away. “These are.”

The deep indentation from the tread on the hard rubber soles showed up clearly. They both examined the ground as he looked for more of the squiggly treads. A clod of dirt and pine needles showed where she had pivoted sharply. The print next to it was deeper, from a foot stamping down forcefully. He shone the little light back and forth impatiently, looking for another print. He couldn’t find one, and the cheap little light was already fading.

“Here,” Amber said.

He directed the weak beam at the spot she indicated. It was too far away for a regular footstep. He’d either missed one, or . . . He found the next step even farther away, and the next. “She started running.”

“So did the other person.” Amber pointed out the impression almost on top of Maggie’s print. She looked at him, worry showing in her shadowed eyes. “Something made them run away.”

“Or she ran, and he chased her.” Fear already quivered in his voice, and he saw it reflected in Amber’s eyes as he stood, looking in the direction Maggie had run. The equipment barn.

“Stay here!” he ordered, and took off. He doubted she’d obey—when did she ever?—but he didn’t have time to argue about it. Not while Maggie was in danger.

Maggie hesitated a fraction of a second, caught by the first spark of passion she’d ever seen in Parker Jameson’s eyes. The change was dramatic. His serene stare dissolved, replaced by the flare of something that looked unnervingly like lust. It compounded the effect of the knife.

He’d hesitated, too, almost as if he wanted her to run, and she understood that catching her would be part of his satisfaction. Killing her would be the rest.

She ran. Instinct drove her toward what seemed the most likely source of help, the large metal pole barn. The snowcat was still idling out front; there had to be a driver nearby.

The ground around the barn had been torn up by the caterpillar treads of the snowcats, and she slipped once, catching herself with one hand before stumbling on, her desperate mind consumed with the thought that she would not be one of those women, the ones who would have made it to safety if not for the fact that they tripped and fell, screaming their last scream as the scene faded to black. She would not be a helpless victim.

The snowcat’s caterpillar treads were huge with wide, staggered blades. When she got close she realized they were only waist high, low compared to the height of the trucklike cab perched on top of them, towering over her head. The ’cats normally trundled the slopes with plows in front and drags behind, their humped shapes making them look like semis that had lost their trailers, then mated with a tank. Humongous semis, with five passenger cabs and tinted windows, fitted with winches and hydraulic arms and bristling with spotlights and rearview mirrors.

She couldn’t see a thing through the tinted windows, and would have had to climb up on the treads to reach the cab. She didn’t have time. Waving her arms and yelling, “Help me!” she rounded the front of the snowcat so the driver could see her. Surely anyone inside would open the door to see what was wrong.

The door didn’t open. The cab was empty. Parker Jameson was no more than ten steps behind her. Without pausing, she ran toward the gaping cavern of the barn.

The barn was huge, dark, and nearly empty with all the snowcats out grooming the slopes. Her ragged breaths echoed off the high metal roof as she squinted into the deep gray interior, then veered left across the concrete floor toward darker blobs that might offer cover. She was winded, and Jameson was gaining on her. If she could just find something to use as a weapon . . .

Jameson’s footsteps were loud behind her as she cut between a snowmobile and an all-terrain vehicle. The barn wall loomed ahead, wooden beams crossing corrugated metal. Bare beams, and bare metal; no shelves or pegboards or storage closets. Not even a spare board she could swing as a weapon. This friggin’ resort must have something smaller than an all-terrain vehicle. Where the hell were the snow shovels?

No time to search. A few yards behind her, smooth leather shoes slid on cement—Jameson had rounded the snowmobile. With a spurt of adrenaline, Maggie took off.

Two more ATVs. Then suddenly what looked like a table with something above it. She skidded to a stop. Her heart leapt with hope. Tools! A workbench backed by a pegboard wall. Directly in front of her, wrenches hung in a neat row of decreasing size.

Grabbing the largest one, she turned and threw it. A few yards away, Jameson shouted and the wrench clattered to the concrete floor. Her throw had been wide and low, but she must have nicked his leg.

It was better than nothing. Yanking frantically at the wrenches, she pulled off several more and began throwing. Wildly at first, laying down a barrage of tools, then trying for more accuracy. Jameson swore and crouched low, shielding his head as wrenches rained around him. Her aim got better, but the wrenches got smaller. And smaller. Braving the last few, he stood and charged toward her.

Panic grabbed her. Running would only delay the inevitable—in a footrace, he’d win. She needed a bigger weapon, not these wimpy tools they probably used on the snowmobiles and ATVs. They had snowcats; they
must
have bigger tools.

But she was out of time—he was on her. She reached for the longest piece of metal she saw, lifted it off its hook, and swung it toward Jameson.

She wasn’t fast enough. He was already there, slicing at her arm with his knife. She felt the sting on her forearm and faltered in mid-swing, her weapon missing him entirely. She backed away, two hands on the piece of metal, wielding it like a bat as she watched him cautiously. Jameson eyed it, and she glanced at what she held.

A lug wrench. It was about a foot and a half long, with an angled end. Solid and dangerous—no wonder a wary look had crossed his face.

He held the knife at the ready, but it was his eyes that unnerved her, making her heart pound against her ribs. Despite the deep shadows, she noted the barely veiled excitement. Cutting her had been a thrill; killing her would be exhilarating.

She pressed her lips together and tightened her grip on the wrench. Something wet ran down her arm, and she knew it was blood. The cut must be deep, but she couldn’t feel it. Her left hand felt weak, but her right one made up for it. She raised it like a batter ready for the pitch, and kept her eyes on the knife.

He feinted toward her, and she skipped backward. She wouldn’t fall for that trick. If she swung he’d rush her before she could swing again. She had to make each one count.

She didn’t have to wait long. He lunged, arm outstretched to stab. She swung the wrench. It whipped through air, barely missing him. He stabbed again, and she had to jump away as she swung, clipping the knife without knocking it loose. Before she could recover, he sliced at her hand. A line welled with dark blood.

Jameson smiled. “Shall I keep score? That’s two for me.” He moved the knife down, then up, watching with amusement as her eyes tracked it. “This is even better than when they’re helpless. It prolongs the pleasure. Your death will be memorable, Maggie Larkin.”

She didn’t answer. It was what he wanted.

“They usually plead for their lives. Plead for me, Maggie. Beg me to spare your life. If you’re convincing, I will.”

“Liar.”

He grinned in response, then jabbed toward her thigh. She swung, connecting with a dull crack. The knife fell, clattering on the cement floor.

“Fucking whore!” Jameson’s mouth pulled into a snarl as he grabbed his elbow. She swung again, and he ducked, coming up with the knife in his other hand. He jabbed, and she barely evaded the blade.

She gripped the wrench with two hands, waiting for his next move. He was still dangerous, but probably not as good with his left hand as his right. The odds had evened up.

She did her best to look calm while her heart thundered so hard she heard each beat in her ears. She tried to tune out the distracting pounding, louder even than her panting, until the sound resolved into running footsteps and a dark form charged toward them.

“Maggie!” The sound echoed in hollow vibrations from the walls and roof. Cal!

Jameson whipped around. In that moment, she swung her wrench.

The connection was fast, ricocheting off his forearm with another crack. The dangling, injured arm jerked back at an unnatural angle.

Jameson yelled, a roar of pain and fury, as he clutched the useless arm to his body. His eyes flashed, outraged, wild. He crouched, ready to tear into her despite the lug wrench, when his head jerked toward Cal’s racing footsteps.

Close. He rounded the two ATVs without slowing, charging toward them.

With a snarled curse, Jameson turned and ran into the darkness.

And vanished.

Maggie stared at the spot where he’d disappeared. Cal stopped abruptly, and she knew he was confused, too. She listened for footsteps over his rapid breaths. Nothing.

“Where’d he go?” Cal searched the darkness, braced to spring into action. She heard his worry, and knew he was afraid Jameson was hiding nearby.

She shook her head. “He ran toward that big grease spot, then disappeared.”

Cal walked cautiously toward the dark spot on the floor.

“Cal?” Amber’s voice carried across the barn, trembling with fear. “Where are you?” She didn’t seem to be entering. Seconds later, fluorescent lights flickered high above them.

Blinding light filled the front of the barn. More lights flickered to life, row by row, until the entire barn blazed with it.

Maggie blinked and squinted at Cal. He stood by the oil-blackened area where Jameson had disappeared. Except it wasn’t oil.