Chosen to Die (21 page)

“I’m afraid it runs deeper than that,” Tinneman said, his voice tense.

“How so?”

“It’s Mr. Long’s wish that he meet his grandson before he dies. He’s obsessed with finding the boy. Especially now, with Brady’s death.”

“And this boy, his grandson, has lived with another family for his entire life.”

“I understand it may be a surprise to him, but I doubt that the parents would object to their son meeting his biological family, given the circumstances.”

Dr. Ramsby didn’t like the subtext: because the Longs were a family of wealth. “What are you asking me to do?”

“We just want help in finding the boy. Mr. Long is willing to be extremely generous with him and his family.”

Jalicia thought she understood. “You plan to make him an offer, maybe keep him from attempting to make a claim on the estate?”

“Before you make assumptions, Dr. Ramsby, consider that the costs of raising a child through college are significant, even, in some cases, impossible. And there are all kinds of other expenses in raising a child as well, so, yes, there are monetary considerations. And Mr. Long plans to be very generous. Very.” His unctuous tone sent a frisson down Jalicia’s back. “And consider this: when found, the boy will finally learn his biological family history, personal and medical. It will give him a sense of who he is in the world and help everyone concerned.”

“What about his father?”

“What?”

“Padgett’s son’s biological father.”

“He’s out of the picture.” Said quickly. Dismissively.

“Did he even know he was going to have a child?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you were a part of this adoption, or your firm was.” She flipped through document after document on the Sargent, McGill, and Tinneman letterhead. “There are laws governing father’s rights, Mr. Tinneman.”

“I know the law.”

“Who is he?”

“Padgett never named the father,” he said tautly. “She’s the only one who knows who he is.”

“And she’s not talking.” Literally. Dr. Ramsby glanced at the picture of her own daughter, grinning into the camera near the bud vase. Clarice was fourteen, about the same age as Padgett’s missing son.

“She’s never mentioned anything in any of your sessions?” There was a note of hope in the attorney’s voice.

“Now we’re talking doctor/patient privilege.”

“Finding this boy would be a big help. Hubert Long would be eternally grateful. To you. To Mountain View. If you could talk to Padgett for him…?”

“I think you need to take this matter up with”—she glanced at her notes—“someone at Cahill House. They have the records.”

“I already tried that,” he said swiftly. “They won’t release any information about the case to anyone but Padgett.”

So the oily lawyer was trying to come in through the back door.

“Doctor Ramsby—”

“I can’t discuss this any further. If you, or anyone else, wants to come and visit Padgett, talk with her yourself, then you’re welcome to do so. But I can’t help you in that matter. Thank you for informing me of my patient’s brother’s death. I’ll make certain she knows.” Dr. Ramsby hung up, shaking her head. Families. Always a trial. And Tinneman…the lawyer knew better than to try to wrangle information from her, information she couldn’t give him. Jalicia had never met Tinneman, but she didn’t like him and decided he was a true snake in the grass.

And what did all this mean for Padgett Long?

He was back.

The son of a bitch was in the next room, humming to himself, stoking the fire or cooking or doing…whatever the hell it was he did on the other side of the door. Regan watched his shadow move around the adjoining area that she’d only caught glimpses of when he opened the door and came into “her” quarters to leave her food, or water, or take the damned bucket he’d given her to relieve herself in, or to stoke the fire.

In those glimpses of his living area, she’d seen parts of a long table, and a heavy armoire and bookcases on the one wall that was in her line of vision. She wondered what kind of job, if any, he held and, of course, as she lay fighting the cold and the darkness, she always wondered who he was.

Why did she feel she knew him?

Holding the scratchy blanket tight to her chin as the fire burned ever lower, the scent of wood smoke strong, Pescoli had thought about all the criminals she’d busted over the years and she hadn’t been able to come up with a name or face that she could place on this maniac.

None of them fit.

She’d arrested a number of thugs who’d threatened her or those she loved, but their taunts had proven idle, a spitting out of rage and trampled pride as the lowlifes had been hauled away to jail to contemplate their misdeeds and fester their hate of cops, the system, and her. But once they were released, to a one, they avoided her like the plague.

This mutt was different.

His rage was darker.

And leveled not only at her, but at other women as well, and authority. She’d felt his hostility like an entity in the room with them, sensed that he was sneering at her despite his sometimes smooth and cajoling tone. As if he cared about her.

She didn’t believe the son of a bitch for a second.

And now that he was back and she couldn’t keep at her futile attempts at escape, she had to unmask him. More importantly, she had to stop him.

Before he killed her.

A tall order.

One she couldn’t fill handcuffed.

She saw shadows moving under the door and realized he’d walked toward her room only to stop on the other side of the threshold.

No doubt the depraved prick was even now peeking inside. What a perv! She forced her body to quit quivering, set her jaw, and glared up at the small peephole in the door, silently and defiantly daring him to come inside.

If she could talk to him some more, she might learn who he was, where this damned lair was located, and what his plans were. If she didn’t lose her temper and just kept him going on.

As if reading her mind, he clicked open the door and stepped into the dark room. A wedge of light illuminated her austere quarters and she caught a glimpse of her own clothing, folded neatly by the fire. Was her weapon there, too? What about her phone? All she could see were her jeans, sweater, jacket, and shoes.

“What?” he mocked.

Trying to make out the contours of his face, she squinted up at him, holding the blanket over her body. The fire had nearly died, the temperature in the room was not a lot of degrees above freezing, and the light was so weak, only brightening the area just skirting the stove, that she was thwarted. And those hideous goggles and ridiculous beard.

He kicked the door shut. It closed with a solid thud that jarred Pescoli, put her even more on edge.
Don’t let him get to you, it’s all part of his game. Play it cool.
But the door closing seemed the knell of death, reinforcing the fact that there was no escape, that she was locked in here, prey to whatever vile fantasies his sick mind concocted.

“So, Detective…” His voice was a raspy whisper that crawled across her skin. “Your escape plan isn’t working.”

Her pulse jumped.
He knows about that? Has he been secretly watching me? Filming me? Laughing at my impotent attempts to free myself?

“You may as well give up. Whatever you’ve decided to do, it won’t work.” He was stepping closer to her, standing tall, trying to intimidate her as she was forced to lie or sit, naked on the cot.

He had a ski hat on with blond hair poking from it, but she thought even his hair might be fake. He was going to a lot of trouble not to be recognized.

“Hungry?” he asked.

As if he cared. The truth was her stomach was turned inside out with fear; she wouldn’t be able to swallow a bite.

“No?”

She didn’t respond and he cocked his head, studying her like a bird eyeing an interesting insect scuttling on the ground. “You know, Red, I expected more from you.” Mock disappointment was audible in his raspy voice. “A little bit of fire. This passive-aggressive act isn’t really working.”

“I’m not acting.”

“Ah. She speaks. At last.” He seemed pleased and Pescoli mentally kicked herself for saying anything.
But you have to engage him, draw him out, make him say something that will trip him up or give you some clue as to his plans. Is there cell service up here, wherever this place is? An access road? Is it visible from the air? How far from town are you?

“You don’t know me,” she stated flatly.

“Don’t I?”

He was so smug, she felt a needle of doubt pierce her heart. Was he someone close to her? Who? “Then why don’t you let me see your face?”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“This is fun?” she asked.

“Of course it is.” Jesus, he was enjoying himself.

“Oh, sure. A riot,” she mocked and moved to a sitting position, keeping the blanket covering her, her handcuffed right wrist holding her hand down by the cot’s leg. Her left wrist, linked by the chain to her right, lay against her right thigh.

“You’re modest,” he said, obviously enjoying himself. “That surprises me. I thought you wouldn’t be so shy.”

You don’t know the half of it, jerk-off.

He scratched at the back of his neck. Maybe his fake hair was itching. If she could just pull off his hat, wig, and goggles, get a good look at his eyes, she was certain she’d be able to place him.

What good will that do if you can’t get free?

Pescoli wanted to deck the jerk-wad, to knock him flat and peel off his disguise. “Like I said, you don’t know me at all.”

“Really?” He placed a finger against his chin like a bad stage actor trying to portray being lost in thought. “I know that you’ve been married twice, to losers both of them. They both cheated on you, right? But you got Joe, your college sweetheart, back by sleeping with someone else.”

Her blood was boiling, but she bit her tongue. Let him rant. Maybe if he gave up some bit of information he considered useless, she might glean something about him, something that would ultimately give her a clue to his identity.

“That’s right…you were separated from Joe at the time, so that made it okay for you to act like the slut you really are.”

He was enjoying her humiliation. Pacing from one side of the room to the other. Walking past her cot as she held the blanket over her. Coming closer with each pass. “What? No defense, Red?” And he seemed edgy. Good. This was better. Let him get agitated. Maybe he’d slip up.

She said nothing and she noticed, through the shadows, a tightening of his lips, not quite completely hidden by his beard.

“And now you’re sleeping with another scumbag.”

She felt the muscles in her back tighten. He could damned well leave Santana out of it. It was all she could do to remain quiet. Still. When she wanted to kill him.

“And you’re supposed to be so smart, Red. Clever. Able to figure things out. Save lives.” Again the clucking sound echoed through the chamber. He even chuckled, as if at her ineptitude. “But you’re a failure. Your own life’s a mess. Here you are, the captive rather than the captor. Pinewood County’s finest. Handcuffed with your own set of cuffs. Ironic, don’t you think?”

He was pissing her off but good, which sent adrenaline pouring through her veins. “Guess we’re all a bit dull here in the Bitterroots, huh?” she drawled.

He stopped suddenly and bared his teeth, hands clenching. For a moment she thought he would lose the hold on his own control. She braced herself, but then, after a moment, he resumed pacing.

“It’s a wonder you were ever hired,” he shot back. “You’re a miserable excuse for both a woman and a detective.”

As she watched him stalk back and forth she had a vision of someone she’d seen before…someone walking down a hallway at the department, someone…she couldn’t quite grab hold of the image. But she was certain she’d seen him while she’d been working. And then there were all of his disparaging remarks about cops. What was it about him and the sheriff’s department? Something in his talk suggested that he had a personal axe to grind, that the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department was his personal source of ridicule.

Why?

Had he not been able to get help when he needed it? Had the department made a mistake and someone he cared about been hurt or killed? Had he been personally wounded so badly by the department or some other arm of the law that he was out to show up cops, specifically the cops of Pinewood County? Or was he just a criminal who hated all cops?

He sure as hell didn’t like being needled.

Carefully, she observed him pace, getting closer, silently taunting her for being chained to the cot. His confidence had returned after her jab and he was almost swaggering as he passed and she wondered…if he got close enough…could she get the jump on him? He would have to be very close because her one wrist was secured low, but she had to try. She had no doubt that the son of a bitch was going to kill her.

“But you’re not alone in your failure,” he said. “Do you know that your esteemed team of crack deputies and even…yes,” he was shaking his head now at the ineptitude of the police, “even the FBI were duped recently by a copycat?”

“A copycat?”

“Chandler and Halden, they flew up with Dan Grayson to Spokane.”

This was a lie.

“They thought they were going to break the case wide open and make a big bust, take down the Star-Crossed Killer,” he snarled. “And what did they get?” He stopped in front of her, staring at her through the amber lenses of the goggles. “Nothing! A big fat goose egg.” He snorted in disdain. “They arrested a goddamned
woman
who was pretending to be me.” He stared at her as Regan puzzled through his words. “Oh, that’s right. You didn’t know, did you? After I shot your tire out, Grayson and the dynamic duo were chasing their tails in Spokane.”

There had been a copycat killer? One good enough to fool the FBI and the sheriff’s department? It didn’t seem right and yet, her captor was so damned serious…

“I thought you’d like to know what your colleagues have been up to for the last day or so,” he said, nearing her. She felt all of her muscles coil. One or two more steps. “Chasing around in circles like the idiots they are.”

Her heart was pounding, but she tried to remain outwardly passive. If he would just step a little closer…

Her blanket slipped a fraction and she saw his attention tighten as he stopped right by her.

Close enough!

She shifted, swept her legs straight out from the cot and jammed him hard. White-hot pain ricocheted up her leg as he rocked on his feet. The blanket tangled his ankles and he lost his footing and fell.

“Ahhgg!” He hit hard, his chin slamming into the hard stones.

“Shit!”

Regan was on him in an instant, the short tether of her handcuffs keeping her close to the cot.

Before he could get to his feet, she yanked up on his hair, stretching his neck and wrapping the links of her handcuffs under his throat.

“Hey!”

She pulled harder, the chain digging into his soft flesh.

He made a strangled cry, tried to roll away. Naked, riding his back, she pulled as hard as she could, trying desperately to cut off his air.

But he was writhing. Fighting her, his surprise giving way to fury. “You bitch!” he sputtered, rearing up, nearly pulling her arm out of its socket.

Pain bristled through her torso and she cried out.

Still she hung on his back.

He tried to get to his feet, but she drew her knee up, splitting his butt cheeks, trying to hit his testicles.

She kicked.

Her knee connected.

He let out a howl that echoed through the rooms. Reverberated through her mind.

“Bitch! Goddamned—” His words were cut off, his breath whistling and wet.

Die, you son of a bitch! Die!

Gasping and frantic, he dug wildly at the chain closing off his windpipe with his fingers.

Pescoli’s arm felt as if it were being wrenched from her body.

He twisted and turned, his fingernails raking his skin as he tried to force them between the skin over his windpipe and the sharp, tiny loops of steel.

Gritting her teeth, she pulled harder, hoping to close his windpipe forever. Her shoulder screamed in pain. Was on fire. It was all she could do to hang on.
Don’t let go. If you do, it’s over! Hold on! For God’s sake, pull!