Chosen to Die (30 page)

“Merry Christmas,” Santana said, shaking off the remnants of his fight with Regan’s kid. He hitched his chin toward Ivor’s drink. “What’re ya havin’?”

“Coyote Creek Pale Ale.”

“On Christmas Eve?” Santana looked at the barkeep, a tall, lanky twenty-five-year-old who was prematurely balding. “Give him another. I’ll have the same.”

Ivor eyed Santana. “Wouldn’t mind somethin’ different…Well, you know, like you said, bein’ as it’s Christmas and all.”

“Whatever the man wants,” Santana said.

“Jack. On the rocks,” Ivor said, quickly, then looked over the tops of his glasses as if he’d suddenly got wise that Santana might not be on the up-and-up. “You want somethin’ from me?”

“Just conversation. I just saw you here and thought that after yesterday, you know, findin’ Brady Long and all, we deserved to unwind.”

“I’ll drink to that!” Ivor said, some of his misgivings allayed as the barkeep sent a small glass his way and he immediately lifted it to his lips.

A glass of the pale ale appeared before Santana. “Helluva thing yesterday,” he said, taking a sip. “About Brady Long.”

“Oh, yeah.” Ivor shuddered. Took another drink as the “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” began to fight for airspace with the laughter and conversation. The bar began to fill up as men who had worked short shifts filtered in.

Dell Blight, sawdust in his hair, his suspenders stretched tight over his huge belly, swaggered in to a stool at the far end of the bar. Two other newcomers began racking balls at the pool table.

“What were you doing over at Long’s?” Santana asked.

“Just takin’ a walk.”

“Kinda cold for that.”

“I know, I know, but it’s…” He looked from side to side, as if he were about to say something, then pushed his nose into the glass.

“It’s what?”

“I ain’t supposed to say. Billy, that’s my son, he gets himself all worked up when I bring up the aliens.” He raised his eyebrows over the tops of his thick lenses. “It embarrasses him. Got so I don’t tell him nothin’. Well, I had to fess up about the Yeti. The one with the yellow laser eyes.”

“Lasers?”

“Hell, yes!” He tossed back his drink and slid it toward the bartender, who in turn slid a glance toward Santana, who nodded. With a fresh drink, Ivor warmed up. “I thought I was a goner, fer sure, the way that beast looked at me.
Zzzzzzttt!
My ticker nearly gave out right then and there, that’s why I came into the house. For help and then…I saw you and…you know the rest.”

Santana nodded, took a drink.

“Don’t tell Billy I said anything or he’ll be mad at me. And…ya might not say anything about findin’ me here, neither. He don’t approve.”

“I won’t,” Santana assured him. He rarely saw Billy Hicks, so it didn’t matter. They’d known each other as kids, but that was a long, long time ago when all of them, Simms, Billy, and Santana himself, had been half in love with Padgett Long.

He thought about that. Brady and Padgett, the rich kids who only showed up in the summers.

“Good, good, ’cuz I don’t want Billy to get mad. He has a temper, you know. Got it from his mother.” He sighed. “Lila, rest her soul, was the most beautiful girl on God’s green earth, I swear, but she had a mean streak in her. Oooowee.” Staring across the bar, where colorful bottles were on display, glistening and shining in front of the mirror, Ivor said, “What was it she used to say whenever Bill got himself into trouble?” He rubbed his chin. “That she was a snake…” He shook his glass, the ice cubes rattling. “Or was it a rattler. Or cobra?” It was as if he were lost in time, not seeing the glass bottles or hearing Dell Blight snort in a fit of laughter.

“Oh, I got it…She would touch her belt, that was it, kind of a warning, ’cuz she would use it on the boy. And she would say, “Be careful or I’ll…no…” Then Ivor’s face lost all animation and he grimaced, his lips drawing back over his teeth. “She said, ‘Beware the scorpion’s wrath,’ as she touched that thin little strap of leather, and she had a glint in her eye when she said it, daring the boy to defy her.”

The song in the musical loop changed to “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” but Ivor didn’t notice.

“But she was a beauty, Lila was. And rich once…or was supposed to be. Always thought the old silver mine would be worth a pretty penny, but she was wrong. Then, maybe, we all were.”

“The silver mine, your house is on it.”

“Old mining shack,” Ivor agreed. “But yeah, it’s home.” He slid a glance at Santana. “Hasn’t been the same since she died. Heart attack.” He snapped his fingers again. “Just like that.”

“Sorry.”

“Ahh. Been years.” He buried his nose in his glass again, looking for any bit of liquid solace he could find.

Santana felt as if he should make some kind of connection, that somewhere in all of Ivor’s babbling there was something important, but before he could really piece it together his cell phone rang. Dropping some bills on the bar, he slapped Ivor on the back and walked outside.

Chilcoate’s number flashed on the screen.

About damned time.
“What have ya got for me?” he demanded, noticing the snow had stopped falling. Good. Clouds were breaking up to show patches of blue.

“We need to talk.”

“We’re talking.”

“Not on a phone.”

Chilcoate’s fear of being wiretapped by the feds was something MacGregor had mentioned. Santana knew he wouldn’t be able to budge him. “I can be at your place in twenty minutes,” he said, already sprinting to his truck.

“Make it ten.”

Teeth chattering, gasping for air, Regan rounded the stone and wood cabin as snow blew all around her and the wind played havoc with her hair. She spied the footprints leading from the door, her set that took off to the right, and to the left, those she’d ignored, half covered with snow, a second set of tracks. Made by two individuals. Large boot prints and next to them, much smaller tracks. Those, she realized, were created by feet bare of any covering.

Her heart sank.

Surely they belonged to Elyssa O’Leary.

True to the bastard’s word, he’d already marched her away from the cabin and into the forest to spend her last few waking minutes or hours freezing to death. In her mind’s eye, Regan pictured the other victims, all without a stitch of clothing on, their own footprints left in the snow leading to the trees where they had expired.

“You son of a bitch,” she bit out, forcing her teeth not to chatter as she staggered toward the trees, keeping the tracks in view as she started down the steep slope. The snow was a curtain falling endlessly from the sky—a curtain she was afraid her pursuer would soon part.

There were no landmarks to give her some indication of where she was.

But you were in a mine, Regan. A gold or silver mine.

The hills were riddled with mines left over from a bygone era, but most of them were small and boarded over. Forgotten.

Not this one.

It was large.

Those tunnels weren’t the work of one man. The bastard might have reinforced some; it had been obvious he’d spent hours there. But the original mine shafts were extensive.

She knew the history of the area, the names of those who had first laid claim to the land, become rich, but most of them had moved on, even Hubert Long, whose family’s wealth came from copper…

But gold and silver…

She kept her eyes on the trail of footsteps, staying close, careful not to step over a drop off as the terrain was rough, rocks and boulders hidden beneath the snow.

A cold wind scuttled through the barren trees, cutting through her, slapping her face. She was shivering so badly, she had trouble thinking, and in the near whiteout the going was slow, treacherous, the path tracks becoming more and more obscured.

She had to keep moving, ignore the numbness in her fingers, the cold that bit at the back of her neck.

Her heart drummed.

What if he was coming back?

Somehow you’ve got to nail this guy.

She started down the hill again, rounding a corner and spying a lean-to of some sort.

Her heart nearly skipped a beat.

The tracks were leading directly to the open building and a road, obscured by snow, was visible. This was it! A way to civilization!

She half ran to the shelter.

There was an empty space where, judging from the tracks and some oil that had spilled, a car or truck had been parked.

The pickup with the canopy that brought you up here.

Better yet, parked close to the side, was a snowmobile.

“Oh, Jesus, please let there be keys,” she whispered. “Please.”

But before she could look, she heard a faint noise…a rumble that broke through the stillness of the forest. She stopped dead in her tracks.

The little hairs on the back of her arms lifted as the noise, the sound of an engine coupled with the whine of a four-wheel-drive, reached her ears.

“Oh, God,” she whispered as the ghostly image of a truck appeared through the veil of snow. She had nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

The killer was back.

Pescoli blinked snowflakes from her eyes.

Billy Hicks?

The man behind the wheel of the truck was Ivor’s son, Billy?

She recognized his image as the big truck groaned up the hill, wipers tossing aside the diminishing snow, the driver staring straight at her through the glass.

Now he knows you can ID him.

Regan had been forced to drop the poker because it would impede her escape but her hand tightened over the hilt of her knife as their gazes locked. He was swearing. Angry. His eyes burning hellfire.

Well, she felt the same way!

She sprang from her useless hiding spot near the snowmobile. Before Billy’s truck’s engine died she started sprinting away from the lean-to, racing through the snow. She couldn’t let him catch her! She had to find a way to save herself! To thwart him!

Knowing she didn’t have a prayer of outrunning him, couldn’t expect to elude him, she concentrated on outsmarting him. It was her only chance.

Keep moving.

She was halfway to the tree line when she heard the Jeep’s engine die and the creak of a door opening. “You stupid bitch!” he screamed.
Thud!
The crunch of metal hinges. As if he’d pounded a fist into the side of his truck. She didn’t look over her shoulder. Just ran. Putting distance between them.

Go, go! Faster, faster!

Her mind was whirling, her body protesting, but she kept running.

Billy Hicks?

A diabolical and well-organized killer?

She couldn’t wrap her mind around it, but as she ran, hoping the snowfall dropping from the sky would become her cover, she remembered that his mother had been a descendent of a silver miner in the area, his grandfather a man who had owned the largest mine near Grizzly Falls. And Billy worked at his own carpentry shop; made his own hours by himself. There was no one keeping tabs on him and he would have the skills to make the mines safe and liveable. The large table, the hand-carved armoire, Billy had built them with his own hands.

Strong hands.

Brutal
hands.

She heard the door of the truck slam and hazarded a quick glance back.

Oh, he was coming now. Moving to a jog behind her, but he’d taken time to grab some tools. A thick coil of rope was wrapped over his shoulder, a hunting knife, much larger than the one she’d pocketed, gripped in his strong fingers.

Terror cut to her core. He intended to lash her to a tree as soon as he caught her. He was upping his game! She nearly stumbled, saw a deer flash through the icy underbrush from the corner of her eye.

Don’t do it, don’t let him freak you out. Think, Regan, you can outplay this psycho.

If only she had a phone.

Or a damned gun!

Her mother’s admonition,
If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride,
tore through her mind as she cut between the pine trees, darting behind them and over fallen logs, scrambling through the snow.
Keep running. For God’s sake, keep running!
She was breathing hard, cold air blistering her lungs. Both legs ached and her right arm was a dead weight, still useless after her battle with him while still in handcuffs.

Don’t think about the pain. Work through it! Run downhill! Eventually you’ll reach a road or farmhouse…

But how long would it take? It could be miles. The Kress mine was in a remote area near Mesa Rock on a large tract of land. Her stamina was in short supply and—

Don’t think about it! Keep the hell going!

Gripping the knife in her good hand, she angled around a tall spruce, between two bare aspens. Cutting around a rock, she twisted her ankle. Pain ricocheted along her shin. “Oh, God!” She landed wrong, her foot hitting a tree limb buried in the snow, throwing her forward. Her knees began to buckle. “Hell,” she bit out, trying to catch herself.
No! Stay on your feet!

But it was too late.

She fell, her feet giving out. Down she went, over a steep embankment, into a wide gully, tumbling faster and faster, free-falling along the steep hillside, out of control, the world spinning, snow everywhere.

Using her hands as best she could, she tried to break her fall, digging her fingers into the snow, creating drag, trying to slow her speed so she would avoid the trees and rocks that loomed near the bottom of the draw.

On her back, head first, the sky shifting overhead, her arms out, hand grabbing.

Bam!

Her left hand smashed against something sharp.

The knife flew from her grasp.

Oh, no!

Dig in!

She tried to catch herself, to grab onto a root or rock or limb—anything!—as she careened down the wash. Then she saw him staring after her, running along the top of the ridge, keeping her in his sites.

Bastard!
she thought,
Goddamned sick bastard!

She gave up trying to stop the free-fall. Whatever lay below was infinitely safer than dealing with the killer who now realized she knew his face and could ID him.

Grayson turned off the wipers and guided his Jeep into his reserved spot in the lot at the sheriff’s office. A few other vehicles were parked in the heavy snow and two news vans had taken up residence on a side street.

If he could, he wanted to avoid the reporters.

Dealing with Manny Douglas earlier this morning was all Grayson figured he could handle. For the past four hours, he’d been on the road, coordinating with the rest of the search party, looking for any sign of the missing girls, driving the most desolate canyons and ridges in this sub-freezing weather, staying within the perimeters previously established. Checking and rechecking the areas where the two missing women were last seen, as well as the routes they most likely would have taken to get to their intended destinations.

But the search had been fruitless.

And even, he suspected, pointless.

So far, none of the search party had found anything. No bodies, dead or alive, had been located tied to stark trees in the lonely hills. Nor had either of the missing girls’ vehicles been discovered in one of the myriad of canyons and ridges that rimmed the town.

But maybe a wild-goose chase, too.

Maybe someone close to the investigation was getting his rocks off by sending Manny Douglas the notes.

A stupid thought.

Desperate.

The notes were real. He could only hold out hope that the notes were premature—before the killings—or an attempt by the killer to throw them off track and embarrass the sheriff’s department.

Except Brandy Hooper and Elyssa O’Leary are missing.

It all came back to that. God help them.

“Come on, boy,” he said, shrugging off the weight of his job and whistling to Sturgis. The black Lab bounded out of the Jeep and, tail wagging, followed Grayson past a cluster of die-hard smokers battling the wind and cold on the department’s front entryway.

He tore off his gloves, hat, and jacket as the inside of the office was sweltering, the thermostat hovering near eighty. “It’s hotter’n hell in here.”

“Don’t look at me,” Joelle said, her face red, beads of sweat dotting her forehead. “I called the repairman, but Rod isn’t sure he can get anyone on Christmas Eve.” She fanned herself with her hand. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He had bigger fish to fry. The damned heat was nothing. He tossed his jacket onto a side chair as Sturgis settled onto his bed, but before he could round the desk, Grayson’s cell phone rang.

Stephanie Chandler’s number popped onto the screen. Grayson was surprised, as they’d talked earlier in the day when he’d called and explained about Manny Douglas’s visit and the notes the reporter had received from Star-Crossed.

“Grayson,” he said into his cell.

“Halden and I are on our way back to Montana, but I thought I’d give you a heads-up,” the FBI agent said, though the connection was faint, as if she were outside and the wind was blowing. “Hubert Long died this morning.”

“Natural causes?” He guessed as much, but who knew? Maybe someone couldn’t wait and hurried him along. The same person who had killed his only son.

“Yes. He went into a coma early this morning just after midnight and his organs just started shutting down. Nothing suspicious. But we’d already dispatched a field agent in the Seattle office to contact Padgett because of her brother’s homicide.”

“Alvarez already talked to her doctor about Brady,” Grayson confirmed.

“Well, if Padgett got that information, it’s all she’s going to get from us, because she checked herself out of the care facility and is catching a flight to San Francisco.”

“What?”

“I know. It’s strange. The staff was surprised, too. Our agent’s meeting with the doctor in charge of Padgett’s care. He’ll be there soon.”

“I thought she couldn’t speak, was hardly able to dress herself.”

“I don’t know. We’ll learn more when our agent gets to Mountain View. There’s bound to be a dance around the whole doctor/patient privilege thing, but we’ve got a court order.

“Okay, the plane’s here. I’ll call when we touch down.”

Hanging up, Grayson felt that same sensation he always experienced when things didn’t make sense, when coincidence became the rule. He couldn’t help but wonder about Hubert Long’s death. Had the old man died before Brady, as expected, the younger man would have inherited the lion’s share of the old man’s money. Padgett would be cared for, yes, but Brady would be in charge. But now…Padgett was probably the sole heir to the entire estate.

A lot of money.

Left to a woman with supposedly diminished capacity.

Who checked herself out of the hospital as soon as she learned of her brother’s death.

Grayson considered. Was it possible that Padgett Long, institutionalized for a decade and a half, had somehow masterminded or been involved in the death of her brother?

“Nah!” he said aloud as he made his way down the hallway to the lunchroom, searching for Alvarez. Something was off there, he thought, glancing out the window where the snow flurries were making it hell to get the choppers airborne. One minute the skies started to clear, the next the wind brought new clouds and more damned snow.

Padgett couldn’t be involved in Brady’s death. It was impossible. Right? But his thoughts wandered down that darkly cut path and, as he poured himself a cup of coffee and picked up one of Joelle’s remaining sugar cookies, he thought about motive.

If anyone had one, it was surely Padgett Long, though she couldn’t have pulled this off alone.

He remembered her accident, had recently looked it up in the files. Brady Long had been charged with reckless endangerment, but those charges, possibly because of Hubert’s influence, or because Brady was underage at the time, or because somehow the investigation had been compromised, had been dropped almost immediately.

But the fact remained that Padgett was incapable.

But not incapable of checking herself out of the mental facility and hopping a plane?

He looked down at the half-eaten cookie in his hand, the rear end of a reindeer. He hadn’t even noticed chomping off head, antlers, and forelegs. Finishing off the tasteless treat, he brushed his fingers together as he made his way to Alvarez’s cubicle again.

“Okay, Chilcoate, what have you got?” Santana demanded, stepping into Chilcoate’s isolated cabin.

Santana had driven like a maniac up the slippery, snow-laden back roads to the loner’s house. Now, damn it, he wanted answers. For the entire duration of the trip he’d thought of nothing but Pescoli and what she might be going through.

If she’s still alive.

That particular panic had been eating at him for the past two days, and now he needed action! He was through with waiting. If he had to tear these rocky, frozen hills apart piece by piece, he would. He had to do something to find her. The waiting game was over!

“Don’t ask me how I got the information,” Chilcoate warned, closing the door behind Santana, cutting off the cold. He hesitated a moment, clearly warring with himself.

“I don’t give a damn where you got it, just give it to me,” Santana snarled.

“Wait, wait. I shouldn’t do this. Goddamn that MacGregor!”

“You said you’d help. You said—”

“I got your information,” Chilcoate cut him off. “Damn it, that’s not it.” He made an impatient motion and headed toward a narrow stairway. “Come on. I’ve got everything downstairs.”

He led Nate into a dusty basement that looked like it hadn’t been used in decades, except for the nearly hidden cameras. Then he walked to the back wall and pushed a button. A panel slid open and a private arsenal of computers, printers, wifi systems, monitors, and spy-type equipment was revealed. It looked like some kind of command center for special ops. Jimi Hendrix was playing “All Along the Watchtower” from hidden speakers.