Left To Die (23 page)

What to do?

Take a chance?

Shoot wildly?

But then there was the risk of missing, of warning her. Even though the point was not to kill her. Not yet. Just wound her a little more. Incapacitate her.

But it was better to wait.

The bitch was going to slip up.

And shooting her hadn’t been part of the plan.

No…there was still time.

In this case, patience was truly a virtue.

Chapter Fourteen

Jillian glanced at the clock in the bookcase. Battery powered with an old-fashioned dial face, it clicked off the seconds of her life. She didn’t know what day it was, but she was pretty damned sure of the time and MacGregor had been gone over an hour.

Her old paranoia kept taunting her….

What if he doesn’t come back for you?

What if this is part of his plan?

She looked to the door, where the dog was waiting patiently. No way would he leave old Harley. No, he would be back. Unless he was hurt. Oh Lord, she didn’t want to go there. She kept searching through the cabin, searching for clues as to who he was, where they were. There were maps of the area on the walls but they didn’t mean much to her. Forestry service maps, topographical maps of a mountainous terrain.

She hitched her way over to the gun cabinet and pulled on the handle, but he’d locked the damned thing. Out of habit? To hide something from her? “No, idiot, so you couldn’t turn a gun on him when he returned.” She thought of the eerie sensation she had that someone or something was hiding in the shadows outside and her skin crawled. She knew how to use a rifle; Grandpa Jim had made certain of that when she was still in her teens. He’d taken her out and shown her the kick of a .22, the damage it could inflict to targets, helped her learn to sight the rifle as well. She wasn’t a crack shot, but she could hold her own.

She tried the door to the gun cabinet again.

It didn’t budge.

“I guess it’s back to filet knives,” she said to the dog, who actually gave his tail a couple of thumps on the floor. Which was somewhat encouraging. The beast was warming to her. She poked around in a closet, found more hunting gear, a few clothes and, on an upper shelf, under a couple of hats, a few board games that seemed to have been there since the seventies.

If things got bad enough, she and MacGregor, if he ever returned, could play Chinese checkers.

“Great.” She hadn’t found anything exactly illuminating, nothing that would give her any insight into the man who had rescued her.
Or captured you.
She pushed that stupid idea aside. He didn’t want her here; he’d made that abundantly clear.

But he could be a liar.

“Yeah, right, well, aren’t we all?”

Defending him now?

Rather than have this discussion with herself and admit she really was going crazy, she kept searching through MacGregor’s things. She glanced up to the loft. A room she couldn’t ascend to. What was up there? If she reversed as far as possible and ended up standing at the fire, her back to the grate and door leading to the room where her cot was placed, she could see the upper half of the room, but not what was in it.

Did he use it for an attic? A storage area? A den? Guest room? What? It was in shadow and, as far as she knew, he’d never climbed the ladder.
But you’re not certain, are you? You slept for days, or were nearly comatose, right? You were stuck in the smaller room, not knowing anything.

She checked the bookcase one more time and picked up what looked like an empty vase, a rough ceramic replica of a worn cowboy boot. She looked inside. It was empty aside from two photographs. So, here were some snapshots. Good.

“In for a penny, in for a pound,” she told herself when she felt renewed hesitation at prying into his personal possessions. Dusty and wedged tightly into the hollowed boot, the pictures had obviously been left untouched for months.

The first was a photo of a baby swaddled in a blue blanket. A boy. His son?

The second was of a woman in jeans, her long blond hair tied into a ponytail that had fallen over one shoulder, a toddler balanced on one outstretched hip. It was summer, leaves green, steep mountains rising in the distance behind her and the boy, a shadow cast by the photographer indicating it was late afternoon.

Hadn’t he said he wasn’t married? That he didn’t have children? Could this be a nephew? She stared at the woman and decided this was not his sister.

No way.

In her heart she knew she was staring at Zane MacGregor’s son and girlfriend or wife. She bit her lip and felt betrayed.

So he lied.

So what?

Did you really think he would pour his heart out to you?

Staring at the woman in the photograph, she felt a little sizzle of jealousy stream through her. Ridiculous! But true. There was something in the woman’s confident smile, the easy way she balanced her son, the almost cocky turn of her head. As if she and the photographer had a special connection, one that set them apart from the world.

For the love of God, Jillian, you’re making a big deal out of a couple of photographs! What do you care?

What indeed?

She reminded herself that she barely knew the man. So why did she feel a tiny sense of betrayal? Of disappointment? It wasn’t as if she cared a fig about MacGregor.

Jillian glanced at the boy one last time. His coloring was like that of the woman, but there was a resemblance to the man who had pulled her from the wreckage of her car.

Or so she thought.

She stuffed the pictures back into their hiding place and made her way into the kitchen and bathroom, searching. But she didn’t notice anything unusual. When she faced the kitchen window to the rear of the cabin, she saw only encroaching darkness and swirling snow.

Was there movement beneath the snow-laden bow of a pine tree near what appeared to be a woodshed? A dark figure pressed against the trunk of the tree?

No way. Her mind was just playing games with her.

Right?

She swallowed hard and tried to melt into the shadows. She hadn’t carried a light with her into the kitchen and she wasn’t backlit, but she still felt as if she were being watched, as if unseen eyes were following her every move.

You’re paranoid
, her mind insisted as the wind picked up again, whistling through the rafters and howling outside. She stared through the icy glass, but the movement, if she’d seen it, was gone. Probably a tree branch shuddering in the wind. Nothing more.

But she was left with a cold fear in the middle of her gut, and when she heard a thud at the front of the cabin and the dog let out a quick bark, she nearly screamed.

“Jillian?” MacGregor’s voice boomed through the cabin and she didn’t know whether to feel relief or fear.

Get a grip
, she told herself. “In here.” Using the crutch, she slipped through the doorway and found him unlacing his boots. “So, how was it out there?”

“Not good.”

Her heart sank.

“So your storm radar wasn’t up to snuff.”

He snorted, stepped out of his boots and started peeling off his clothes. “I still think the storm is going to break, but there are trees down on the road, buried deep, too heavy for me to move. I’ll have to try and tear through the trunks and branches with my chain saw. But that will take a while.” He glanced over at her and appeared to note her disappointment. “I was hoping we could get out, too, but I’ll have to take the snowmobile to the places where the road is blocked. Then I can cut the trees up and remove them piece by piece.” His gaze found hers and held. “It’ll take time and good weather.”

“So we might be up here for
months
?”

“Hopefully not
that
long. Days, certainly. A week, well, maybe. But hopefully not any longer than that.”

“I’ll go stir-crazy,” she said.

“You and me both.”

Harley was dancing at his feet, so he hung up his jacket and leaned down to scratch the dog behind his ears. “Miss me?” he asked, and though he was petting the dog he glanced up at her.

“Me?”

He lifted a shoulder.

“It’s isolated up here.”

“Didn’t answer my question.”

Leaning a shoulder against the door jamb, she said, “Probably about as much as you missed me.”

One side of his mouth twitched a bit and his eyes gleamed. “That much, huh?”

“Yeah. That much.” She inched into the room and tried not to notice the angle of his beard-shadowed jaw or how dark his pupils had become or that his hair was long enough to curl at his collar and over his ears. She pretended that the cabin didn’t seem intimate with its glowing fire and kerosene lanterns. She couldn’t even go there. Wouldn’t.

To think that her situation was the slightest bit romantic was just plain insane. She’d heard of women who took a chance on a man they barely knew, even going home and sleeping with that intriguing stranger. Jillian had never fallen into that trap, never been intrigued enough to tumble into a stranger’s arms or so fascinated by potential danger to throw caution to the wind. She knew she was brave and had more courage than some women, but she wasn’t foolhardy.

Or hadn’t been until this moment in time.

The only explanation was that being caught up here alone with a man for so many days had addled her brain, clouded her thinking. That had to be it.

She could
not
be attracted to Zane MacGregor.

Not on a dare.

“So,” she said and hated that her voice sounded husky. Clearing her throat, she moved to stand behind the couch as MacGregor put his gloves and ski cap on the mantel to warm. “How about an educated guess. When do you think we can get out of here?”

“If I could predict that, I’d sell myself to the weather service and make a fortune.”

“Terrific,” she muttered, and hiked her way to her chair, where she sat down. “Well, then, if you can’t predict the future, maybe you can tell me about your past.”

“Maybe,” he said, but she caught the hesitation in his gaze, the tiny tensing of the corners of his eyes.

“When you were outside, were you ever in the back of the house or…I don’t know…” She felt more than a little embarrassed. “I had this ‘feeling,’ I guess you’d call it, that someone was outside, watching the house.”

His expression turned hard and she felt more than a little drip of fear in her blood.

“Did the dog react?”

“No…I thought it might be you. Standing outside and staring at the house?”

“I’ll go check it out.”

“No, it was probably nothing, I don’t want you to….”

“To what, Jillian?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m just paranoid.”

“Well, we’re about to find out.”

He threw on his outerwear again and reached for his boots.

“You don’t have to go out and—”

“Of course I do,” he said, and stepped into his boots. “You were in a car that wrecked because someone shot out your tire. At least, that’s what we think.” His jaw was set. “I’m going to check out what’s going on.” He whistled to the dog. “Harley, come.” Then he thought again, reached into his pocket and tossed her a small key ring. “You know how to use a gun?”

“Yes.”

“Good. The ammo’s in the closet. Lock the door behind me.” With that he and the dog were out the door.

Jillian didn’t waste a second. She threw the deadbolt, then walked directly to the gun closet, pulled out a .22, found the right shells and loaded the chamber. Then she waited in the dark, the barrel of the gun aimed at the main entrance, every muscle stretched tight.

She listened hard, half-expecting to hear the crack of a rifle, but all she heard was the ever-present rush of the wind, the creak of old timbers and the ticking of the clock.

On her computer screen, Pescoli placed one map over the other—first the topographical, which she overlaid with the road map that had been marked with the cabins of known winter residents, then a third map of the locations where the victims and their cars had been found. She saved this new map and printed it out, hoping that it would give her new insight into the path of the killer.

Studying her new map didn’t help. She even marked the homes of Ivor Hicks, Grace Perchant and Bob Simms, the people who had located the crime scenes.

Still no epiphanies.

Time to give up for the day. Or night.

It was late, nearly nine, and she still had the Jeremy issue to deal with.

As well as the Nate issue. She thought about calling him first, but decided she’d better deal with her son before she made any plans. Grabbing her purse with one hand, she dialed with her free hand and, of course, her call was thrown directly into his voice-mail box, which just happened to be full.

So she couldn’t leave a message.

“Clever, Jeremy,” she said, knowing full well her son had somehow filled the damned thing so she couldn’t leave a message. “Real clever.” She settled back into her desk chair and muttered, “Oh, Jer, you are soooo toast.” Switching her phone to text mode, she typed him a quick message that told him in no uncertain terms to meet her at home.

Then she signed out, barely noticing the gold letters looping along one of the bare green walls. “Merry Christmas” had been swagged in the area near the door and below it, in silver letters, “Happy New Year.” The tape was coming loose and the letters were on the verge of falling, but Pescoli didn’t have time to mess with them. Besides, it looked like this was Joelle Fisher’s attempt to “brighten this old drab place up” or “bring in a little holiday cheer,” as she had said about half a million times in the last month. How she kept her job was beyond Pescoli.

Walking through the doors to the parking lot she found her Jeep with four new inches of snow on the roof and hood. And more flakes fell by the minute, adding yet another layer to the already-covered ground. Yes, she lived in western Montana, but this winter was like no other she remembered. Using her gloves, she brushed her windshield clear, then climbed inside.

It was freezing.

Even in department-issue down jacket and ski pants, she was cold to the bone. She switched on the ignition, the Jeep’s engine fired and she pushed the thermostat control to the highest setting. Wheeling out of the lot, she ignored her sudden craving for a cigarette, more because she didn’t want to try and shake out a Marlboro Light while wearing gloves. Not worth it.