The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa Jackson
he could be screwing with us. Maybe he’s laughing his ass off as he comes up with his whacko note.”
Alvarez’s eyebrows drew together and she shook her head. “No. He’s too organized. He finds his victims, tracks them down, blows out the tires of their vehicles, goes down and retrieves them and their personal effects, all without leaving any trace evidence. Then he keeps them somewhere while they partially heal and finally takes them to a spot I’m sure he’s picked out ahead of time and ties them up and leaves them and the damned notes.”
“Why do you think the spot is chosen earlier?”
“From the few tracks we’ve found in the snow, there’s no hesitation. They go in a straight line.”
“Someone very familiar with the area. Geography. Access roads. Someone confident he’ll get in and get out without anyone seeing him.”
“Umm.” Alvarez was nodding, tracing the letters of the note with the index finger of her right hand. “Hiker? Skier? Hunting or fishing guide? Someone who works in the woods?”
“Forestry service?”
Alvarez glanced up, her dark eyes intense. Pescoli felt a chill as cold as death and her heart nearly stopped beating. She lowered her voice. “You’re thinking about someone in the department?”
“I don’t know what I’m thinking,” Alvarez said. “But whoever’s behind this, he’s smart, he’s organized, he knows the area like the back of his hand and he’s one step ahead of us. Worse yet, he’s about to strike again. If he hasn’t already.”
Pescoli felt unnerved. Whoever was behind these atrocities, whatever sick mind had become compelled to prey upon the women he hunted, surely he wasn’t someone they worked with! In a half-second, all the faces of the deputies of the department flashed in quicksilver images through her mind. “No way,” she whispered but realized her fingers were wrapped tightly over the handle of her cup, her knuckles showing white.
Alvarez muttered tersely, “I’m just saying we can’t rule anyone out. Not yet.”
Regan nodded. She was right. That was the hell of it. Once again, Alvarez was spot-on. Everyone was a suspect. Even the men within the department that both of them trusted with their lives.
“Damn. Damn,” Jillian said aloud, her teeth chattering wildly, some of her skin feeling numb. She’d fallen asleep for a few minutes, or had it been longer? It was a little darker now, the moon rising as the sun started to set. Her headlights were dim and yellow.
So this was it? She was going to freeze to death in a ten-year-old Subaru in the bottom of a frozen ravine?
What kind of ignoble end was that?
Dear God, Jillian, you’re in deep trouble this time.
And you can count only on yourself.
She tried to think, to remember the crash, or the events leading up to it, but nothing but a yawning black hole filled her mind. Shivering, teeth chattering, she tried to remember as she worked at the handle of the door. It wouldn’t budge. She reached across the seat, tried the passenger door. It, too, was locked solid, either from ice or wreckage.
She grunted in dismay.
She could push herself through the broken window. If she could stand the pain and dislodge her foot from its trap. Setting her jaw, she tried to free her ankle again. Hot, blinding pain ripped through her foot. She sucked in her breath, felt the cold, then gritted her teeth for another go at it. She couldn’t just stay here. She had to free herself. Somehow.
Come on, Jillian, do something!
The cell phone! Oh God, where was it? Her purse? Wasn’t her purse somewhere…not on the passenger seat, but there, on the floor beneath the glove box. She strained, reaching as far as she could, trying to ignore the agony tearing through her ankle and the pain in her chest. If she could just reach her damned purse…its strap only inches from her fingers. She pushed herself, lying over the console, stretching as far as she could…reaching…brushing the edge of the strap with her fingers. “Come on,” she urged, her breath fogging in the air, determination in her voice. “Come on.” She strained. Harder. Felt something in her ankle pop. “Ow! Oooh…” Clenching her teeth, she inched her middle finger around the strap and drew back, bringing the purse with her. The damned cell phone fell out! Onto the floor.
“No!”
It was within reach. She snagged the slippery phone before it slid away. Gasping, she held onto the slim device in a death grip, as if afraid it would jump from her fingers.
“Please let there be service,” she whispered, ignoring the throb in her ankle, the pain behind her eyes, the blood she felt coagulating on her cheeks and forehead. The phone was turned on, but no signal-strength bars registered and the LCD screen flashed “No Reception.”
Jillian groaned. “Great,” she muttered through chattering teeth, thinking things could hardly get worse. She tried to place a call anyway, hoping that her phone would ping off the closest cell tower and that somehow someone would find her by the GPS chip in the damned thing. If the signal could reach a tower…if there was one anywhere nearby.
Refusing to think about the possibility that in this remote location there might not be a cell tower for miles, or that no one in his right mind would be out in this blizzard, she opened her purse and in the fading light saw that her wallet, sunglasses, makeup case and checkbook were still intact. There was a receipt for gas, at a station in Wildwood, Montana. Wherever the hell was that? Using a little illumination from her cell phone, she checked the date. December seventh. Was that today?
She had no idea, but found over three hundred dollars in her wallet, much more than she usually carried, and a half-full bottle of ibuprofen. “Thank you, God,” she whispered and with trembling hands shook out two pills, thought about it and added a third, then tossed them down her throat and swallowed them dry. “Do your magic.” Recapping the plastic bottle, she prayed the medication would help with her pain, then stuffed her wallet and the bottle into the handbag.
“Okay, so now…”
Shivering, she slid a glance at the cracked rearview mirror and spied her reflection. She flinched. The image staring back at her wasn’t only distorted from the broken glass and dark with the fading light but appeared to have been through a war zone. Cuts and lacerations discolored her skin, blood had dried around her nose from a gash in her forehead and the whites of her eyes seemed slick and tinged pink. Bruises had already started to appear and her brown hair, cut chin length and layered, was matted to her head, glued with her own blood.
She turned away. “Don’t think about it,” she muttered, and tried her phone again. Nothing. She couldn’t call anyone. Teeth rattling, she yelled, “Help!” And again. “Help!” At the top of her lungs. Was it possible for anyone to be nearby? If so, wouldn’t they have heard her skid off the road, the car crash into the trees?
Where were the rescuers?
The police?
The firefighters?
Anyone?
She’d heard about cars sliding off mountain roads or small planes going down in the winter. The bodies of those inside the wreckage were often not found until the next spring, when it thawed. If ever. Shivering violently, she thought about her fate. Surely she wasn’t destined to die in this unknown ravine, trapped in her own vehicle, all alone.
“Stay calm, don’t think about it,” she told herself as she spied a paper cup on the floor, remnants of a coffee drink splashed on the rug. Upon the cup was a brown logo, a picture of a moose backdropped by mountains. Beneath the logo were the words “Chocolate Moose Café, Spruce Creek, Montana.”
She’d obviously been in that café, but try as she might, she had no memory of the place. Was it a mile down the road? Five? Twenty?
It may as well be a million.
She closed her eyes.