“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.
By the time she turned onto the plowed streets, the heater had kicked on and she flipped on the blower. Wipers battling the falling snow, she drove into the hills and the rural area where her little piece of property was located. She paused for the mail at the roadside box, then shifted down and the Jeep ground up the lane, the beams of her headlights washing on the trunks of a thick stand of pine and hemlock.
Jeremy’s truck was parked in front of the house.
Well, that was a start.
She hit the button of the garage door opener and drove into the small space. Less than a minute later, the door was grinding down and she was stepping into the house, where Cisco was going out of his mind and the smell of microwave pizza permeated the kitchen. Jeremy’s tools of the trade—pizza cutter, plate, over-sized Big Gulp cup and the box the frozen pizza came in—were scattered over a counter amid tomato sauce smudges.
“Hey! Jer! Come up here!” she yelled down the stairs as Cisco demanded attention, jumping onto the couch and ottoman. He yipped until she unzipped her coat and petted his wriggling, scruffy body. “Yeah, yeah, I love you, too,” she said, her voice an octave higher than usual. “Yes, I do.” She turned off the television and plugged in the Christmas tree, noting the scraggly thing needed more water. “Jeremy!” she called again as she walked to the kitchen, tossed his mess into the sink and filled a glass measuring cup with water. It took two trips to fill the tree’s basin and she ignored the fact that there wasn’t a single package under its limbs. This was the weekend she had planned to go shopping in Missoula, but between the storms and ongoing investigations, she’d probably have to resort to Plan B, whatever the hell that was.
Since there was no sound from the basement, she headed down the stairs to Jeremy’s room. Cisco shot ahead of her, nearly tripping her. She found her son asleep on his bed, earbuds from his iPod jammed into his ears. Even so, she heard a thin stream of music. The kid seemed determined to make himself deaf by the time he was thirty. Geez, he could piss her off.
She stood in the doorway and looked at him. On his back, slightly snoring, this big lug of a kid appeared at peace, and a lump filled the back of her throat when she remembered bringing him home from the hospital and being terrified of having a son when she’d grown up in a family of four girls, her father being so terribly outnumbered he’d finally left. Well, that probably hadn’t been the reason, but he’d taken off when Regan was eleven and had said something about not being able to live with “a house full of females.” That was when she’d understood that the reason her parents had so many children was because her dad had been dead-set on a boy. It hadn’t mattered that Regan, the baby, had excelled at sports. Her father never knew she had learned to shoot a rifle as well as a layup, or that she’d been such a tomboy she’d been called “gay” and “lesbo” from the time she knew what the terms meant.
Considering her choices in men, she thought now, maybe she should have thought about swinging the other way. But that would have been impossible. The truth of the matter was, she liked men, was turned on by them, especially the sexy bad asses. Not the criminals. No, they were just plain losers. But the players…yeah, she had a fondness for them. Or, as she sometimes admitted, an addiction.
Like Nate.
How stupid was that? Yet she couldn’t wait to hook up with him.
However, first things first. She stepped across the threshold into Jeremy’s room—a room that reeked of pizza and…something else? Oh damn, was the kid smoking weed? The smell was masked, but she was pretty certain she caught the scent of smoke and the musky sweet odor of marijuana.
“Damn it,” she muttered. The kid needed a dad. Maybe that’s why she’d tried so hard for Jeremy to accept Lucky—so he’d have a father, a male role model, something she’d missed as a kid. Too bad she’d picked such a loser.
She touched him on the toe. “Hey,” she said, then when he didn’t respond, gave his foot a shake hard enough to get his attention. He blinked his eyes open and all the peace she’d seen on his face seconds