Crack!
The sound of a rifle’s report ricocheted through the canyons. MacGregor slowed his snowmobile and let the engine idle as he listened.
Had the sound come from the direction of his cabin?
Jillian?
Had she shot the rifle he’d left her?
Or was it someone else?
Hunters?
He felt dread as he hit the gas and headed out toward his home in the mountains. He could be mistaken. The cabin was miles away and it would take him nearly half an hour to reach it.
Don’t let your imagination run wild, he told himself, but couldn’t shake the sensation that something was wrong. The roads near his place were still impassable for even the toughest SUV, snow having drifted deep into crevices and ravines, but once down the mountain a mile and a half, the roads were clearer, with packed snow and sand giving tires some purchase. If he found a way to haul Jillian on a sled pulled by the snowmobile, he could get her out. Or, better yet, he could take the Arctic Cat into town and get help.
The thought wasn’t pleasant. He’d spent the past ten years of his life avoiding the police, but he might not have a choice. Time was running out; another storm was projected.
He pushed on the throttle and with a roar the Cat took off, skis sliding easily over the snow. Mentally beating himself up, he second-guessed himself about leaving her.
What had been the choice?
He’d wondered what to do with her, hadn’t liked the fact that he was getting used to having her around, that he felt an attraction to her that was just plain stupid. He’d sworn off women long ago; didn’t need one. Didn’t want one.
Then he’d found her trapped in the car, passing out, nearly frozen, and he’d had no choice but to put her in a makeshift sling on poles that he then tied to his rig to drag her to the cabin. He’d gone back for her things, tried to contact the authorities, but then, because the storm had raged so wildly, locked himself in his house with her.
That had been a mistake.
Taking care of her while she slept. Washing and dressing her wounds, warming her body and giving her dry clothes, seeing her naked, all had been his undoing. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t professionally tended women before, but this one…
He guided the snowmobile through the trees and down a hill to the frozen creek bed, now covered in two feet of powder. This was the shortest way back to the cabin, though not the safest, as the terrain was steep and rocky. A few of the boulders peeked through the wide expanse of white.
Sunlight sparkled on the snow, glinting through his tinted goggles. The whole world was shaded in tones of sepia, and so pristine, so isolated, it seemed he was on an uninhabited landscape, like something out of a science-fiction movie.
Trees rushed by as the Arctic Cat strained around a final bend, its engine growling, the drive belt pulling the snowmobile over a final ridge, skis sliding over the icy terrain. He saw the cabin far below this crest. Black smoke curled lazily from the chimney and he felt a little better.
Everything was fine.
It had to be.
He was just rattled because he’d driven to September Creek, to the spot where her mangled Subaru had ended up. The car was long gone, all evidence of it lost in two feet of new snow, but bits of yellow-and-black crime scene tape still caught on a few trees. The police had found her vehicle and were, no doubt, looking for her.
It was time to take her into town.
One way or another.
If he had to rig up the damned sling again.
People would be worried, search parties assembled, the police on alert.
Somehow he would find a way of hauling her into town.
As long as she was all right.
He hit the throttle and tore down the hill, dread chasing after him, a sixth sense telling him that things weren’t as he’d left them.
“The pilot of the chopper thinks he might have found the car,” Grayson said as he clicked off his phone.
Glad for the lead, Pescoli trudged back to her rig, leaving the crime scene investigators to go over every inch of the clearing. Pescoli knew they wouldn’t find anything, but protocol had to be followed.
The dogs had already come up with zero, the broken trail in the snow leading again to an old mining road, one that hadn’t been in use in thirty or forty years. But this guy, the killer, knew all the local roads, every nook and cranny.
A local guy.
Maybe someone she knew? Someone she saw down at Wild Wills having a drink or two, or maybe one of those rabid fathers who coached soccer? She’d met more than her share when Bianca was playing and had watched several of the dads and moms, for that matter, look as if they were going to have an aneurism after what they considered an unfair call against their kid’s team. Then there were always the elders in the local church, the scions of virtue who had a dark undercurrent of evil running beneath their benevolent exterior. Or could the killer be someone she’d booked for a misdemeanor or lesser crime? Perhaps someone with a history of violence?
Deep in thought, Regan climbed behind the wheel of her Jeep. They had already gone through the lists of local men who had been arrested for violent acts, assault, armed robbery and the like over the past five years. They’d pulled in a few men accused of wife battery as well as military marksmen and local hunting experts, but everyone they’d interviewed had come out clean.
Unless they missed something.
Alvarez closed the door to the passenger side and Pescoli wheeled her rig around, following the sheriff’s four-wheel-drive Suburban and thinking.
“Why can’t we find this guy?” Alvarez asked, staring out the windshield as Pescoli adjusted the defroster.
“We will.”
“Yeah, but when? How many other women have to freeze to death?” She was angry as she pulled out her cell phone and dialed. “Yeah, this is Alvarez. Any luck?” A pause. “I know it’s the weekend, Marcia, but we’ve got an unidentified dead woman.” Another long pause. “That’s right, A and R.” She rattled off a description of the dead woman and Pescoli’s stomach tightened. “I’ll bet you dollars to donuts someone’s missing her. Check statewide, and if that doesn’t work, northwest. What? Canada? No, not yet. I know we’re close to the border, but so far all the victims are U.S. citizens. Mmm…yeah, okay. Call me if you find out anything.” She hung up as they reached a mountain road that wound down toward the town.
“All the victims and cars were found within a ten-mile radius,” Pescoli said.
“Square that. What do you get? A hundred square miles of mountains, canyons, cliffs and rivers. Rough territory.”
“And someone who knows it well.” Pescoli reached for her cigarettes and ignored the sharp look she got from her partner. “My rig,” she said.
“My lungs.”
“You know, you should loosen up a bit.”
“I don’t work out, eat right and do yoga so that you can pollute my respiratory system.”
“Give it a rest,” Pescoli said, but didn’t light up. She could wait until they were back at the station in the parking lot. Besides, she didn’t have the habit that bad. It was just to help her think….
Her phone rang about the same time the sheriff’s lights and sirens flipped on. She answered. “Pescoli.”
“We’ve got another one.”
“What?”
Alvarez’s head spun toward her, the unspoken question in her eyes.