She couldn’t remember.
Closing her eyes, she tried to recall something, anything…Was there the crack of a rifle? Loud. Echoing. Reverberating through the icy canyons?
Oh, God…Her car…spinning out of control, metal groaning, the windshield shattering…She relived those terrifying moments when her Jeep had plunged over the steep side of a ravine, turning crazily as it propelled its way into the dark canyon.
Shivering, she refused to call out. She concentrated on the memory. The twisted metal, the flying glass, the air bag, the snow falling, and blood…Her hands had been bloody, her face cut, her weapon drawn as she’d waited, crushed within the confines of the Jeep’s mangled interior.
And then…and then…and then what?
She squeezed her eyes tighter, trying to recall how she’d ended up here lying naked and broken on a cot in a shadowy room. The memory teased at her mind and then she heard it, a sound from the other side of the door.
Her heart jolted and she swallowed back a cry as she recognized the noise: a chair scraping back. Wood against stone. Then she heard the pad of heavy footsteps, like bare skin against rock.
She could barely breathe.
Someone was coming for her.
She felt a moment’s relief and then a darker emotion filled her soul. Dread oozed through her blood. A gut instinct told her that whoever was beyond the thick oak planks of the door wasn’t her savior.
Though she didn’t know why, couldn’t remember the reason for her distrust, she sensed instinctively that the person who had brought her here wasn’t someone upon whom she could rely.
He’s not your savior, but your jailor.
She swallowed back her fear and tried to think. She believed that the person who had brought her here was consumed with a horrifying and malicious intent.
She braced herself.
Waited.
But the footsteps passed by her door.
For the moment, she’d gotten a reprieve.
But she knew deep in her gut, it wouldn’t last long.
Then in a blinding second of realization, she remembered.
Everything.
Her heart froze and she stared at the door as if her gaze could burn through the thick oak panels of an ancient, scarred door to the room beyond where the goddamned Star-Crossed Killer waited.
“You get hold of her?” the sheriff asked as he passed by Alvarez’s cubicle. Dressed in a sheepskin jacket, boots, and gloves, Grayson was headed outside, his black Lab Sturgis in tow, the brim of his battered Stetson in the fingers of one hand. He paused at Alvarez’s desk.
“Not yet.”
“Aw…shit.” His jaw slid to the side and his eyes sparked in frustration. She supposed that once he would have been described as tall, dark, and handsome. And probably not that long ago. But these days, with winter raging and disabling the county and a serial killer hunting on his watch, Grayson was borderline gaunt, his face craggy, his hair shot with silver, his expression hard-set and grim.
And still, she thought, the most interesting man she’d met in a long, long while.
Grayson, like Alvarez, wasn’t satisfied that the woman being held in the Spokane jail really was the serial killer who had been terrorizing Grizzly Falls. Only when he and the rest of the officers of the sheriff’s department were convinced that the murderer was no longer on the loose, raining terror on the community in the middle of the worst damned blizzard Pinewood County had seen in half a century, would any of them rest easy. Especially with one of the lead detectives on the case gone missing. “This isn’t good,” he said in his low drawl. “Try again.”
“I will, but trust me, Pescoli’s not picking up. I told you the last call I got from her she asked me to cover for her, that she had a personal issue.”
“Family problems, you said.”
“With her ex. About the kids. She didn’t elaborate.”
His eyes darkened. “That was yesterday,” he said, echoing her own thoughts. “Find her. Send someone to check her place. There should be a deputy out in that direction. Rule, maybe. Or Watershed. Check with them.” Kayan Rule was a road deputy for the department who looked more like a power forward for the NBA than a cop. She had no bone to pick with him. Watershed, on the other hand, was a real pain in the ass. A good cop, but a jerk who liked crude jokes and considered himself some kind of lady killer.
“I’ll handle it.” She was already shutting down her computer. “I’ll run by her place. I was gonna head out anyway,” she said, wanting, no, needing to do something, anything other than sit in this office another minute while staring at photographs of Star-Crossed’s victims or trying to decipher the notes that had been found at each of the crime scenes and attempting to mentally connect them to the suspect who had been apprehended.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” Rolling her chair away from her desk, she reached for her service weapon, shoulder holster, and jacket.
“Good.” Grayson glanced at the clock. “And have someone go out and talk with Lucky Pescoli.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “People get crazy this time of year. It’s supposed to be all love and peace on earth, but there’s always a spike in suicides and murders. Domestic violence.” His gaze was steady as it held Alvarez’s. “Detective Pescoli isn’t known for her long fuse.”
Alvarez couldn’t argue with that.
Grayson squared his hat on his head. “Let me know what you find out. Has anyone checked with dispatch? Seen if an alarm has come in?”
“They haven’t heard from her either. No officer in distress came in.”
Rubbing a hand around the back of his neck, Grayson shook his head. “This isn’t like her. See what you can find out.” He glanced out the windows to the snow-covered landscape. “As soon as the weather breaks, I’m flying with Chandler and Halden to Spokane today,” he said, mentioning the two FBI agents who had been assigned to the case.
“The woman the Spokane cops arrested is not our guy,” Alvarez stated flatly.
A muscle tightened in Grayson’s jaw. “I hope to hell you’re wrong.”
She glanced to the notes strewn across her desk. “The person who’s been arrested; she doesn’t fit the pattern. I’ll bet she’s got an alibi for all the homicides.”
“The Feds are checking.”
“So am I.” Alvarez wasn’t trusting anyone else in dealing with the Star-Crossed Killer. Not even the FBI.
“In the meantime, find Pescoli.”
“I will,” she promised, sliding her arm through her shoulder holster and strapping it on. Grayson slapped the top of her cubicle wall and started toward the door, only to be roadblocked by Joelle Fisher, the receptionist and resident busybody for the department. Pushing sixty, she looked a good ten years younger than her age, and was forever dressed in spiky high heels and short, tight dresses with prim little jackets. Her platinum hair was piled as near a 1950s beehive as she dared and never was a single hair out of place.
It was an odd look, a step out of time, but somehow Joelle pulled it off.
Now, all in red, she was chattering on about a holiday party as if the horror of the last few months were the last thing on her mind.
“Cort’s wife has promised to bring in her prizewinning crown jewel cookies. They took second at the church bazaar, you know, and only because Pearl Hennessy decided to enter her gingersnaps, the ones that have a hint of orange. Well, who would beat those, I ask