If only they could see his files, the meticulous histories of those he'd chosen and honored to be a part of his art, then they would see his intelligence. They could then witness how dedicated he was, how thorough. He knew each woman's life story, her wants, her needs, those whom she trusted, those whom she considered enemies. He understood the fine details of their lives, including their shoe size and choice of perfume. All that information was carefully locked away on a separate hard drive no one could ever access.
His abductions were not random acts.
He'd waited years for the right moment to start this phase of his project, to start the sculpting and displaying his work. His inspirations, the women involved, were all perfect and, as a virile man, he wanted each one of them, had imagined what he would do to them in his bed.
He'd had to restrain himself from fucking the hell out of them, and, to his credit, he had not so much as mounted one, never driven his hard dick deep into their tight little ...
Not now! Don't go there ...
He sucked deep breaths into his lungs, then let the air out slowly, forcing his mind to go blank, concentrating on bringing his pulse rate down.
He could control himself.
He could!
Calmer, he pointed his remote at the television as if it were a gun, then hit the button so that the screen would go blank. There was work to do. It was definitely time to shake things up a bit.
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“I've got to run,” Pescoli said, pausing to stick her head into Alvarez's office as she zipped her jacket. “I haven't seen my kids for a couple of days, unless you can count Jeremy stumbling into his room and flopping on his bed yesterday morning as seeing him.”
“It's Saturday night. They'll be home?”
“Briefly, I think.” Pescoli shifted her bag on her shoulder and flashed a tired grin. “Just long enough to ask for money. Let's just hope they took care of the dog.”
She headed out and Alvarez glanced at the clock. Tomorrow was another day, even if it was Sunday. However, she couldn't help but feel time ticking away. Each minute that passed was another sixty seconds that the killer had to plot out his next move. In her job, Alvarez was forever racing against time.
Once more, she compared photos of the victims, before and after death, and felt a pang when she noticed the tattoo of the butterfly on Lara Sue's ankle. Absently she wondered what was the significance of the inking, if anything. Freedom? Beauty? Or just a whim for a poor kid who, as Taj had commented, “fell through the cracks” and had been on her own since she was a teenager. Lara was very different from victim number two, Lissa Parsons, who had an education, good job, a sometimes boyfriend, a father and a much younger sister in Pocatello, Idaho, who were all completely devastated.
So who was the common person they knew, the thread that so fatefully had linked them together? And Brenda Sutherland, where was she? Already in the clutches of the killer, or had she been kidnapped by someone else, or just taken off, a single mother who had just cracked under the pressure? No way. In her gut, Alvarez knew Brenda had somehow come upon the same maniac as had the other victims.
God help her.
After slipping on her shoulder holster, she threw on her jacket and gloves, then grabbed her laptop and purse and walked down the decorated hallway to the back door. A couple of the road deputies, Rule Kayan and Pete Watershed, were searching for any leftovers that Joelle might have put in the refrigerator or cupboards and bemoaning the fact that there wasn't a scrap of a cookie to be found. Rule was a tall African American who looked more like a power forward for the NBA than a cop, a guy Alvarez trusted. Watershedânot so much. He was handsome, knew it and thought crude jokes were the end-all, be-all. He was an okay cop, but Alvarez could do without him. Today, though, they were like two teenage boys, scavengers for anything edible.
“Good night,” Alvarez said.
Rule flashed her a grin. “See ya.” Watershed was still grumbling about the lack of cookies.
It seemed, Alvarez thought as she let herself out, that Pescoli was the only person in the entire department who didn't appreciate all of Joelle's efforts to bring a little Christmas spirit into the sheriff 's offices.
And, Alvarez thought, even Pescoli had to admit that she liked a good cookie.
Outside, the temperature had definitely dropped as the storm the weather people had been predicting for the better part of a week seemed to roar over this part of Montana. Snow, in the form of tiny crystals of ice, poured from the heavens only to be whipped by the wind. Not a great night for a non-date, Alvarez thought as she turned away from the wind and unlocked her car, but she and O'Keefe had to go out; they couldn't be alone in her apartment again.
She piled into her Outback and switched on the engine before backing out of her parking space and wheeling out of the parking lot, her tires crunching in the piling snow. Easing into traffic, she turned toward her town house. Traffic was a little slower than usual but hadn't slowed to a crawl, as people in this part of the country were used to snowy conditions on the roads in winter. However, the guy behind her in some jacked-up SUV had his headlights on bright and the glare was nearly blinding. Adjusting her mirror, she tried to ignore the reflection, but it still bothered her.
Down the hill and over the railroad tracks, she drove through the older part of the town that had been built upon the banks of the Grizzly River. Through the curtain of snow, she saw the light of the courthouse, and farther down the street, barely, she saw the sign for Wild Will's, where she'd first been accosted by Grace Perchant about her son, and where Sandi, the owner, had pointed her finger at Ray Sutherland. Was it possible? Had he somehow gotten rid of his ex-wife? Was the sheriff 's department so focused on the Ice Mummy Killer that they were ignoring the obvious in the Brenda Sutherland disappearance?
Nah; she didn't think so.
She turned onto her own street and was grateful the guy with the blinding headlights drove past. Thank God.
She pulled into her drive, waited for the garage door to go up, then guided the car inside just as her cell phone rang. Thinking it was O'Keefe, she picked up and answered as she was getting out of the car. “Hello?”
Nothing.
“Hello?” she said, irritated, then saw that there was no number on the cell as she hit the switch for the garage door with the palm of her hand and started inside. “Hello?” The opener responded and the garage door began to grind into place.
“Hello, bitch,” a deep voice said and she froze. The male voice was nearly an echo in the phone pressed against her ear and also through the garage.
She spun, dropping the phone and her purse as she reached for her service weapon.
“Too late,” the voice said, the door continuing rolling down, a man standing just inside. Junior Green, older and fatter than she remembered, his thinning hair disheveled, his beard shadow patchy, was standing inside the slowly descending door. Bloodless lips twisted in satisfaction, he aimed a pistol straight at Alvarez. “I told you I was coming back for you, cunt, and you fuckin' didn't believe me. Well, here I am!”
He grinned soullessly. “And I brought my fuckin' gun!”
Chapter 19
B
lam!
He fired.
Glass shattered!
Hundreds of dull-edged shards of tempered glass sprayed.
The back window of the Outback was blown apart.
Alvarez ducked behind the front of the car. She felt no searing pain. No blood dripped from her body. How in God's name had she not been hit?
He doesn't want to hit you.
He's toying with you.
The sick creep is enjoying this.
Yanking her weapon from its holster, she clicked off the safety, ready to fire. Protected by the tire, she leaned down to look under the car and gauge Green's position just as someone rolled quickly beneath the lowering garage door.
The door jerked to a stop!
O'Keefe!
Oh, God, no!
His body still spinning, O'Keefe knocked Green's legs out from under him.
“What the fuck?” the big man roared, toppling to the cement floor.
Thud!
He hit hard. Cracked his skull. He cried out. “Shit! You goddamned cocksucker!”
Blam! Blam! Blam!
Gunshots echoed through the small space! Bullets ricocheted wildly, pinging against the car, splintering the wood walls, skittering against the cement.
Oh, God, no! Dylan!
Frantic, fear galvanizing her, Alvarez crouched and swiftly rounded the front end of the car as the shots went wild, a bullet zinging over her head and splintering the exposed studs of the front wall of the garage.
Blam!
Another bullet scraped across the side of the Outback before flying off in another direction as the men wrestled, fighting for the gun.
“Stop! Police!” she yelled automatically.
“Fuck off!” Green threw back at her. “Oh, ooo www! You bastard!”
Grunting and swearing, straining, the two men struggled, wrestling across the dirty concrete between the back of the car and the nearly shut garage door.
“Give it up, Green!” she ordered again, her heart in her throat, her pulse pounding in her ears as she inched past the back panel.
Bam!
“Goddamn it!” Green swore, breathing hard.
Thud!
Their sweating bodies hit the side wall of the garage. A rake that had been propped in the corner fell down, clattering loudly.
“That's enough! Green, drop your weapon!” With her pistol in her hand, Alvarez came around the rear end of her Outback. Green, red-faced, cords standing out in his fleshy neck, was still holding fast to his gun, but O'Keefe, smaller but tougher, moved quickly, wrangling the ex-football player down to the ground.
“Get away!” he yelled at Alvarez because Green, face mashed into the floor, was still attempting to fire his weapon. “Call for backup. Oh, for Christ's sake!” His hand clamped over Green's wrist, forcing the gun onto the floor. He pressed his weight down hard as the bigger man was trying like hell to flip O'Keefe off his back. O'Keefe's nose was bleeding and he was sweating, breathing hard, as he straddled a wriggling, furious Green.
“Get the fuck off me,” Green ground out, his voice muffled against the concrete where a series of oil leaks had stained the floor.
“Give it up!” she ordered. “Junior Green, drop your weapon!”
“Get out of here, Selena! Run!” O'Keefe yelled, trying to hold Green down. With his one hand rendering the big man's hand useless, he managed to grab hold of Green's free, flailing left hand with his own. Grimacing, he forced Green's meaty fist backward, twisting with all his strength.
“Yeooow,” Green cried into the concrete.
“For God's sake, Selena,” O'Keefe spat. “Call for backup!”
Alvarez shouted, “I said, give it up, Green!” Adrenaline pulsed through her. “Drop your weapon.”
Green rolled an eye in her direction. “Shut up, bitch!”
With one quick motion, O'Keefe yanked hard on Green's left arm, forcing it farther up his back.
The big man shrieked in pain. He bucked, trying to throw O'Keefe off him. They slammed against the back of the car.
O'Keefe, straining, his own face red, the veins extended in his neck, applied pressure, twisting hard enough that Green screamed again.
Still he held on to the damned gun. Still he was a threat. Still he could, at any moment, toss O'Keefe off his back and turn his weapon on them both.
“Bastardo!”
Weapon pointed directly at the big man, Alvarez hauled back and kicked. The toe of her boot connected with a sickening sound into the side of Junior Green's head. He let out another squeal of pain, but his fingers loosened on his gun and Alvarez kicked it away from him, the weapon skittering across the concrete and under her car. She was sweating, breathing hard, pumped. Her pistol was sighted on the jerk's head. With just one pull of the trigger ...
The sound of sirens screaming in the distance snapped her out of it.
She prayed that someone had called 911 and backup was on its way to her home, that the sirens weren't for another call.
“Don't move!” she ordered Green, who lay panting on the floor of the garage. “Or I swear, I'll blow your head off.”
Green forced an eye in her direction, but the fight was out of him. Blood smeared his face; bruises were already starting to appear.
O'Keefe, breathing hard, finally released the big man.
No one doubted for a second that Alvarez would use her weapon, so Green lay on her garage floor, a thick lump of useless human flesh.
Standing, O'Keefe backed away from the prisoner and allowed Alvarez a clear shot, should she need it.
Breathing hard, a bruise developing under his eye, he lifted a sleeve to his nose to stanch the flow of blood that stained his shirt as the siren's screams echoed through the night.
With her free hand, she found her phone in her pocket, hit a speed dial button and was connected to the station where she identified herself and gave her address and the situation, just to ensure that backup was indeed headed in her direction.
“I've got cuffs in the car. Glove box,” she said to O'Keefe and he retrieved them, doing the honors of handcuffing Green as the ex-football player lay, swearing in pain but surprisingly docile, on her garage floor. Only when he was fully cuffed did some of his old acrimony return.
“I'm suing your ass,” Green said to O'Keefe. “My fuckin' arm's broke.”
“You'll live,” O'Keefe said, his eyes bright. “And that's the bad news.”
Tires crunched on the snow outside. Red and blue light flashed through the window. “Police,” she yelled toward the partially open door as she identified herself. “Situation under control! Suspect in custody!” To Green, she said, “Get up, you bastard. Get onto your feet and don't do anything stupid, or I swear, I will shoot you dead and feel real good about it!”
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Pescoli got the call about the shooting at Alvarez's address just as the timer went off on the tuna casserole she'd thrown together. The sheriff himself had decided to fill her in and she turned off the stove as well as the timer, then listened hard, giving the sheriff her full attention. It seemed that J. R., Junior Green, a pedophile and genuinely sick son of a bitch, had come back to make good on his promise. According to Grayson, he was in custody and Alvarez was fine, or as fine as one could be after being the victim of a near-death shooting. She and Dylan O'Keefe, who had been with her at the time, had been checked out by a nurse and refused to go to the hospital. Green, however, was banged up pretty bad, and Alvarez's Outback had sustained damage from stray bullets.
“I'm on my way,” she said, and Grayson didn't try to discourage her.
“Good. I'm thinkin' your partner could use a friend.”
“Sounds like she's got one.”
“I'm talkin' female friend. You know, so you can talk it to death.”
“Yeah, I do know.” And it was more than Grayson guessed, as Pescoli didn't think he, or anyone else at the station for that matter, knew that the runaway who had broken into her house could be her kid, though that was likely to come up. The sheriff understood that Alvarez would need some moral support. Though a private person, this kind of trauma needed discussion, with either a shrink or family. In Alvarez's case, Pescoli was the closest she had to either, at least within a hundred-mile or so radius.
She hung up and opened the oven door. Cisco, thinking there might be a treat for him somewhere, hurried into the kitchen and stared into the oven as well. Inside, the casserole bubbled, melting cheese beginning to brown on the top.
Shaking her head, Pescoli told the ever-hopeful mutt, “I don't think so.”
The kitchen was already warm from the heat of the stove, the smell of melting cheese filling the air. Using kitchen mittens that showed burn marks from earlier mistakes, she retrieved the glass casserole dish and set it on the stove. It, too, had a chip or two from around twenty years of abuse. Idly, she remembered that her aunt had given her the damned thing at a shower thrown for her, just before she'd married Joe, when she'd been pregnant with Jeremy.
She glanced down the hallway leading to the back stairs. Her son was holed up in his bedroom, where he'd been for the better part of the last thirty-six hours. Though he'd claimed to have taken his final later in the day yesterday, she wasn't certain she believed him.
She didn't want to think about how her life had come to this, from the promise of a new life and showers where baking pans were given to the expectant bride to a boy who couldn't quite make the necessary steps to be a man nearly twenty years later. Down the stairs she went and tapped on the door.
No response. However, she knew he was inside.
Pushing open the door, she found him seated on the side of his bed, game controller in hand, earphones over his head, gaze trained on the television screen where some kind of bloody army game was being played. Currently, mazelike rooms of some kind of concrete bunker flashed and snipers appeared around corners before Jeremy deftly vaporized each one in a blood spray that turned the set a fiery red.
“Hey,” she yelled and he, as if mesmerized, didn't so much as look up at her. “Rambo!” She touched him on the shoulder and he jumped ten feet.
“Mom!” he cried, his concentration blown. “Oh, shit! Look.” He flung an arm at the screen. “I'm dead!”
Cisco, sensing the excitement, yapped and hopped onto the unmade bed.
Scowling hard, as if he wanted to rage at his mother but thought better of it, Jeremy asked, “What?”
“I have to run out.” She was dead serious and he, calming a bit, caught on.
“Why?”
“There was a shooting over at Alvarez's place.”
“What? Is she okay?” For the first time in weeks, she saw a glimpse of the caring boy he once was, a glimmer of the man he could become.
“Oh, sorry. I said that wrong. Guns were fired, but no one was hit. Everyone, including Selena, is okay, the suspect in custody, but, still, I need to see her, talk to her.”
“Oh, uh, yeah.” He was nodding his head, the earphones sliding to one side. “I get it. Sure.”
“That means family dinner will have to be postponed.”
“That's okay.” He righted the headset.
“Tuna noodles are done. So go ahead and eat it when you want. I've even got salad in a bag in the refrigerator. It comes with its own dressing.”
“Okay.” Absently, in the illumination of the television screen and oddly shifting glow of his lava lamp, he petted the dog, who put his chin on Jeremy's jean-clad thigh.
Pescoli doubted her son would even open the bag. Greens just weren't his thing. “Don't know when I'll be home.”
“I'm going out later, anyway.”
“How much later?”
“Unknown.”
“Jer?” she chided, and thought she caught a whiff of marijuana. Quick as it came, it disappeared, as his window was cracked just an inch. For now she ignored the scent. “It's snowing.”
He actually grinned, looking so much like Joe that her heart melted. “Yeah, I know. Mom, this is Montana. In the winter. It's always snowing.”
“Guess you're right.” She left him with the dog and his game, then made her way up the stairs, where she saw the hole in the wall that had been there since Jeremy had put his fist through it a few years back. She'd left it, hoping that the gaping opening would be a reminder for him to control his temper, but he never seemed to notice it. Sooner or later, she'd have to patch it ... or find the right-sized picture to cover it.