She clicked out of her account and headed down the short hallway to the examination rooms. Helen Ingles complained about being tired all the time. “Goddamned fatigue, it's killin' me,” she admitted, though she swore she was monitoring her glucose levels religiously and eating right and exercising. “Then again, maybe it's because my daughter and her eight-year-old moved in. She's separating from her husband and doesn't have a job.” Worry shadowed Helen's eyes.
“Let's talk about that,” Kacey said and spent the next ten minutes listening. After determining that worry was as much a part of Helen's problem as her diabetes, Kacey ordered more lab work for the following week and suggested a consultation with a family psychologist.
“A shrink?” Helen said, horrified. “I'm not crazy.”
“You've had a change of lifestyle. That's always hard. Here, take the doctor's card, and make an appointment, if you want to.” When she saw her patient's hesitation, she added, “What would it hurt?”
“My pride, I guess. I've always thought I could handle all my problems.”
“We all need someone to listen sometimes.” Kacey left her to mull it over, then plucked the new patient's chart from the basket on the door of exam room one. Elle Alexander was thirty-five, fifteen pounds overweight, and complaining of a persistent cough that was keeping her up at night. Her previous physician was located in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho.
Knocking on the door, Kacey was still skimming the chart. “Mrs. Alexander? I'm Doctor Lambert.”
The patient was seated on the examination table, her legs swinging over the edge. A little plump, with short red hair and rosy cheeks, she smiled broadly.
Kacey's heart nearly stopped because the woman resembled her enough to be noticeable.
Again?
she thought in disbelief.
“Hi,” Elle greeted her.
Kacey tried to tell herself that she was imagining things, that she'd been too caught up in Heather's conviction that Shelly Bonaventure was her twin, or Nurse Rosie Alsgaard's fears that the Jane Doe patient lying near death in the hospital was Kacey, before Trace O'Halleran had identified her as Jocelyn Wallis. She might have blown it all off as coincidence, but now, staring at Elle Alexander and seeing Randy Yates's expression as he was removing the blood pressure cuff from her arm, she wasn't so sure.
“Are you two related?” Randy asked, and Elle laughed as she eyed the doctor.
“Oh, no,” Elle dismissed. “I've just got one of those faces, you know. I remind everyone of someone.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I guess it's just my curse.” She grinned. “Besides, we really don't look that much alike. Way different body types, for one thing.”
That much was true. Kacey was three inches taller and twenty pounds lighter, but the bone structure of Elle's face, the slope of her cheeks, point of her chin, and shape of her eyes, mirrored Kacey's. Elle's hair was lighter, redder, but that could be changed, and Elle's eyes were more blue than green, but there was just something . . . and she was around the right age.
For what?
“You know, though, I think I could start a look-alike club,” she went on. “Since I've been in this town, I've met a couple of people who look a lot like me.”
“Is that right?” Kacey asked carefully, her pulse elevating.
“Oh, yeah, well, take that poor teacher who died, and then there's a woman at the gym I go to. She's one of the trainers, I think. Her name is . . . Oh, what is it? Gloria, maybe.” She puckered her face in annoyance. “Well, I just started at Fit Forever, so I'm not sure, but now there's you.” She shrugged, as if it were all a normal occurrence.
As Randy made notes to Elle's chart on his laptop, Kacey tried to ignore the alarm bells jangling in her mind, alarms that said,
Something here is just not right,
and continued the examination, listening to the woman's lungs, hearing about how her cough had persisted for the past three months despite several rounds of antibiotics, swabbing her throat twice. “You were under a doctor's care in Coeur d'Alene?”
Elle offered up the physician's name, then searched in her purse and handed Kacey a business card for a doctor and clinic in Idaho. “I saw him before we moved here,” she explained.
“Did you have any chest X-rays?”
Elle shook her head. “No.”
“Let's start there, rule out strep and pneumonia, if we can.”
“Pneumonia? Oh, I can't have . . .” She looked stricken. “I mean, I've never had pneumonia in my life! Bronchitis a time or two, but . . .”
“Let's wait to see what the X-rays show. Our lab isn't open on Saturdays, but I'll order it out and you can come by on Monday and they'll shoot the images over to me. We'll send the swabs to the lab for the strep test.” To Randy, she said, “Please set up with the X-ray technician.” She slipped the two swabs into individual plastic bags. While Elle was adjusting her gown and Randy's eyes were on the screen of his laptop, she slid one bag into the pocket of her lab coat. “And this needs to be checked for strep.” That bag she set on the counter next to his computer.
Not looking up, Randy clicked the information into his keyboard. “You got it.”
“Good.” Kacey turned back to Elle as Randy swept up the bag and headed out. “Once I look over the films, and we get results back on your tests, I'll give you a call. In the meantime, I'm prescribing a stronger antibiotic. That should start things working.” She wrote out a prescription, then asked Elle to return the next week. “You can make an appointment at the front desk.”
“I will,” Elle promised.
Feeling as if the extra swab were burning a hole in her pocket, Kacey nevertheless asked, “Did you grow up in Coeur d'Alene?”
“Boise. Why?” she asked.
“Just wondering.” Kacey lifted a shoulder, as if she were only mildly curious, when her mind was spinning.
You're hypersensitive this week. She doesn't really even look that much like you. Not like the actress and Jocelyn Wallis.
“I've lived in Idaho all my life,” Elle said. “Born and raised there. That's what made the move so difficult, I guess. But Tomâthat's my husbandâhe took a job over here and uprooted us all. The kids had just settled into the school year, and then we had to go.” A trace of sadness colored her gaze. “It's the economy, you know. It even affects lawyers.”
“I'm sure you'll make friends here fast, and the schools are great.”
“I hope so. My son, he has no trouble fitting in, but my daughter . . . It's more difficult for her. She's thirteen, just kind of trying to figure out who she is, and, well, it's tough.” She sighed.
“Grizzly Falls is a great town.”
“I hope you're right.” She didn't seem convinced.
“Just give it a little time.”
“I guess I don't have any choice.” She shrugged and started reaching for her clothes, and Kacey headed for her office. Then she waited until Elle Alexander, the last patient, had left, the exam rooms were cleaned, and both Nadine and Randy had gone home as well.
Telling herself she was making a mountain out of a molehill, she locked the door behind her. All her life she'd been fascinated with conspiracy theories, and they'd always landed her in verbal debates and lectures with her mother, in the beginning, or more recently, with her ex. JC thought she was out of her mind, but she was still half convinced that there was more than one shooter in the JFK assassination, that Princess Di was killed by her enemies or someone within the royal family, and that Kurt Cobain did not commit suicide.
Despite all her ex-husband's arguments.
Once she was certain she was alone, that everyone had left the clinic, she retrieved the bagged swab from her pocket. Though she realized that she was jumping at shadows, and despite the fact that she was going against everything she believed in, she sent the Baggie to the lab with a special request for Elle Alexander's DNA profile.
And there was that trainer at Fit Forever ... Gloria somebody, who Elle thought looked like her. Kacey decided she would make a trip over there soon and see if she was “another one” of them.
“Bizarre,” she said aloud as she turned out the lights.
CHAPTER 19
A
s smart as he was, sometimes fate or God or whoever seemed against him, he thought as he hurried down the rickety old stairs. The scent of the basement, of dust and dirt, filled his nostrils as he unlocked the door and stepped into his private office. Without thinking, he locked the door behind him and tried to calm himself.
“One.”
Breathe. “
Two.”
Take another, deeper breath.
Agitated, he slowly counted to ten, then to twenty, but his fists were still clenched, his shoulders tight, his mind a blaze of red. A deep fury that burned bright. Opening a drawer in the desk, he saw the yellowed records that he had collected, soon intended to destroy. The ancient computer from which this information was taken was long gone, the floppy disks of that era already disintegrated into nothing, their files corrupted and irretrievable.
So all that remained were these papers he'd preserved with such care. And he would burn them, one by one, as soon as each of those he called “the Unknowings” was dead.
Of course, there was always a chance that one of them could still stumble upon the truth, and that thought twisted his guts. He couldn't, wouldn't, let it happen, he thought, anger rising again.
Wanting to kick something or someone, he made his way to the specialty bar he'd installed himself, slid out of his clothes, and stepped into his pair of gravity inversion boots.
After strapping himself in, he began doing abdominal pull-ups, curling himself toward the ceiling, feeling his spine decompress, forcing his muscles to work hard.
He needed the release and gritted his teeth as sweat began to run along his skin.
He'd plotted out his revenge neatly and spent years slowly taking care of the Unknowings. The pictures he had of them, all taken moments before their deaths, were proof enough of how patient and careful he'd been, the years he'd put into this project. But every once in a while, some of his best laid plans were undone.
The most recent case in point was Elle Alexander. How could he have predicted that her shyster of a husband would pull up stakes and join a law firm here? In
Grizzly Falls
of all places? It complicated things, and now that damned Elle was going to ruin everything. She'd already visited Acacia Lambert, and that spelled trouble.
But you can fix this. You know you can. Think!
His muscles strained as he pulled up, held the position, then slowly lowered himself to hang upside down for a second or two before repeating the process.
He couldn't afford any screwups now.
There's still time. Just concentrate!
Again he pulled upward.
This time his abs screamed.
Slowly he rolled downward, and while his muscles protested, he forced himself to do another set and unhooked his boots only when his abs and back felt as if they were on fire and sweat dripped down his body to pool on the floor.
Good. It's good.
Taking a deep breath, he flipped lithely to his feet. He was agile and strong, a high-school wrestler who'd gone to state and later, in college, a member of a competitive crew team. He'd rock climbed, explored caves, scuba dived, and snow skied.
And he'd never backed down from a challenge.
Even the biggest of his life.
So he couldn't allow anything to get in his way.
Not even that niggling sensation that caught him off guard once in a while. That someone
knew.
“Stop!” he said aloud, to jar himself away from the unfounded fear that sometimes burrowed into his heart.
Already he'd had to accelerate his schedule. He'd planned on taking his time, to not arouse any suspicions, but now he felt a tightness in his chest, a sense of dire urgency. Time was running out.
At least he understood who would be next.
Finally, his thoughts were clear. He always had a plan B, which was always a little more dangerous, with more chance of being found out, but at this point, he had no choice. Elle had to be dealt with.
It would work out. Most of those far away had been dealt with, which left him a clear shot at those who were near.
He would have to tread carefully, as ever. One mistake now and he'd be exposed before his mission was finished, before he could be free. He couldn't allow himself the sense of ego to think that the cops were stupid; he'd just been lucky, as so far they had been in different jurisdictions. And the actress had brought national attention. Because of her fame, Shelly Bonaventure's untimely demise had caused a deeper scrutiny; because of her lifestyle, her death had been ruled an accident.
He'd gotten lucky; he knew it.
Now things were about to change.
Now that his work would be nearby.
The police here could possibly put two and two together.
Smiling, he thought of that answer: it was far more than four. He glanced at his stack of photos, proof that the Unknowings had died, and felt a buzz of excitement sizzle through his veins. He was about to add another.
Closer and closer to his ultimate goal.
Grabbing a clean towel from the neatly folded stack that he kept on the same shelves as his boots, he patted off the sweat that still sheened his body, then slid into a thick robe. Calmer now, in complete control again, he sat at his desk, where his computer screen was already glowing. He dragged up all the information he had on Elle, then stared at her photo. He'd have to follow her, but that wasn't a problem. She was a ditzy, scattered woman who could be dealt with fairly easily.
He'd make her a priority.
He was certain, with a little patience, the perfect opportunity would present itself.
He'd be ready.
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All of Kacey's worries about adopting a dog had melted the second Kacey had picked up Bonzi on Saturday and driven him home. Calm by nature, he'd sniffed around the perimeter of the house, decided a near-dead rosebush near the garage was his favorite spot to relieve himself, and accepted the dog bed she'd purchased as his own. He followed after her everywhere she went, toenails clicking, ears cocked, eyes bright with curiosity, but she found out on Sunday that if she walked him for half a mile twice a day, he was content to sleep away most of the rest of the hours.
“Oh, right, a fine guard dog you turned out to be,” she chastised as she made herself dinner and he yawned in response. She thought about calling Trace O'Halleran and checking on Eli and Sarge, but she realized it would sound too much like the excuse it was.
To her surprise she'd enjoyed herself on Friday night at Dino's. Since then, she'd found herself thinking, no, make that fantasizing, about him and his son. She had even picked up the phone a couple of times to call and ask about Sarge, then had thought better of it. But she hadn't put him out of her mind. At least not easily. And there were questions she had about him, and about his boy, about Eli's absent mother. Though it didn't seem as if Trace had a current girlfriend, he'd been recently involved, at some level, with Jocelyn Wallis, even ID'ing her when she lay in the hospital, clinging hopelessly to life.
How close had they been? she wondered now.
“None of your business,” she told herself, but it didn't stop her thoughts from turning to him. She hadn't dated much since her marriage had crumbled, and after JC she'd sworn off men for a while. But, she sensed, Trace O'Halleran could change all that.
In a heartbeat.
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Elle stepped on the gas. Her minivan was zooming along the dark road, but she wasn't worried, even though night had fallen hours earlier. She'd driven “hazardous” mountain roads since she was sixteen; they were no big deal. So, despite the crystals of ice that glittered on the asphalt in the beams of her headlights, and the light from a crescent moon rising high in the inky sky, she was confident.
She pushed the speed limit and stared straight ahead through the windshield at the landscape, truly a winter wonderland. The road was a black ribbon cutting through acres of snow-covered fields, then through thickets of aspen and pine, where heavy-laden branches glistened with snow.
Glancing at the dashboard clock, she realized it was nearly ten thirty, which meant she was a good two hours later than she'd expected to be. She'd spent longer than she'd planned in Spokane, at the mall, then even longer after stopping in Coeur d'Alene for a quick dinner on her way home for old time's sake. Big mistake. No doubt Tom would be starting to worry. She'd have to give him a call.
Before she could hit auto dial, a coughing attack erupted in her throat, and she gave up on the phone and quickly unwrapped a cherry-flavored lozenge, sucking on it with vigor. She was feeling a little feverish, too, but she wouldn't admit it to Tom and the kids.
Things just had to get done, and if she didn't do them, who would?
The holiday season was always super busy, and this year, with a new house and neighborhood, the pressure was on. She intended that her house on Aspen Circle would have the best Christmas display in the entire cul-de-sac.
Squinting against the sudden glare of headlights, she exhaled heavily. She'd met a few cars traveling the opposite direction, and though no one had sped fast enough to pass her, there were distant beams that occasionally reflected in the rearview mirror, from a vehicle far behind her. At least she wasn't totally alone on this lonely stretch of highway.
She needed to get back to Tom and the kids. He'd agreed to watch them while she made her hasty trip to Spokane for some major Christmas shopping. While at the mall, she'd found the cutest new addition to her grapevine reindeer herd, a new Rudolph that would knock the fading nose off her original once he was set up near the little fir tree in the front yard and plugged in.
Yep. Rudolph II was phenomenal, and he'd been on sale. Twenty percent off with the coupon she'd clipped from the local paper. She couldn't wait to display him in the frozen, snow-crusted grass, but she hoped the neighborhood would respect her display. Last year a couple of kids in the old neighborhood thought it would be funny to see Rudolph I mounting one of the female deer.
Elle hadn't found any humor in the situation. Not at all. Talk about bad taste. Then again, some of those hoodlums had been cretins. So maybe, in some ways, the move to Grizzly Falls was a godsend.
She coughed again and wished the damned antibiotics would kick in. Yeah, it had been only one day, but she'd been fighting this crud forever. And no bug was going to keep her from this weekend's price-busting sales. She'd missed Black Friday and Black Saturday, but damn, she'd scored big on Black Sunday, or whatever it was called.
Without slowing, she hooked up her iPhone to the console, then found her iTunes list and selected a special holiday mix she'd created herself. The music started to play, and within seconds she was singing along with Faith Hill as the wheels of her Dodge ate up the miles.
Her only problem, other than the nasty fluâpneumonia, really?âwas that she wasn't all that familiar with the roads around these parts. As she'd told the doctor, she'd been an Idaho girl all of her thirty-five years, well, except for that one summer when she'd driven to L.A. and thought she'd bleach her hair blond, live near the beach, Venice or Malibu or somewhere that sounded exotic, and learn how to roller-skate in a bikini.
Big mistake.
Too hot. Too crowded. Too many other beautiful blondes.
She'd returned to Boise four months later, her proverbial tail between her legs, and decided being a “hick from the sticks,” as she'd called herself, wasn't such a bad thing.
Besides, she'd met Tom Alexander, hadn't she? The love of her life. Or at least he had been when they had dated and were first married. Over a dozen years and two kids later, some of the passion had slipped out of their relationship. Lately, Tom had been distant.
Caught up in her worries about her husband, she sped past a road sign, just catching sight of it in the corner of her eye. “Crap!”
She realized she'd missed the turn and slowed at the next wide spot in the road and did a quick one-eighty. Some of the roads around here were so poorly marked and confusing! And it didn't help that it was dark, not a streetlight for miles. At the corner, she turned toward Grizzly Falls and noticed that the vehicle that had been following her at a distance was much closer now. It, too, turned toward town and followed the two-lane road that wound along the banks of the river.
Elle glanced at the dash clock again. She wouldn't get home until after eleven, and Tom would be worried sick. She probably should call.
In her rearview she noticed the car behind her was catching up to her, the harsh glare of its headlights reflecting right into her eyes. “Bastard,” she grumbled, then turned on her Bluetooth, but, of course, it was dead.