Left To Die (11 page)

“A Prius. I remember.” Pescoli’s jaw tightened as she bent down to peer into the twisted wreckage. “So we’ve got another one.”

“Looks like.”

“Hell.” She sighed as she straightened, her eyes, usually a gold color, darkening. “Driver’s door jimmied open? Tire shot? No ID, no personal effects like a wallet or purse?”

Alvarez nodded, snowflakes drifting from the steely heavens. “Same as before.”

“But no body found?”

“Not yet.”

Alvarez walked Pescoli around what was left of the silver Subaru and gave Pescoli a rundown of what they’d found. She had to shout, as the wind began to shriek down the canyon again, tearing through the trees, rattling bare branches and blowing tiny sharp flakes of snow against Alvarez’s skin.

“Just like the others,” Pescoli observed, her full lips pulled into a frustrated scowl. “What the hell is the bastard up to?”

A moot question.

Pescoli squinted upward, toward the ridge, suspecting that this car, like the others, had been forced off the road, then plunged and careened down the canyon wall to land at the bottom of the canyon floor, in this frozen creek bed.

Alvarez followed her gaze and knew what her partner was thinking. It was a wonder anyone survived the crash.

But then, they weren’t certain anyone had. Just that the driver had been removed. Damn.

“We know when this happened?” Pescoli asked.

Alvarez tugged her gloves on tighter. “It could’ve been as early as yesterday afternoon, judging by the snowfall.”

“Then the victim’s probably still alive.” Pescoli glanced around the bleak ravine with sheer walls of ice and rock. “The son of a bitch tends to them, nurses them like some damned Florence Nightingale, then ties ’em to a tree and leaves ’em to freeze to death. Sick bastard.”

Amen to that.

“Who found the car and called it in?” Pescoli asked.

Beneath the brim of his wool hat, Pete Watershed winced.

Pescoli wasn’t about to be coddled. “Tell me.”

“Grace Perchant. Walking her dog.”

“Walking her dog? When it’s ten degrees below freezing? Down here? Why the hell was she doing that?”

“Why does Grace do anything?” Watershed asked with a lift of one shoulder.

Good question.
Grace Perchant was another one of the town’s oddities. Alvarez reminded her partner, “Grace claims to see ghosts, too, and talk with the friggin’ dead, for crying out loud. And that dog of hers is half-wolf.”

“Three quarters,” Mikhail cut in, looking up with a knowing smile.

“You know this
how?”
Alvarez wasn’t certain she really wanted to hear the answer.

“I’m interested in a pup.”

“Oh, for the love of God! You know that Grace’s dog is practically a wild animal! She probably wasn’t walking it; the damned thing was walking her.”

“She’s right,” Pescoli said. “We’ve had complaints about the wolf-dog more than once.”

“It bit someone?”

“Nah. Howled. Kept the neighbors awake.” Pescoli tucked a stray strand of hair beneath her cap.

“That’s ridiculous,” Alvarez cut in. “I mean, if the dog needs to relieve himself, why not just let him go outside? Why walk during a damned blizzard?”

“It’s Grace,” Watershed said, as if that explained it all.

Frustrated, her cheeks red with the cold, Pescoli looked around the scene, her gaze inching over the snowy terrain. “Damn it, where did he take her?”

Selena Alvarez shook her head. Deep inside, she experienced a chill, a frigid drip of dread sliding through her gut. She knew the woman inside the car was already doomed and eventually they would find her, just as they’d found the others. As the wind keened and the blizzard started ripping through this ridge of mountains, she and Pescoli walked back to the spot where Slatkin was taking samples of the frozen blood. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and the son of a bitch cut himself. It could be his blood.”

“Let’s not count on luck.” Another male voice broke in and Alvarez looked over her shoulder to spy the sheriff walking toward them from the direction of the forest service road. His big boots crunched in the snow and his expression said it all: repressed anger, and maybe even a touch of defeat. The wind had been so damned fierce, she hadn’t even heard his rig arrive.

Alvarez nodded. “You’re right, we won’t.”

“A little luck wouldn’t hurt,” Pescoli observed. “Personally, I’ll take all we can get.”

A bit of a smile cracked across Grayson’s face. “Fair enough.” A tall, strapping man with a thick, graying moustache and dark, deep-set eyes, Grayson was recently elected and recently divorced—the two, it seemed, had gone hand in hand. At least it seemed that way to Alvarez. “Tell me that Ivor Hicks didn’t call this in.”

“Not this time,” Alvarez assured him.

“Nope.” Pescoli shoved her hands deep into her coat pockets. “This time our witness is Grace Perchant.”

“Oh for the love of God. Another nutcase.” Grayson scowled. “First Ivor, now Grace. The next thing you know, we’ll be getting tips from Henry Johansen.”

Though Henry, a local farmer, hadn’t claimed to have been abducted by aliens like Ivor, nor did he commune with the dead, which was Grace’s specialty, he had fallen off his tractor twenty years earlier and suffered an injury that had caused him to claim he could read people’s minds. There had been no proof of this phenomenon, and yet Henry was convinced that the voices he heard were the random thoughts of people he’d met. He was a regular visitor at the sheriff’s department, always insisting he had the inside track on some local crime.

“God help us,” Watershed said.

As Grayson observed the scene, his expression only grew more grim. “We’d better wrap this up soon. The weather service is advising that we’re in for another blizzard. A big one.”

Alvarez’s heart sank. The chances of finding the driver of the car weren’t that great to begin with; add a blizzard and they dropped to nearly impossible.

Grayson glared at the half-buried car and the lines around his mouth etched even deeper. “Looks like he’s at it again.”

“Looks like,” Pescoli agreed.

“Shit.” Dan glanced up at the ridge and snowflakes caught on his moustache as he chewed on his lower lip. “Same MO?”

Watershed nodded. “Yep. Body and ID missing.”

“Tire shot?”

“Blown for sure,” Alvarez said. “Haven’t been able to determine if—”

“It was shot.” Grayson voiced what they all thought was fact, just not yet proven. “This isn’t a coincidence. That bastard’s hunting again.”

“I’d bet on it,” Watershed agreed.

Alvarez nodded.

“Run the license plate,” Grayson said. “Find out who owns the car and we’ll work from there. If the bullet isn’t lodged in the undercarriage or somewhere else in the vehicle, check the ridge. Maybe it fell onto the road or became imbedded in the cliff on the farside. Anyone call a tow truck to haul the car in?”

“Truck’s on its way,” Alvarez said. She’d put in the call as soon as she arrived.

“Let’s hope they can get down here. The roads are a mess. Half the staff is dealing with power outages and accidents.” He rubbed his chin and shook his head, his gaze fastening on the crumpled car, which was quickly being buried in snow. “We need to nail this bastard.”

“I’m all for that,” Pescoli agreed.

Grayson nodded and met Alvarez’s eyes. “But first let’s find the victim. And this time, let’s find her alive.”

Chapter Seven

Scccrratttch!

The match head scrapes loudly against the stone hearth and the sharp smell of sulfur stings my nostrils. With a sweet hiss, the flame flares before my eyes.

Perfect little flicker of hot light.

I’ve always loved fire.

Always been fascinated at how it so quickly springs to life—a living, breathing thing that requires air to survive. The shifting yellow and orange flames are oh so seductive in their warmth and brilliance and deadly abilities.

Striking matches—bringing fire to life—is one of my passions, one of many.

Carefully lifting the glass of the lantern, I light the wick, another spot of illumination in the large, barren room. A fire already crackles and burns in the grate, red embers glowing in a thick bed of ashes, mossy wood licked by passionate flames, smoke rising through the old stone chimney, golden shadows dancing on the watery old windowpanes.

Outside the storm rages, winds howling, snow blowing furiously, and yet the stone-and-log cabin is a fortress against the elements. Here I don’t have to bother with the burden of clothing that scratches and itches and bothers. No, I can walk comfortably over the smooth flagstones in bare feet, the heat radiating from the fire enough to keep my skin warm.

I keep a large store of firewood within the cabin, but should I need to walk to the outbuilding to retrieve more, I won’t need the trappings of boots and jacket but can face the elements naked, bracing myself against the bite of the wind and the slap of ice.

The match burns down, licking at my fingertips, and I shake it out quickly.

With one ear to the police-band radio that spits and sputters, I sit on the chairs I’ve turned by hand. I spread out my forestry maps, along with the more graphic pictures I’ve printed from satellites, photos available on the Internet, on the long table. I’ve carefully pieced these images together and marked them with colored pins that correspond to the same colored pins on the forestry maps.

From a room down the hallway, I hear her quiet cough.

I freeze. Listening.

She groans, no doubt still unconscious.

A smile pricks at the corners of my mouth when I think of her. She is rousing and that’s a good sign. Soon she’ll be ready. A little sizzle of anticipation sweeps through my bloodstream and I quickly tamp it down. Not yet. Not until the time is right. Not until she is healthy enough to do her part.

Oh, it will be unwillingly, but she will partake.

They all do.

She groans more loudly and I know I’ll have to attend to her. Soon. I look at the open closet, an armoire I’ve fashioned with my own hands and a few basic tools. I’ve carved it ornately, lovingly, with images of celestial beings cut into the dark wood. Inside are the cubicles where I keep my treasures, little mementos of the reluctant participants. The door is slightly ajar. I scoot back my chair and stand, stretching my muscles before walking to the closet. Opening the doors further, I note how the mirrors lining the inside catch the reflection of the fire and my own sinewy body. Toned muscles. Dark hair. Deep set eyes with 20/10 vision.

“A specimen,” one foolish woman said of me as she let her gaze wander down my frame.

As if I would be flattered.

“A tall drink of water,” another unimaginative would-be lover cooed, licking her lips slightly.

“Ah…a bad boy with bedroom eyes,” a third whispered, hoping I would fall prey to her uninspired advances.

In the mirror my lips twist at the memories, my eyes darken a shade.

They found out, didn’t they?

But those incidents were just the beginning, before I fully understood my mission.

Ignoring my reflection, I open some of the drawers in the closet and eye my treasures, little bits of the women who were to become immortal: a tooled leather bag with fringe, a small clutch made out of fake leopard fur, a snakeskin wallet filled with credit cards, driver’s licenses, insurance information cards. Designer cases for eyeglasses, cigarettes and makeup. Nail files, tampons, cell phones, lipsticks in shades from wine to sheer, shimmering pink.

Treasures.

From those who were the chosen. I glance at one of the newspaper articles that has been written about the killings, the clippings all stacked neatly on a thin shelf. In this particular article, the reporter quoted some “source within the sheriff’s department” who indicated that the “acts” had been “random,” and that a “maniac” sharpshooter was behind the murders.

Maniac?

Random?

The police are worse imbeciles than I originally thought.

Idiots playing at detection.

From a distance, through long-range binoculars, I have watched the officers from the sheriff’s department swarm into the canyon, some up on the ridge, searching for clues, sifting for evidence, pawing through the snow like dogs looking for bones in the sand. Others, the lazier ones, huddled around the wrecked car, scratching their chins, frowning and talking and getting nowhere.

As I close the closet door I hear her cry out. Whimpering. Perhaps this one was a poor choice. She doesn’t seem to have much backbone.

But it’s early. She will snap out of it. Her ferocity, her passion, will surely appear.

I know she is one of the chosen. Just like the others.

Listening to the howl of the wind, I wonder just where I will leave her to fight her battle with fate and the elements. She is too injured from the “accident” to move easily just yet, but within the week, she will have healed to the point that she can be urged to the perfect spot, a site I have yet to find. It has to be remote yet accessible, so that the imbeciles who work for the sheriff’s department can find her.

Eyeing the forestry map again, I run a finger down the spine of one of the smaller ranges branching off the Bitterroots and remember a valley I hunted in long ago. Somewhat alpine, the meadowland has a few sparse trees along its perimeter. I think hard, remembering, bringing back the imagery of those few grassy acres. Just at dawn, I once spied an elk across the lea, a muscular bull standing near one gnarled pine, his rack five feet wide if an inch, his dark mane and coat barely visible in the thicket. I shot at him, missed, and he disappeared as if he were a ghost. I found the bullet from my rifle burrowed deep in the scaly bole of a solitary pine. That tree, if it is still standing, will be the perfect death post.

I study the map carefully. There are so many gullies and ridges, places a body won’t be discovered until spring, and maybe not even then.

But those won’t do.

I need the woman to be found.

I have to keep searching for the perfect spot.

I don’t doubt that I will find it.