Left To Die (15 page)

“If you think of anything else, would you call me at—”

Crash!

“No!”

The sound of shattering glass and a child’s cry was cut off with a distinct click.

“So much for sisterly love,” Pescoli muttered as she finished her notes and scanned them over. If Dusti White Bellamy knew anything about her sister’s disappearance, she wasn’t giving it up. Nor was the neighboring student who was caring for Jillian’s cat. The Seattle police had interviewed Emily Hardy, who’d said only that Jillian had asked her to care for the cat, as she was “going out of town for a few days.”

Pescoli looked over her notes to double-check. Emily Hardy had supplied the police with Jillian’s cell phone number, but when they’d called, no one had answered. Pescoli, too, had tried to reach Jillian Rivers, but her call had gone directly to voice mail.

“Dead end, dead end, dead end,” she said, clicking her pen nervously as she reached for the phone again. The Seattle PD had already talked to Linnette White, but Regan decided to call the woman herself. She waited through six rings but Linnette didn’t answer. Leaving her name and number, she asked for a return call. If she didn’t get one by tomorrow morning, she’d dial Jillian’s mother again.

Or maybe the FBI would send a Seattle agent out to talk with her. They were supposed to be working hand in hand with them and so far Chandler and Halden hadn’t gotten in the way. The agents had actually helped, so Pescoli wasn’t complaining.

Yet.

She glanced down at the list of Jillian Rivers’s known acquaintances. Written below the missing woman’s sister and mother was Mason Rivers, Jillian’s ex-husband. Pescoli tried not to let her experiences with Lucky color her judgment. Though she firmly believed there was no such thing as a “good” ex-husband, she tried to push her own prejudices aside. According to court records, Mason Rivers and Jillian had been married for four years and divorced for two. According to court documents, Mason had remarried about six months ago.

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” she said, punching out his office number and leaning back in her chair.

“Olsen, Nye and Rivers,” a no-nonsense woman answered. Pescoli asked for Mason Rivers but got nowhere. According to the receptionist, Mr. Rivers was “in court and not expected back until tomorrow afternoon.”

Convenient
, Pescoli thought, her detective radar on alert. Or was it her ex-wife radar? Or just her bullshit radar? She suspected the pert voice on the other end of the line was lying to her. But then, she always thought people lied to her. Especially anyone who was an ex to a missing person.

She left her name and number and asked to have “Mr. Rivers” return her call. She hung up and stared at the phone, again clicking her damned pen. What was it about this case that no one knew anything? Flipping through her notes on Theresa Charleton, Nina Salvadore and Wendy Ito, she was struck by the same theme. “No enemies” was the common thread. “Well liked” resonated with all the victims. “Can’t imagine who would want to hurt her” had been said over and over again.

Had the victims been random? Had the killer just started writing down initials in no particular pattern? Chandler didn’t think so. Neither did Pescoli. She turned to her computer and clicked on copies of the notes. Each one so similar to the others. Meticulous, as Chandler had pointed out. The victims had to have been chosen for some reason and their initials were part of it. So…the women were chosen
for
their names? Was that it?

What kind of nutcase were they dealing with? She read the initials again.

W      T      SC    I N

If she filled in missing letters, she got “WHAT SCENE” or “WANT SCORN” or “WILT SCAN.” Or maybe there were more letters added to the front and end of the message, if indeed it was one. Like “SWAT” or “SWEAT” or “AWAIT” for the first word…or maybe it was all one long word waiting for missing letters.

Where would Jillian Rivers’s initials fit in?

Though the room was warm, she felt suddenly cold inside, thinking of Jillian Rivers’s fate. Was she dead already? Being tortured? Awaiting her ultimate doom?

“Crap!” she muttered and tossed her pen onto the desk.

Dear God, she hoped they would find the woman before she was left in the freezing weather, lashed to a tree, a star carved over her head and her initials added to the deadly enigma that was the killer’s note.

Jillian had to pee.

No two ways about it.

And she still couldn’t move.

Great. Just…great.

Her only option other than calling out to her captor/rescuer/whatever to help her to a toilet was to wet the bed.

Out of the question.

She listened.

The cabin was quiet, aside from the rush of the wind and creak of old timbers. She held her breath, but heard no footsteps, no rustle of clothing or papers, no snoring. It seemed as if she was completely alone.

Maybe he’s abandoned you. Left you here alone in the blizzard.

She didn’t know whether that was a bad thing, or good. Couldn’t dwell on it, not with the pressure in her bladder.

Setting her jaw so that she wouldn’t cry out, she forced herself into a sitting position, all the while feeling the dull throb in her rib cage. Once upright, she took a good, hard look around the room. Yes, there was a window, and it had to be daylight because there was more illumination within this small room than there had been, but snow obliterated any view from the cot. The only door into the room was the old scratched panel that connected this small bedroom to the next, which she thought was probably the heart of this rustic cabin, the area where
he
stayed, whoever the hell
he
was. She listened and heard nothing, as if he either were asleep or out of the house.

Was that possible?

In this storm?

How?

By the same way he brought you here.

She remembered feeling as if she were floating and, yes, hearing some loud engine, but it had been cold, so damned cold, and she’d been on the brink of consciousness, almost wakening, then settling deeper into the coma or whatever it was that had kept her unaware ever since the accident.

She couldn’t damned well stay propped on this bed with her bladder about to burst, so she gritted her teeth and swung her good leg over the edge of the cot.

Now, for the real test of will.

Clenching her jaw, she tried to drag her injured leg to the side of the bed.

A sharp, excruciating pain shot up her calf.

Holy Mother of God!

Think beyond the pain, beyond the injury.
She’d taken enough self-defense courses to train her mind and focus, but man, her leg hurt.

She sucked in her breath.

Again
, she told herself.
You can do it.

With effort she dragged her foot to the side of the bed and slowly rotated so that she could swing her leg over. For the first time she saw what he’d done and realized he’d taped her ankle, stabilizing it. Clean cotton gauze wrapped around a splint of two pieces of wood that stuck out a bit. It was old-school, not the molded plastic boots she’d seen on school athletes who had injured themselves, but it looked like whoever had taped her up had done a decent enough job.

But, of course, it wasn’t a walking cast.

Then she saw the crutch.

Propped against the wall near the foot of the bed.

Her skin crawled a little. This guy was a lot more prepared than she’d thought. Who had a crutch just lying around? Maybe a doctor? Or…or someone who’d once hurt himself. But really, in this barren room, a crutch?

Don’t second-guess it. Just nab that sucker!

Maybe, just maybe, he’s a good guy.

No, she couldn’t let herself think that way, not until she knew more about him. He’d shown up pretty fast after the accident. Why the hell was he out in the middle of a snowstorm? She thought she remembered the sound of a rifle report, as if someone had shot at her before the car started spinning. Though it was just conjecture, she had to be cautious.

Because, damn it, she was trapped here.

With a healer?

Or a killer?

Don’t even go there. Not yet.

Willing herself to keep moving, she scooted down the length of the cot and snagged the single crutch. Somehow, she pulled herself to a standing position, though she kept no weight on the injured foot, and then, with her bladder full and her leg aching dully, she made her way to the doorway, hobbling awkwardly and making more noise than she’d intended.

Even so, she didn’t hear a response. If he was inside, he hadn’t heard her.

Taking a deep breath, she twisted the old metal doorknob and pushed gently on the oak panels. Soundlessly the door opened a bit and she peered through the crack to a larger room. No lamps had been lit and the stone and wood living area looked gloomy and dark, only a bit of light coming from the fireplace that butted up to the doorway from which Jillian was peering.

The room had a high ceiling, nearly two stories. On the far end was a ladder that led to an open loft. Bookcases filled the area beneath the loft’s overhang and a massive table occupied the center of the shadowy room. An armoire of sorts was pushed against the wall and nearer the fireplace was another cupboard—no, a closet, like she’d seen at Grandpa Jim’s house twenty-five years earlier, the locked, handcrafted cupboard he’d used to store his hunting rifles.

Jillian felt a trickle of fear.

Of course he’s got guns. For God’s sake, he lives in the wilderness! Maybe you can get hold of one and some ammunition. Just in case you need it.

A sharp shard of memory cut through her brain as once again she heard the crack of a rifle and then her car was spinning out of control, rotating fast toward the sharp ravine….

Her heart froze and her throat went dry in fear.

She needed to leave.

To find a way out of this place.

Now!

Using the damned crutch, she gently pushed the door open further and braced herself, certain someone or something would leap out at her.

A beat-up leather sofa sat near the stone fireplace and backed up to her bedroom. Another chair with a lumpy ottoman was situated nearby and a recliner, complete with sleeping bag, was tucked into the corner that was dominated by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. On the opposite wall, a bank of glass windows was protected by the overhang of a long porch with exposed rafters. The cabin was on a hill, but the view, if there was one, was obscured by a thick veil of heavy, swirling snow that had blown over the floorboards of the porch.

Outside was a whiteout.

She couldn’t see ten feet beyond the porch. But she could hear the ferocity of the wind, feel it shake this old wood-and-rock building.

Her heart sank.

Any thought of leaving here, of seeking help, was obliterated by the storm. She was stuck here for the time being. “Wonderful,” she muttered under her breath as she turned slowly to look around, a sharp pain in her chest reminding her she’d probably cracked a rib or two in the accident.

As she’d thought the cabin was empty. No one around. Inside the massive stone fireplace the flames eagerly licked at a chunk of wood, casting blood-red shadows and shifting shapes on the rock and windows.

It’s not creepy. It’s cozy.

“Yeah, right.”

Steadfastly ignoring the pain in her ankle, she hobbled to what she thought was the gun closet. Sure enough, it was locked, no key in sight. So much for getting lucky.

Moving onward, she hitched her way through an open doorway and found a tiny kitchen with scarred wooden counters and rustic cupboards that looked over a hundred years old. But there was a sink and faucet, so running water did exist, evidenced by the slow trickle coming out of the tap. At least she didn’t have to try and make her way through three-foot snowdrifts to an outhouse. She hitched her way through the kitchen to a narrow door at the far end of the room. It opened to a cold, compact bathroom with cracked linoleum and a tiny window poised over a claw-foot tub with a shower. Along one wall was a toilet and a small vanity with a sink. On the other was a washer and dryer and an old cupboard.

“All the comforts of home,” she muttered and wasted no time closing the door, grabbing onto the sink with one hand and, using the crutch, propelling herself to the toilet. After relieving herself, she stood at the sink and caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror. Her hair was a mess, oily and tangled, her face bruised, the white of one eye bloodshot. “Cute,” she muttered as she took the time to splash water over her face and refused to think about the throb of her aching chest and injured ankle.

She didn’t have any time to lose.

She needed to figure out how to get the hell out of here and somehow get in contact with civilization. She could grab a gun and ammunition from his closet, pull on the warmest clothes she could find and…and…and what? Hobble down the hillside in the middle of a blizzard with one crutch?

Maybe there was a vehicle. A four-wheel-drive truck or snowmobile or something…even a damned horse. She moved to the back door and peered through the icy panels. Yes, there were a few other buildings. One could be a garage. And one a barn. But they were slippery paths and huge drifts along the way. “Damn it all.”

She opened two drawers before she found the knife, a thin, long-bladed filet knife, perfect for cutting flesh from bone. Or for protecting herself. Holding the weapon tight, she worked her way to the living area again and saw not only snowshoes but skis mounted on the wall.

Lots of good those would do her.

The phone!

Damn it, Jillian, what have you been thinking? Where’s the friggin’ phone?

Propelling herself back into the kitchen again, she saw no evidence of a telephone, and when she flipped a light switch, nothing happened. The power was out. No surprise there, with the intensity of this storm.

No phones in the kitchen.

Back to that large hall-like main room.