Left To Die (16 page)

Once through the doorway, she looked around for a land line, a cell phone or a computer, any device she could use to contact the outside world once the electricity was restored. She needed to get out of here, to let someone know where she was, to…Where the hell was it?

Her ankle throbbing, she moved around the perimeter of the main room. Wasn’t there a land line? A modem for computer service? Even a stupid television?

Careful, Jillian, your city-girl roots are showing.

There had been a time when she and Aaron had backpacked through areas that had been undeveloped. They’d slept under the stars, washed themselves in mountain lakes, eschewed all the comforts and stress of modern life.

Aaron.

Memories of hiking through the wilderness assailed her. Pacific rain forests of the Olympic Peninsula, the mountainous trails of the Cascades in Oregon, exploring the alpine meadows of the San Juans, discovering remote sections of Colorado and the everglades in Florida. But the ultimate trip, the one they’d planned and saved for and talked about in every conversation for nearly a year, had been the adventure of a lifetime, a long backpacking trek through the wilds of South America, where he’d disappeared and died.

Or not.

She grabbed a corner of the table to steady herself as another wave of memories washed over her. Aaron was the reason she’d left Seattle. Someone had sent her pictures of a man claiming to be him, someone in Missoula. That’s why she was driving through the mountains when she’d heard the rifle shot….

Her knees quivered as she again remembered that distinctive crack of a rifle. Then her tire had blown and her car had spun over the edge of the cliff and…and
someone
had
intentionally
caused her car to careen into the frozen ravine?
Someone
had tried to kill her?

Why?

Who even knew she would be driving through these mountains?

The caller, you idiot! The damned person who sent you the pictures that were supposedly of Aaron. He lured you here and he’s probably the stranger who “saved” you. Remember, there’s a killer on the loose up here.

Oh God, oh God, oh God…

Her heart jackhammered. She couldn’t run away. Couldn’t get far at all in her injured state with a storm raging through these mountains. For the love of God, she didn’t even know where she was. But somewhere, he had her cell phone and some means by which to leave this tiny cabin.

Thud!

Startled, she jumped at the noise and turned swiftly only to realize the sound had come from the fire, a chunk of wood that had burned through and broken.

Her pulse was beating out of control and she was all too aware that any second the man who had brought her here might return.
What then? What will you do then?

Panicked, she started going around the room again, checking the outlets, searching for a phone jack.

Nothing!

She saw nothing.

Hurry, hurry, hurry!

Dear God, she was going out of her mind.

Think, Jillian, don’t lose it, just think. There has to be a way to communicate with the outside world. He couldn’t be up here isolated and completely cut off from
—

Click!

She bit back a scream.

The sound of a deadbolt slipping out of place made her skin crawl. This noise wasn’t the damned fire!

He was back!

The distinctive creak of a door opening and the stomp of boots on the kitchen floor met her ears.

“Get in here!”

Oh God, someone was with him? A partner? Or some other victim?

Frantically, she glanced at the door to the bedroom. If she could slink noiselessly across this room, slip through the door and sink onto the bed, she could hide there, again pretend to be asleep, but it was too far. She’d never make it. Her fingers curled over the hilt of the thin knife and she slid the blade up her sleeve, determined to hide it. Keep it.

In case she needed it.

The door in the kitchen slammed shut and she nearly jumped out of her skin as the sound of the wind became muted again.

Calm down, Jillian. It’s time for the acting job of your life. Don’t let him know you don’t trust him. Don’t slip up for a minute. Whatever his bullshit story is, pretend to believe it. Maybe his guard will slip….

Terrified, she turned toward the kitchen, nearly falling in the process. Her heart was in her throat, but she maintained a placid expression that she hoped belied her fear.

More stomping.

No other voice.

Heavy footsteps resounded along with another sound, a quick click-click scratching sound.

She held herself up by the edge of his big table. The metal crutch was tucked under her arm, her fingers wrapped around the handgrip so hard her knuckles showed white, the handle of the knife hidden in her other palm.

Sweat beaded on her forehead though the temperature in the room was cold.

Okay, bastard
, she thought, mentally gearing up for a fight.
I’m ready.

He appeared, big as life, in the archway between the kitchen and living area. Tall and rugged-looking, he was dressed head to toe in black ski gear as he filled the archway between the kitchen and living area.

All the spit dried in her mouth.

“Well, look who’s up,” he said without a trace of a smile. Was he talking to her or whoever was with him?

“If it isn’t Sleeping Beauty.”

Chapter Ten

Alvarez offered the woman a cup of coffee and tried to keep her expression bland, as if she believed anything Grace Perchant, the ghost whisperer, had to say. She was alone with the thin, pale woman in the interrogation room, but both of them knew other people were observing the conversation on the other side of the mirror. More were watching the monitor, as the interview was being recorded. “You know, we’re sorry to bother you again. You’ve been a big help, but we just want to make certain we have all the facts straight, that we haven’t missed anything.”

Grace didn’t so much as nod. Sometimes it was hard to tell if she even heard a person. Pescoli always said it was because she had so many dead people screaming inside her head, she couldn’t hear the living. But then, that was sarcastic, never-believe-anything-that-isn’t-hard-fact Pescoli. “Tell me again about finding the car.”

Grace Perchant sat in the straight-backed chair at the table, ignored the steaming cup and stared up with the palest green eyes Alvarez had ever seen. “I already told the other detectives. I was walking my dog, Bane, and I looked down into the canyon and saw the car. It glinted through the snow. Is that so hard to understand?”

“No, I guess not.”

“And would it be too much trouble to get a cup of tea?” Grace asked. “Coffee’s not good for you.”

Alvarez nodded as she took a swig of her own detrimental brew. “Just a sec.”

“With lemon and honey.”

“We don’t have—”

“Fine.” One arched eyebrow lifted a fraction further as Grace said, “Plain will do. Herbal would be better….” Then catching the skepticism in Alvarez’s gaze, she amended her request. “Anything will be fine.”

“Good.” Alvarez scooted her chair back, walked through the door. It shut behind her as she met Pescoli in the hall outside.

“I heard,” Pescoli said, rolling her eyes. “What does she think this is, damned Starbucks?”

“She’s Grace Perchant,” Alvarez said, as if that explained everything.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get her tea. I hate to agree with Chandler but it’s hell to think Grace and Ivor might be our star witnesses in this case.”

If it ever gets to trial,
Alvarez thought and hated herself for her doubts as Pescoli headed down the hall toward the break room. Alvarez slipped back inside. “It’ll be just a couple of minutes.” She slid into her chair. “You were telling me about being out there at September Creek.”

Grace nodded, her graying blond hair moving against her shoulders as if it was nothing to be hiking through a blizzard.

“It was below freezing and snowing,” Alvarez said.

“Bane needed to go out.” Grace shrugged. “He’s part wolf; the cold doesn’t bother him. We take that route along the creek every other day or so.”

“What about you? Doesn’t the cold weather bother you?”

“Sometimes.” Grace looked directly at the mirror, as if she could see the sheriff and FBI agents beyond. “It’s often a situation of mind over matter.”

“Did you see anyone else out there?”

Grace shook her head. “No. As you pointed out it was freezing.”

“No other cars?”

Sighing, Grace folded her hands over the metal top of the table and leaned closer, her eerie eyes focusing hard on Alvarez. “If I told you what I saw out there you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

Her face was calm and without the least bit of guile. “Don’t patronize me, Detective. You know about me, that I see spirits.”

“And there were spirits out there?”

“They’re everywhere.” She smiled, her thin lips twisting a bit. “They don’t mind the cold.”

Was Grace for real?

“Did your dog act strangely? As if he saw anything?”

“He sniffed around, but no more than usual.”

There was a soft knock on the door and Alvarez opened it to find Joelle on the other side. She held a Styrofoam cup of hot water, a tea bag steeping within.

“We only had Earl Gray,” she said. “I think Grace likes those herbal calming ones that they serve over at the Java Bean, but we don’t have anything like that.” Joelle appeared worried, little lines threading between her eyebrows. Her glossed lips, the same exact shade as her jacket and slacks, pulled into a tight knot.

“It’ll be fine,” Alvarez said. “It’s only one cup. If she doesn’t like it, she’ll get over it.” She took the steaming cup from Joelle’s reluctant fingers and slipped back into the stark room.

Grace took a small sip and didn’t complain.

Good thing.

With a little prodding Grace told Alvarez the same story she had earlier, nearly verbatim. She hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary other than the wrecked car in the creek bed. “We were walking along the ridge road, and I could see it in the ravine.”

“You were on the road above?”

“Yes, and I saw the point where the car had gone over the edge, so I hurried back to the house and called. Fortunately the phones were still working. Then I tried to get back to the car myself, to get down the embankment and see if anyone was inside, but the deputy arrived before I did, coming in from the other side. He was in the area, I guess.”

That was right. So far so good. “So you can’t tell us anything else?”

“If I could I would,” Grace said simply, though her eyes darkened incredibly, her pupils widening as she stared at the detective.

Alvarez felt as if a cold, dark wind blew through her soul and it was all she could do to hold Grace’s stare and not look away. “Well…if you think of anything, let us know.” She pushed back her chair to end the interview. Quick as lightning, Grace reached across the table, knocking over Alvarez’s near-empty cup. Strong fingers wrapped around the detective’s wrist. “You’ll find him,” she vowed as the detective instinctively reached for her sidearm.

Concern etched the ghost whisperer’s face and Alvarez let her hand fall from her pistol. “Of course we will.” She carefully pulled her wrist away from Grace’s cold grasp. “The son of a bitch won’t get away with this.”

“What? The man the police are looking for? He’s not who I was talking about,” Grace said, her eyebrows elevating a fraction.

“Then…what?” Alvarez asked, but she knew, deep in her heart, that this woman to whom she’d never before spoken, could see into the darkest reaches of her heart.

“Don’t despair,” Grace said with a calm that Alvarez found eerie. “You’ll find him.”

From the other side of the one-way mirror Pescoli nearly dropped her cup of coffee. She’d been on her way to the door when Grace had grabbed Alvarez, but the sheriff had held her back.

“It’s okay,” he said, and she’d waited, watching the weird scene unfold. “What the hell was that all about?”

“With Grace,” Grayson said, staring through the one-way mirror, “you never know.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph. First Ivor I’ve-been-abducted-by-aliens Hicks as a critical witness, and now a wolf-woman who speaks with ghosts.” Pescoli crushed her coffee cup in her fist and threw it into an almost-full trash can. “You know, Sheriff, I hate to say it, but I’m thinkin’ the odds are stacked against us.”

“Sleeping Beauty my ass.” Jillian glared at the man she’d decided was more her captor than savior.

He must’ve been six feet one or two and, bulked up in his ski gear, he looked all the more massive.

And strong.

And formidable.

At his side stood a black-and-white long-haired dog, some kind of spaniel mix, hackles stiff and raised. Its head was down, dark menacing eyes sparking with distrust.

“Is that dog going to attack me?”

“Not unless you come at it with the crutch.”

She considered putting the metal crutch down, but hearing the dog growl, decided against it.

“Just control him.”

“Not an animal lover?” His face was still hidden by the ski mask, but something registered in his movement, the easy manner as he turned to the dog. Amusement? Cruelty?

“Not if the animal is acting as if it wants to tear out my throat.”

“Harley? Hear that? Stand down.”

The dog growled.

“Great control.”

“Sit!” he said sharply and the dog placed his back end on the plank floorboards. But he didn’t let Jillian out of his sight.

“Better?” he asked.

Was he joking? Really? This whole situation was something out of a bad dream. For all she knew he could be a psycho of the worst kind, a killer. Hadn’t Ted Bundy, a notorious sexual predator and serial killer, been considered charming, good-looking and intelligent? Wasn’t one of the first things neighbors said about some of the worst murderers in history, “But he was such a nice guy”? Oh, there were killers who were outwardly crazy, or secretive or so weird that their psychosis was evident to those close to them from a young age, but the victims, those who didn’t know the killer intimately from childhood, thought only they were “odd” or “loners.” But that didn’t always hold true. And in this case she wasn’t about to trust her “savior,” not yet anyway.