Left To Die (27 page)

“Sounds perfect,” Jillian said as his eyes caught hers. Her breath caught in her throat at the mysteries deep in his eyes.

I’m in trouble
, she thought, but she wasn’t afraid.

Her cell phone rang as Alvarez locked the door to her Jeep and headed into the office. One glance at the digital readout and she braced herself as her mother’s number appeared on the screen. She thought about not answering, but that would only put off the inevitable.

“Good morning, Mom.” Carrying her laptop in one hand and feeling the bite of the wind, she hurried toward the brick building.

“Hi, honey.”

Despite the phone at her ear, Selena found her mind skipping ahead to her work day. At least it wasn’t snowing, and overnight, the plows had made significant progress on the roads. Maybe the helicopters could fly today, get airborne and survey the surrounding area. Maybe, just maybe, today was the day the case would break wide open.

Then again…

“You’re working today, aren’t you?”

Alvarez didn’t answer.

“
Dios
, Selena. It’s not even eight in the morning. On a Sunday. The Sunday before Christmas. You should be in bed or getting ready for mass.”

“I don’t work by the clock, you know that.” She shouldered her way into the building, nodding to the single clerk from the night shift who was manning the front desk.

“You work too much.”

“So you say.”

“So
everyone
says. Your brother Estevan, he’s a policeman, decorated, and he says you don’t have to work the hours you do.”

In Alvarez’s opinion Estevan was lazy, but she wouldn’t say so to her mother. “What’s up, Mom?” she asked as she made her way to her cubicle and flipped the switch on her desk lamp.

“I was hoping that you’d changed your mind. That you were coming home for Christmas.”

In her mind’s eye Selena flashed on “home”: the two-storied house four blocks off Highway 99 in Woodburn, Oregon, where she’d grown up with five brothers and two sisters. The three girls had shared one small room under the eaves of the sloped roof. The boys had been spread out, three in the room across the hall, the two eldest in separate rooms in the basement. Her parents had been on the main floor. The house had been noisy and crowded, and for the first fourteen years of her life, a haven.

And later, hell.

But at Christmas, the house had been decorated with lights on every eave and gutter, a hand-painted life-sized creche displayed in the front yard, a live tree filling the space in front of the living room window, her aunt Biatriz pounding out carols on the piano while her grandmother and mother cooked traditional Mexican fare along with a turkey dinner. Everything from mashed potatoes and roast beef to steamed tamales.

“I’m sorry,” Alvarez lied as she sat in her desk chair, “I can’t get away.”

“It’s Christmas,
niña.”

“I know, Mom, but we’ve got a serial killer on the loose here. I thought it would have made the papers there.”

“But you must get a day off.”

“Not this year.”

“You’re telling me that no one’s going away for the holidays? I don’t believe it.”

“I just can’t this year. Give my love to everyone,” Alvarez said, refusing to let her mother guilt her into it.

“You always put up the piñata for the little ones.”

“Not this year. But Lydia, she’ll do it.” Alvarez did feel a little pang of regret when she thought of her younger sister. Lydia, she would miss, and maybe Eduardo. Maybe. “I’ll call and talk to everyone.”

“From where? What will you be doing?”

God only knows.
“I’ll be with friends.” Again a lie. She didn’t have any plans for the day. She figured she’d work here, be paid overtime and celebrate at home in her pajamas with a movie and bowl of popcorn. That alone sounded like heaven, even if she had no one to sit beside her.

“You need your family, Selena,” her mother cautioned.

“Of course I do. I love you, Mom, but I really have to go.”

“God be with you, child,” Juanita said, and whispered a quick prayer in Spanish before hanging up.

“Guilt trip, guilt trip, guilt trip,” Alvarez told herself as she fired up her computer and clicked onto the images of the dead women and the letters left with their bodies. Using a computer program, she aligned the letters one over the other and saved the positions of the stars. What if this guy were trying to tell them something not only from the precise letters, but from the stars, as well?

Once she’d placed the stars on one screen, she used a computer program to help her identify which constellation, if any, the stars could be a part of. Unfortunately there were dozens of potential constellations.

“Because we don’t have enough data,” she thought, wincing inside. The more victims, the more clues left behind. Eventually, if the stars were part of an astrological grouping, they would be identified, just like, given enough letters in the message, the police would be able to figure out what the killer was trying to say.

Given enough time, enough letters and enough dead women.

“Damn,” she muttered, pushing her chair back from the desk. It was all so sick. For the first time since walking into the nearly deserted room, she heard the sound of music drifting from the speakers. The notes of “Let It Snow” wafted around her and she almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation as she heard Bing Crosby’s voice croon the final words of the song.

She glanced through the windows to the white parking lot. Yeah, the weather outside was sure as hell frightful, but there wasn’t anything the least bit cozy or warm about being in the office at Christmastime.

Balanced against the counter, Jillian observed MacGregor as he went through the motions of making coffee “the old-fashioned way.” He started by tossing some ground coffee into a lined basket that he balanced over the glass pot from the coffeemaker. Then he grabbed a tiny saucepan, dipped it into the hot water in the pot on the stove, and poured slowly streaming scalding water through the ground beans and filter.

Within seconds, dark liquid dripped into the waiting pot.

“Camp coffee,” she said as the scent of brewing coffee filled the room.

He glanced over his shoulder at her, a spark of humor in his eyes. “I do this on the trail a lot. It impresses all the city women.”

“Of course it does,” she said, and couldn’t help but smile. “
I’m
impressed.”

He chuckled and for the first time she saw a different side to this intense man. When all the water had soaked through the grounds, he poured them each a cup. “I’ve got sugar and powdered creamer.”

“I’m good with black. Cheers,” she said, and clicked the edge of her chipped mug to his.

“Here’s lookin’ at ya.”

The tension of the last few days seemed to evaporate for a few minutes. Even Harley, who had been ever-watchful, relaxed in a ball on the kitchen rag rug and closed his eyes. “I think he’s accepting me,” she said of the dog, and bent down to pet his scruffy head. The dog opened tired eyes and yawned, but didn’t growl or pull away.

“He’s really just a lover,” MacGregor said, then, as if noticing her balancing on her crutch, added, “let’s go into the other room. I’ll carry this for you.” He took the cup from her hand and followed her into the main living area of the cabin.

“Did you check outside again when you took out the dog?”

He nodded. “Nothing to indicate anyone was out there.”

“You’re sure?” she asked, and stared for a second through the icy panes. The storm had abated, the snow in thick drifts, even having blown onto the porch.

“I’m not sure of anything. If someone was there last night, the snow would have covered their tracks. But yeah, I think we’re alone.”

Which didn’t mean she should be comforted, she reminded herself. She had to trust him. Damn but she
wanted
to trust him, but she still had to be wary. Harley, toenails clicking on the hardwood and stone, returned to the living room and his spot near the hearth.

MacGregor handed her back the mug of coffee and she cradled it in both hands, its warmth seeping through her skin and into her bones. She propped her foot on the coffee table.

He nodded toward her bound ankle. “It’s not broken.”

“So you said.”

Their eyes locked as she remembered the one-sided conversation when she’d feigned sleep.

“So you were awake,” he prodded.

“Yeah.” She saw no reason to lie now; he knew the truth.

“I thought so.” He took a long sip, but his gaze, over the rim of his cup, never left her. “But you did a pretty good job of faking sleep.”

“Years of practice as a teenager.” She cringed inwardly as she remembered how many times she’d sneaked out while pretending to be asleep. She’d pushed the car out of the driveway and cruised around with her friends. It had been foolish and stupid, and her older, uptight, do-everything-by-the-book sister, Dusti, had never stopped reminding her of what an idiot she’d been.

“A rebel?”

“Or just a moron. Take your pick.”

He grinned and she found herself warming to him all the more. Maybe they did have something in common, a rebellious streak that couldn’t quite be tamed. “You left me the crutch,” she said, bringing the conversation back to the here and now, where the fire crackled, the dog snored and the warm scent of coffee permeated the room.

“So you could get up if you woke. I knew the ankle wouldn’t support you and I keep a set of crutches in case anyone gets hurt on one of my expeditions. Just until I can get them to a clinic or hospital or call for help.”

“Speaking of which, have you tried to call out lately?”

He sent her a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look. “What do you think?”

That’s the problem, I don’t know what to think.

As if reading her thoughts, he walked to his jacket and unsnapped a pocket.

“Here.” Retrieving a small phone, he pushed a button to turn it on and tossed it to her. She caught it with her good hand.

“Give it a try. As I said, cell service is spotty here at best, and the battery’s low, but if you can get through, more power to you.”

She held the phone as if it were a ticket to heaven, but as the tiny cell turned on, a picture of Harley on the screen, she saw the lack of service, and try as she might, no pushing of any buttons worked. “Dead as a doornail,” she admitted, and tossed the useless piece of technology back to him.

“Your family is probably going out of their minds with worry.”

She nodded slowly, thinking of her mother. Linnette, when she finally figured out Jillian was missing, would be on the phone to the city, county and state cops. Only after having already called the FBI. But, of course, her mother probably didn’t know she was missing. Yet. A fact she decided to keep to herself. There was just no reason to tip off MacGregor that no one was looking for her. Better to let him think there was a national search going on.

“As soon as we can establish some kind of communication or are able to get out of here, we’ll call them.”

“
I’ll
call them.”

“However you want to do it.” Again the smile, though this time there was the tiniest bit of hardness to it.

She thought of the photographs she’d found in the boot vase, the snapshots of a blond boy. “So, while you were out earlier, I did a little looking around.”

One dark eyebrow cocked, encouraging her.

“You don’t have any pictures displayed around here.”

“The way I like it.”

“What about your family?”

“I thought I told you. I’m not close to them.”

“But there is a boy you care about,” she said, deciding it was time to get to the bottom of some of her questions. “I found a couple of pictures of a little boy, over there, in the bookcase.” She pointed to the spot where the vase sat.

MacGregor’s lips thinned and, beneath the shadow of his beard, white lines bracketed his mouth.

“You know the boy I’m talking about.”

He hesitated, then gave a slight nod. Raw emotion crossed his features and a muscle jumped at the edge of his jaw. “His name was David,” he said, his voice low. “He was my son.”

She waited, wishing she hadn’t brought it up, hearing the “was” for what it meant.

“He’s dead.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“You didn’t know him.”

“I mean, I’m sorry for your pain. You said you weren’t married…that you didn’t have…”

“I’m not and I don’t. My wife and son are dead. Killed in a head-on collision, one of those freak things. No one was drinking, no one really knows what happened, but for some reason, maybe she was distracted, Callie’s car crossed the center line and went right into the path of a semi.”

“Oh God.”

“I was supposed to drive them to the school open house that night, but I was too busy, caught up in work, so I called and told her I’d meet them there. I’m supposed to take solace in the fact that they died instantly. Like that’s some consolation. Anyway, it happened a long time ago and I don’t like talking about it or thinking about it.”

“That’s why you don’t display any pictures.”

“Yeah.” He was reaching for his jacket.

“And you became a hermit.”

“Not quite.” Checking his pockets, he walked to the door.

“I’m sorry.”

“So you said.”

“I know, but—”

“Let’s get back to what’s happening here and now. In your snooping, did you find your things?”

“My things?”

He walked past her to the large bookcase, opened a lower cupboard drawer and pulled out a familiar-looking overnight bag.

How had she missed it earlier? She’d thought she’d gone through every cupboard, but then, she had been woozy. At the sight of her bag, she had the insane urge to break down completely, which was just plain stupid. She’d barely thought about the suitcase until now, which surely was a testament to her unclear mental state. It was nuts, but her nerves were strung tight, her body ached and she looked and felt like hell. Seeing the overnight case she’d packed days ago brought into sharp focus the fact that her real life was light years away, as well as the undeniable fact that she might never be a part of that life again.