Left To Die (48 page)

“Then a few years later, you married Mason Rivers.”

She rolled her eyes. “Another great idea.”

“Who lives in Missoula.”

“Right.”

MacGregor reached over and plucked the cell phone he’d given her from her jacket pocket. “What do ya say? Let’s give him a call.”

Deep in her cubicle, a bottle of water on her desk along with a cooling cup of tea, Alvarez stared at the computer monitor. Her throat was scratchy and dry, her nose running, but the symptoms of her impending cold or flu or whatever-the-hell-it-was-going-to-be were forgotten when she put the sentence together:

BEWARE THE SCORPION

Whatever that meant. She told herself it was probably wrong, but she got that little sizzle in her blood, the gut feeling telling her she’d stumbled onto something.

From the corner of her eye she noticed Pescoli, stuffing her arms through the sleeves of her jacket as she started for the exit. “Hey, look at this,” Alvarez called, plucking a tissue from the box on her desk. She blew hard and tossed the tissue into an already-overflowing trash can as her partner backtracked.

“What?” Pescoli paused at the opening of Alvarez’s tidy desk area as she slid her remaining arm into its sleeve, all the while looking at the screen. “Beware the scorpion?” she said, reading from the monitor. “What the hell does that mean? Oh hell…”

So her partner saw it, too. “All the letters we found at the crime scenes are in this message.” Alvarez pointed to copies of the notes left by the killer, spread upon her desk. The most recent note was nearest her:

WAR       T     HE SC    I N

Regan shrugged so that her jacket settled over her shoulders. Her brow was furrowed.

“I noticed how the letters in the notes were spaced, like a fill-in-the-blanks. So I just put in the missing letters:
beWARe T HE SC orp IoN
.”

“You think that’s the message?” Pescoli asked carefully. “All the letters are there, in the right order, the initials from the victims’ names, plus more than a few extra. Pretty crafty of you, but so what? He calls himself Scorpion?”

“Ever since hearing Halden’s theory about Orion’s belt, I’ve been doing research on the constellation and the mythology surrounding it.” Sniffing, Alvarez pointed to Craig Halden’s constellation charts, which were piled neatly next to a cup holding pens. “In Greek mythology, in some of the versions of the whole Orion story, it’s said that Orion was killed by a scorpion, then cast into the sky.”

“Those Greeks. Imaginative people.” But Pescoli now eyed the screen like she was looking deep into a crystal ball for some sort of clue to her own murky future. “What does it mean? Beware of him? I think we got that.”

“He’s trying to tell us,” Alvarez said. “If the stars on the notes left at the scenes and the ones carved into the tree trunks are all part of the Orion constellation, and the letters of the victims’ names are meant to be part of this intricate note, then…”

“There are a lot of victims we haven’t found or a lot more that have yet to be abducted.” Pescoli sounded as tired as Alvarez felt.

“And Jillian Rivers isn’t one, as we already thought. Just another confirmation that she’s got her own private whack job.”

“Who’s still out there. I wish Jillian Rivers had stayed put.”

“Yeah, right.” Alvarez, too, didn’t like the fact that Jillian had taken off from the hospital, and though she’d called and checked in, getting the news that she wasn’t considered a victim of the Star-Crossed Killer, she was still in danger. Alvarez had told her as much. The police, however, couldn’t stop her from leaving the county.

Pescoli shook her head. “Maybe your interpretation of the note is meaningless. It could be a mistake. The result of too many over-the-counter pills and a flu-addled brain.”

“It’s not the flu.”

“Fine. Even so.”

“I know it’s not concrete. And I suppose other letters could be interjected, other phrases created. But I just have a feeling that this is what his message means.”

“Okay.” Pescoli crossed her arms. “So if your guess is right, that means he’s already targeted future victims, right? He would need to kidnap women with initials that match the missing letters in the note.”

“True. But it’s not as if we can warn women within ten square miles. You can’t really say, ‘If your name begins with B or E, then get the hell out of Dodge.’”

“But we could look at missing persons reports and see if there are any victims whose initials match…” Pescoli glanced back at Alvarez’s doodling, “B, E, E, O, R, P or O.” She scrawled the letters in the margin, then grinned. “Beeorpo. Sounds like one of the aliens who abducted Ivor Hicks.”

“Checking the initials against missing persons is not a bad idea,” Alvarez said. It might help determine if her idea for the note was correct.

“Hey, wait.” Regan’s grin faded as she squinted at the letters she’d jotted down. “Did you know there’s an R and a P in here?”

“I didn’t notice.”

Pescoli grunted. “No S or A, so I guess you’re safe.”

“It’s just a theory,” Alvarez said.

“This after crazy Grace Perchant sees ghosts dancing on my head.” Raking her tumbled curls from her neck, Pescoli sighed. “Can this day get any worse? I’m outta here.”

Alvarez felt deflated and picked up her teacup, only to realize the orange pekoe had gone stone cold. She set it back on the desk and tried not to feel discouraged. “It’s not much,” she admitted, and lunged for a Kleenex, snapping one in front of her nose just before she sneezed, “but it’s something.” She dabbed at her nostrils.

“Still, he hasn’t told us jack shit,” Regan zipped her jacket. “Even if your fill-in-the-blanks is right, we still have one big question. Who the hell is the scorpion?”

“Vodka tonic,” I say to the waitress, who smiles at me, hoping for a big tip. “On the rocks.” I’m antsy, waiting for the drink, watching the damned television screen, where there is footage of Jillian Rivers, the imposter, being sent to the hospital. The scene is a few days old but it’s cut into a montage of other bits of film, pictures taken of the various “killing sites” and images of the victims with their names; Theresa Charleton, Nina Salvadore, Wendy Ito, Rona Anders, Hannah Estes and Jillian Rivers.

But they’ve got it wrong.

Again.

Fools!

Who is this imposter? He can’t know what I do, can’t copy my careful plans. Surely the police know there’s a difference. Or do they? Is it something they are withholding from the press or are they just that damned moronic?

My drink is placed in front of me and I take a long, calming sip, feeling the vodka slither down my throat before it coils in warm anticipation in my stomach…soothing. Soon, thankfully, it will seep into my bloodstream.

I’m angry that there’s an imposter, taking over my work, no,
ruining
my purpose. What kind of idiot is fucking with my plan? Who is he? And why are the police fooled?

After all the time I’ve waited, perfecting every detail, now some moron comes in clumsily and erroneously, making a mess of things. I feel a headache coming on and take another drink, allowing a small ice cube to slide past my lips. Once it’s in my mouth, I crush the damned thing with my teeth.

“Another?” the waitress, Taffy, says, surprised that I’ve already tossed back a drink I usually sip. She’s new to this place, only been at the job a couple of months, but she recognizes me.

I nod, my gaze riveted to the screen.

Jillian Rivers has been released from the hospital, but she’s giving no statement. Instead there is footage of some older woman…her mother! She looks as if she just came out of a beauty salon. She’s blubbering about how happy she is that her daughter’s safe, that she’d been so worried and blah, blah, blah.

Don’t they understand?

Jillian Rivers is a fraud.

The person who left her in the forest is a fraud.

This is all wrong!

My fist clenches and the waitress, a tiny doe-eyed girl with a small…too small mouth that matches her breasts and hair twisted into an unkempt knot at her crown, eyes me warily.

Relax. Don’t let anyone become suspicious.

“Isn’t your drink okay?” Taffy asks, then sees that I’m utterly fascinated by the television.

“It’s fine. Perfect.” I relax my fingers, manage a smile.

“Oh. I get it.”

I bet not. You nitwit. You don’t get anything. Even the difference between a vodka tonic and a vodka collins.

“You’re upset about that killer.”

“It’s worrisome.”

“You bet it is. Me and Tony, that’s my boyfriend, we’re not taking no chances. We’ve got a sawed-off shotgun trip-wired to blast if anyone so much as touches the front door.”

Tony and Taffy. How cute. “What about the back?”

“Ferdinand, that’s our dog—he’s part Doberman and part German shepherd—he’s got that covered.”

“Aren’t you afraid you might injure a friend or someone from the family?”

Taffy, all of twenty-one, shakes her head and the topknot wiggles a bit. “
Every
body knows they’ve got to call us before they come over. If not…they take their chances.”

“Well, I hope Granny doesn’t forget and decides to pop in with some Christmas cookies,” I say before I catch myself. It’s the vodka talking and the waitress looks at me strangely. “Just kidding,” I add with a laugh. “We’re all a little nervous. Hey, I installed a peephole in my doors and nailed my windows shut.”

“You didn’t!”

“God’s honest truth!” I raise my right hand and smile, though I’d love to reach across the bar and slap the bitch. “And,” I add, “I sleep with a forty-four under my pillow. A Magnum.”

“Loaded?”

“You bet. What would be the point if it wasn’t?” I take another sip from my glass. “I’m not bluffing.”

“No shit. I get it.”

Again, no. You don’t, you stupid bitch. You never will
.

She picks up some half-empty glasses a few spots down on the bar and I take a little longer with the second drink. I have to be careful. I don’t want to raise suspicion. Everyone in the area is being looked at warily. Friend to friend. Lover to lover. Mother to son.

Because they don’t understand.

Will never.

Just like Taffy, they are all too damned stupid.

But this isn’t a problem. In fact it might be working to my advantage. It’s time to make a statement. A big one. Get the damned cops’ attention. I stare up at the screen again, and this time there is footage of the sheriff’s department at one of the scenes, taken from a distance. Most of them are visible: Sheriff Grayson, Pete Watershed…and the two detectives.

Again I crush some of the ice and enjoy the cold water that mixes with the warmth of the vodka.

On the screen, the quiet, dark-haired one—Alvarez—is looking over a snowy death scene, the one up at the abandoned lodge. She’s got some Hispanic blood in her, not only her name and warm coppery skin tell me, but also that spark in her dark eyes, which convinces me she’s complicated, holds her cards close to her vest, never lets anyone know what’s really going on behind those dark, Latino eyes. Which is probably a lot. She’s petite, fiery and, I suspect, has her own reasons for keeping people at arm’s length.

Alvarez is smart and has the degrees to prove it. She’s also sly and, deep down, I bet, ruthless. It’s there in the jut of her jaw, the stretch of that beautiful skin over her sharp cheekbones.

A worthy adversary.

Then there’s the other one. Regan Pescoli. My eyes examine her. She’s another interesting woman; almost the opposite of her partner. Pescoli doesn’t hold anything back. Her cards are firmly on the table and she’s tapping them with a strong, determined finger, letting you know just where she stands. Athletic, larger than Alvarez, she’s a bitch on wheels who has a family that’s falling apart.

Poor thing
.

Of course it’s falling apart, you workaholic of a woman. What kind of mother are you? What kind of wife were you? You’re a loser, Pescoli, and always will be.

But a beautiful one.

Strong, smart and oh so predictable.

Regan Pescoli is a woman who will take a while to break…but everyone has their breaking point.

I crack the ice and stare at her image before it is replaced by that of a reporter.

Detective Pescoli.

Get ready.

Your luck is just about to run out.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Mason Rivers was under the radar.

Not at his office, of course. It
was
Sunday.

Not answering his cell.

Not at home. Nor was Sherice. Or if they were home, they weren’t picking up.

At the very least, he was screening his calls, not answering an anonymous call from an unregistered cell phone.

“I struck out,” Jillian admitted, sliding the phone into the pocket of her jacket again. “Same away message on his voice mail every time.”

MacGregor studied what was left in his glass, a dark brew that looked, in Jillian’s opinion, more like cold coffee with a smidgen of foam rather than beer. “And yet, he seems to be a part of this, whether intentional or not. Whoever attacked you knew that you would immediately think he was involved and propel yourself straight here.”

She frowned as the waitress brought refills, eyed the untouched bowl of salty bits, then retreated to some hidden cavern behind the bar.

“So glad I’m so well trained.” She leaned back against the booth and shifted a bit. Her ribs were healing but still pained her every so often. At least she could laugh now, could breathe. Coughing, though, that was still out.

“What is the away message?”

“Sorry, I’m out. Leave a message. I’ll call back.” She hesitated. “Except for the office. That one said, ‘I’m out of town for a few days. If you need to reach me, leave a message with my secretary….’” She thought back to the days of their marriage and how many times she’d listened to Mason’s stock line. The message hadn’t changed—nor had the inflection of his voice. Just then something shifted in her brain. A cold awareness cut her to the bone.