Left To Die (7 page)

Cretins.

Fools who are so easily toyed with.

Burning wood crackles in the grate, anxious flames devouring the mossy chunks of oak and pine. The scent of wood smoke is heavy in my nostrils as I reread the stories about the “victims,” tales that have been carefully construed by the stupid cops to ensure that no details they wish to keep from the public have slipped into the articles. They have worked diligently to hold back information, clues that will keep every nutcase around from claiming ownership of my deeds.

For if that should happen, the short-staffed sheriff’s department would have to sort it all out, spending valuable hours dealing with the fraud. Officers would have to expose him or her as just some whack job trying to get his or her fifteen minutes of fame. The department would lose a lot of time uncovering the false murderer, a lunatic pretender who in no way could understand the divinity, nor the complexity, of the painstakingly executed sacrifices.

Sorry, imbeciles.

You’ll have to find some other killer to emulate.

“Killer.” The word tastes bitter. As do “criminal” and “psycho.” Because what I do isn’t a crime, not just a “killing,” not some psychotic whim, but a necessity…a calling. However, those who are unenlightened can never understand. What I’ve done, what I will do again, is misunderstood.

So be it.

A window rattles against a gust of wind and I feel a sudden chill slither down my spine. Glancing up from my work to the icy panes, I see fluttering flakes of snow in the steely day beyond. Feeling the storm seep through the cracks in the walls, the cold air taunting my skin, I envision her again.

Beautiful bitch.

Soon you will be mine.

God and the Fates are on my side.

I lick my lips as a thrill steals through my bloodstream. Turning back to the table, I see her picture. In black and white, the surroundings out of focus, her features clear and crisp.

In the glossy photograph, she appears happy, though, of course, her smile is a frail façade. She looks almost flirtatious.

A lie.

As I stare deeply into her eyes, I detect a shadow, a small hint of darkness that betrays her fear.

In that fragile moment when the camera captured her, she sensed that her life was far from what it seemed.

And yet she couldn’t possibly comprehend the truth, then or now. Little does she know what is about to happen: that her fate has already been sealed, that she will soon join the others….

Carefully I read the charts once more. The stars are in the right positions; the groundwork has been done and December, with its cold, stinging kiss, will soon be here.

As will she.

She will arrive before the turn of the calendar’s page.

Closing my eyes I imagine our meeting: Her chilled flesh will press against mine. Her skin will have the salty taste of fear, her cheeks even more so, with the tracks of tears.

A frisson of expectation sizzles through my blood.

I glance down at the photograph again.

So clear.

So sharp.

So ready.

“Soon,” I whisper, not saying her name aloud, not wanting to hear it echo through the rafters. “Very soon.”

My groin tightens with expectancy.

Winter and Death are about to meet.

Jillian stepped on the accelerator.

Her medium-size station wagon engine whining, responded, winter tires digging into the icy terrain. She took a sip from her cup, a rapidly cooling cup of coffee that she’d bought at the last town she’d passed through, now nearly five miles back. Spruce Creek, the town, if you could call it that, was little more than a stoplight at two crossroads. The intersection had boasted a post office, gas station, coffee shop, two churches and, as if in perfect juxtaposition, two taverns. A few distantly spaced farmhouses had peppered the snowy landscape.

“Welcome to rural Montana,” she said aloud, wondering, not for the first time, if she was on a fool’s mission. The radio was tuned to a country/western station and Willie Nelson was singing over the underlying static, “White Christmas” no less.

“I’m dreaming of a white Christmas,” he warbled in his nasal twang.

“Well, you got one, Willie Boy,” she said, staring out a windshield threatening to fog over to a vast landscape of snow-laden trees and piling drifts. “You’ve got yourself one helluva white Christmas.”

All around her, the mountains knifed upward, their peaks hidden by the thick clouds and driving snow. Here, in the Bitterroot Mountains, it looked like a second Ice Age.

The road twisted ever upward and her little car climbed steadily, its wipers slapping the flurries off the windshield. One tire slipped before digging in. Jillian eased into the slide, sloshing coffee, and the car’s all-wheel drive didn’t let her down. Nonetheless, she was nervous and wondered how far it was to the next town.

This mountainous part of Montana was more desolate than she’d anticipated, and though she wasn’t a coward or the least bit skittish, today, as dusk threatened and she met not one other vehicle on the road, she felt a little anxious, a bit edgy.

“Too much caffeine,” she muttered as Willie’s song faded and an announcer’s voice cut in and out. Irritated, she switched off the radio and thought about the calls she’d received from the unidentified caller and the pictures he or she had sent.

Had they been of Aaron?

Or was this some elaborate hoax?

“Face it, you’re on a wild goose chase,” she told herself for the umpteenth time, but her hands tightened on the steering wheel as she remembered those whispered conversations all insisting the same thing:

“He’s alive.”

“Son of a bitch,” she muttered as the Subaru’s engine suddenly strained. She hadn’t really believed the weirdo on the other end of the line and God knew the photos could have been doctored, but she wasn’t one to live with any kind of doubt. So what if it was just a twisted joke? At least she could finally put Aaron’s memory to rest.

Right?

She’d left Seattle without telling a soul other than to ask her nineteen-year-old neighbor, Emily Hardy, to take care of Marilyn for a few days. So now she was in the middle of the Montana wilderness, a blizzard brewing. “Turn around,” she told herself, realizing she was chasing the same damned ghost she had been pursuing for years.

Hadn’t Mason, her second husband, accused her of just that? “Damn it all to hell.” The Outback’s tires slid a bit and she slipped the gearshift into a lower gear. “Come on, come on.” The mid-size car lunged forward, engine groaning in protest.

Spruce Creek wasn’t that far behind her. If she found a wide spot in the road, she could turn around and give up for the night.

The thought of a bed and a warm room in a motel made her sigh. She could hole up and spread her map out, check out the best route between here and Missoula, where she would spring her surprise on Mason.

But turning back felt too much like quitting, and she’d never been a quitter. Not since third grade, when she’d been bucked off a horse and decided to give up horseback riding all together. Until her grandfather had stared down at her with kind blue eyes and said, “Hey, Jillie, don’t you know, quitting’s for sissies? I never figured you to be one to run and hide when things got a little rough.” He’d helped her back on the wild-eyed colt, walked that painted pony for hours, until Jillian’s confidence had returned. So she wouldn’t give up now. Grandpa Jim had been dead and buried for over fifteen years, but she still felt as if he could see her every time she considered throwing in the towel.

Setting her jaw, she saw the next corner on this white, snow-flecked ridge. Maybe this was the summit. Maybe she’d finally reached a point where the road would wind down to the next town and she’d find a hotel or bed and breakfast where she could spend the night, take a long, hot shower and—

CRRRAAACCCKKK!

Jillian jumped.

The sharp report of a rifle echoed through the canyon.

BAM!

Her front tire blew.

“Oh Jesus!” Her heart flew to her throat. “No!”

The car spun crazily, wildly careening from one side of the icy road to the other.

“Oh God, oh God…oh…”

Don’t overreact!

Drive into the spin.

Grandpa Jim’s voice filled her brain and all the advice she’d heard about driving in ice and snow flashed through her mind.

Already skidding, the Subaru bouncing off the wall of ice on the mountain side of the road, shaving off snow and ice only to slide to the other side of this narrow ridge, toward the yawning canyon of the cliff face, as Jillian fought to control the Outback.

“Please, oh please…” She pressed the brakes and gripped the steering wheel.

Closer to the edge of the ridge, where the tops of trees were the only indication there was a bottom to the steep ravine, the automobile wavered and shuddered. “No, no, no!” she cried. To hell with the advice. She couldn’t turn into the spin and steer toward the abyss. Frantically, she yanked on the wheel, cranking it away from the gaping hole and trying like hell to keep the car on the road.

She stood on the brakes.

The tires jerked beneath her, anti-lock mechanism working to grab the icy pavement.

“No,” she whispered through her teeth, her heart tattooing wildly, her mind screaming. She stomped on the brake pedal, trying to slow the damned car down!

She braced herself against the steering wheel, her foot jabbing hard on the brake.

Stop! Stop the car, now!

One wheel slipped over the edge.

The car rocked crazily.

She cranked on the steering wheel again. Hard.

Too late!

Momentum propelled her Subaru over the edge.

And then the car was falling, plunging into the coming night.

Through the windshield, Jillian saw the tops of snow-covered trees, heard the scrape of branches tearing at the car’s underbelly and sides.

Glass shattered.

Metal twisted and groaned.

She screamed, arms covering her face, both feet on the brake pedal, as the mid-size car hurtled into the dark, gaping abyss of the canyon.

Perfect!

The silver vehicle with Washington plates plummeted into the canyon.

Free-falling almost in slow motion.

A thing of beauty.

The “accident” planned to meticulous perfection.

The Subaru tumbled and dropped.

Brittle tree branches snapped.

Frozen snow fell in clumps.

Metal shrieked.

A scream rang through the ravine, a scream of pure, unadulterated terror.

Which couldn’t have been more exquisite.

All of the waiting had been worth it.

Jillian Rivers, the bitch, was finally about to die.

Jillian’s eyelids snapped open.

But she couldn’t see…all around was darkness.

She groaned as a burning, grinding pain shrieked through her body. And her vision, oh God, why couldn’t she make out anything? Her legs were on fire, her head thudding, something covering her mouth and nose, cutting off her air.

Oh, sweet God in heaven, what happened?

Where am I?

And please, please make the pain stop!

She tried to draw in a breath, gasping around whatever was over her face, suffocating her.

Panic engulfed her, but she attempted to put it at bay. It was dark, but not completely, and the object over her face wasn’t pressing down, wasn’t stopping the flow of air completely. Her mind cleared as she tried to bat it away. What the hell was it? A pillow? No. A damned balloon? No…oh dear God, it was an air bag!

Teeth chattering from the cold or shock, she flailed at the damned bag and pushed it to one side. Despite the pounding in her head, she tried to focus. Slowly she realized she was trapped in the twisted wreckage that had been her Subaru.

A car wreck?

I was in an accident. Oh Holy Mother, my ankle!

She sucked in a breath, tried to think back. She was trapped inside a car, her ten-year-old Subaru Outback, now mangled and dead. It was freezing cold, wind screaming through the shattered windshield. Her head pounded and she felt blood, sticky and warm, in her hair.

Her thoughts were scattered and disjointed, as if she were drunk, blackness threatening to pull her under, pain keeping her conscious.

You’ve got a concussion, you idiot. You’ve got a stupid concussion. That’s why you feel light-headed. Wake up, Jillian, and figure this out! You’re going to freeze in here.

She moved just a bit.

Pain stopped her cold.

Every bone in her body felt as if it were broken, her muscles and skin bruised, agony throbbing through her joints.

Gritting her teeth, she tried to move again, but her left foot, pinned beneath the crumpled dash, wouldn’t budge. Pain jagged up her leg. Nausea boiled in her throat and she nearly retched. She felt the blood drain from her face and knew she was on the verge of passing out.

Don’t do it. Don’t let go. Hang on, whatever you do. Losing consciousness will kill you.

Taking deep breaths, her chest aching as if she’d cracked ribs, she struggled to stay awake.

God, it was cold. So damned cold. She tried the ignition, twisting the key, but nothing happened, as if the starter itself were ruined. She tried again and again, but there wasn’t so much as a click indicating the engine was trying to spark.

“Damn it all to hell,” she muttered, giving up on any hope of starting the car.

She stared out the splintered glass to the coming dusk and the snow blowing in wild circles, a million swirling flakes caught in the dim beams of headlights twisted at odd angles but still, somehow, giving off cockeyed illumination.

Maybe someone would see her, find her because of the headlights splashing in macabre patterns upward through the trees.

And if they don’t, what happens? You freeze. Right here in this wreck of a car. You have to get out, Jillian, and you have to get out now!

“Help!” she cried. “Someone, help me!”