Born To Die (18 page)

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Authors: Lisa Jackson

BOOK: Born To Die
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“Then, please, stay for pie and coffee.” Hattie's perfectly arched eyebrows had drawn together in concern, little lines of worry evident between her brows. McKenzie imitated her mother's expression, while Mallory was dipping an experimental finger into the dollop of whipped cream that was melting on the pumpkin filling of her pie.
“Sorry, I can't. Thanks for the dinner. It was spectacular.” Alvarez avoided Grayson's eyes because she hated trying to fabricate excuses and had always prided herself as a straight shooter. Lying didn't come easily.
Grayson followed her into the hallway and found her coat on a peg near the door. “Whatever it is can wait.”
“Don't think so.”
He grabbed the crook of her arm. “What's going on?”
“Just a mix-up with some lab requests and reports.” He let go, and she almost sighed in relief. “As I said, nothing serious. I just want it straightened out ASAP.” She slipped her arms into the wool sleeves and felt like a fool as he helped her shrug into the shoulders. Grabbing her scarf from one of the pegs with one hand, she reached for the door with her other. “Thanks so much for the meal. It was incredible,” she said and hurried outside.
Reaching her car, she glanced back to see Grayson standing on the stoop, watching her slide behind the wheel of her Jeep.
“Dan?” Hattie's muffled voice sounded from the other room.
Alvarez rammed the keys into the ignition and, as the engine sparked to life, flipped on the wipers to brush off the accumulation of snow that had collected on the windshield. She backed around and hit the gas. In her rearview mirror she spied the door to Grayson's cabin close, all warmth and light shut away from the winter night.
Disappointment clutched her heart in its cold, bitter grasp, and she chided herself. What had she expected, huh? That she and the sheriff would eat an intimate dinner alone, that they would sip the wine she brought, maybe even share a kiss?
She could scarcely bear her own thoughts. She turned onto the main highway, only to be trapped by a snowplow steadfastly pushing snow to the side of the road, its huge blade scraping a layer of ice.
Alvarez slowed to fifteen miles an hour and advised herself never to be so foolish again.
 
 
She was still gone.
He knew it by the lack of ruts in her driveway and the fact that the lights glowing in Acacia's home were the same ones that were wired to timers, set to go off at specific hours. The den's desk lamp clicked on at 5:00 a.m. every morning, and the downstairs table lamp brightened the rooms at four thirty in the afternoon without fail. Day in, day out.
But no other patches of light were visible through the bare-branched trees. In spring and summer her home was hidden from the road, but this time of year, with no foliage on the cottonwoods, aspens, and chokecherries that rimmed her house, the buildings could be observed. Yes, they were nearly a quarter of a mile off the main road, with fields and the sparse trees separating the house from traffic, but even on a wintry night like this, lamplight was visible.
He had been careful as he didn't know if she was returning tonight and he feared his footsteps would be visible in the snow. Though he knew that he should be cautious, that attacking her now could bring more attention to him than he wanted, he was also a believer in taking any opportunity that presented itself. The holidays provided cover as there was more traffic, and people were busy and distracted. Currently she had no alarm system, no guard dog, and no roommate, but any of those factors could change in a heartbeat. He had to act swiftly, while he could.
Driving slowly, he had passed by the lane leading to her house once, then once again, and convinced she hadn't shown up, decided to take the chance.
He'd parked a mile and a half away, behind a pile of boulders at an old rock quarry, then strapped on his cross-country skis for the trek. Fortunately, her family's farm abutted a national forest, and he had few fences to cross. There were trails that wound through the stands of pine, tamarack, and juniper, and he'd learned the closest routes.
Wearing night-vision goggles, he'd skied carefully through the quiet forest, scaring up a snowshoe hare, which had hopped quickly into a thicket of snowy pines.
His blood had been pumping; his ears were straining to listen; his eyes scanning the frigid landscape. He'd caught sight of a deer, which had stood frozen as he passed, and saw the back of a martin as it had slunk through the underbrush.
Jamming his poles into the snow, he'd pushed through the woods until he'd reached the far side of the Lambert property. He'd hesitated a minute, ears straining, eyes searching the surrounding acres for any sign of life. Now satisfied that he was alone, he slid out of his skis and strapped on his snowshoes before crossing the fence separating private property from government land.
Once inside the fence line, he moved quickly and silently, as he had years before in the desert, when he'd been in the marines. Keeping near to the fence so as not to make his tracks too apparent, he noiselessly made his way to the outbuildings. Despite the freezing temperature, he was sweating, his nerves strung tight as guy wires, his muscles tight. Ready.
At the back of the nearest shed, he paused, drew a deep breath, then keeping close to the walls of the outbuildings, made his way ever closer to the house, where once again he saw a warm patch of light glowing from the den.
He couldn't help but smile.
Her attempt to make the house appear occupied was amateurish, even naive.
As he entered the back of the main yard, he paused, checking the house again, making sure no one was inside; then he stepped through the bushes to pause near the exterior wall of the garage.
The night was thick with falling snow; the silence broken only by his own breaths and heartbeat. No other sounds disturbed the stillness.
He was safe.
But he didn't know for how long.
Quickly he unstrapped the snowshoes from his boots, then eased across the rear of the garage and around the back corner. Carefully, he dared flick on his flashlight and peer through the window of the side door.
No vehicle was inside.
She hadn't returned.
Yet.
Patiently, planting his feet in the footsteps she'd made earlier, he made his way up the back porch to the door. From deep in the pocket of his ski jacket, he retrieved a ring of keys and found the one he'd had made earlier. He smiled as he remembered disabling the furnace, pretending to be a repairman, and “running out for a part” after he'd lifted the keys from the purse he'd found in her desk. He'd had the key made, returned, dropped her keys into the side pocket of her purse, then “fixed” the furnace by replacing the part he'd taken from it. So simple. So easy. And now, just as easily, he unlocked the door.
He took off his boots, hid them behind a stack of outdoor furniture, then, in stocking feet, stepped inside Acacia's home. Scents enveloped him—cold coffee lying darkly in the glass pot of the coffeemaker, warm spices because of the scented candles placed throughout the interior, and even the tiniest waft of her perfume, still lingering in the air.
He reached into his pocket, opened a vial, and poured the powder into the ground coffee sitting on a shelf near the coffeemaker. Then, as he'd learned during his tour of duty in Afghanistan, he set about placing bugs in her bedroom, living room, kitchen, and den. They were remote, could be accessed from a receiver a long distance away, conversations listened to or recorded.
Perfect.
As he set the last tiny microphone under her bed, he smiled to himself and wondered what he might hear.
Then, checking his watch, he made his way out of the house the same way he came in and felt confident the snowfall would cover his tracks. He locked the door behind him, pulled on his boots, and carefully stepped in the very footsteps she'd originally created. Unless she arrived home in the next half hour, the snow would cover any hint of his tracks. She wouldn't notice that her own boot prints were smaller than his.
Oh, she was a smart one, but Acacia Lambert had no idea what she was up against.
But then none of them did, and there were others who demanded his attention.
Grinning to himself, he adjusted his night goggles and found his snowshoes where he'd left them.
In his mind's eye, he saw the bitch making her first cup of coffee in the morning. She didn't stand a chance against him.
And soon she would realize it.
But by that time, it would be too late.
CHAPTER 15
A
s Kacey drove home, snow was falling in big, lacy flakes, which, had she been in a better mood, might have filled her with delight. As it was, she was bothered about her mother's interest in David Spencer. Not that she didn't want Maribelle to be happy, but for years the woman had been miserable, the dutiful if disinterested wife of a man she barely tolerated. When Kacey's dad had suffered his stroke and never fully recovered, they'd sold their house and moved here, to Rolling Hills. Maribelle, with the help of the staff, had grudgingly tended to him, and during that time she'd barely been able to scare up a smile.
He'd died within a couple of years, and only then did she show any emotion that she'd loved the man or missed him.
Even then, Kacey had suspected that Maribelle had been more interested in portraying herself as the martyred widow, rather than feeling any true loss at her sick husband's death.
“Stop it,” she chastised herself while staring at the ribbon of plowed road ahead. Her mother was happy, and that was all that mattered, she told herself, grateful that she was nearly home. Just a few more miles. Kacey should be thankful that Maribelle had found someone.
And yet she felt a gnawing dissatisfaction and wondered why her mother had found a way of skirting the most difficult of subjects.
There was something off about how she'd handled the questions about her husband's infidelity or the possibility of any other children, something that bothered Kacey.
She's lying.
She frowned, catching sight of her troubled expression in the rearview mirror just as headlights blazed in the reflection.
Your mother's lying to you, straight out.
“But why?” she wondered aloud.
Maybe it wasn't her father who had other children; maybe it was Maribelle herself. But was that even possible?
The headlights were blinding, the guy behind her having his beams on high, the light refracting crazily as it caught in all the falling snow and mirrors.
Her mother's reticence with the truth wasn't going to stop her. As a doctor, Kacey had access to information and medical records that might help her get to the truth, and if she couldn't dig it up herself, then she also had a patient who, while under anesthesia, once had claimed to have hacked into all kinds of government files. She decided that if she couldn't get the information she wanted on her own, there was no reason not to see if Tydeus Chilcoate was the real deal, or if he was only a computer hacker demigod in his own mind due to the effects of local anesthesia. She was willing to take the chance and enlist him if need be because her mother's reticence had really ticked her off.
What was it Maribelle had said? Oh, right, she'd suggested that Kacey's questions were an “inquisition.” Yeah, right. Throw on the guilt, avoid the real issue. Deflect, deflect, deflect.
Irritated, she saw the bastard in the vehicle behind her pull into the oncoming lane and gun it. Engine roaring, tires spitting up snow, his light-colored van pulled up alongside hers.
Was he out of his friggin' mind?
She slowed to let him pass. “Idiot!” she muttered and glanced over. Two people were in the front, a man and a woman, she thought. The woman, in the passenger seat, was smoking a cigarette. She looked over at Kacey and said something to the driver.
Suddenly, the guy lost control.
The van swerved into her lane.
“Damn!” Kacey stepped on her brakes and veered toward the shoulder, which sloped off to the deep ditch that ran alongside the road.
Her heart clutched.
Her tires skidded.
She gripped the steering wheel hard, her knuckles showing white as she tried to remain calm. “Come on, come on!” she said, nervous sweat dampening her brow. Her car began a slow, steady spin. The other car sped past, throwing up snow.
Drive with the spin. Don't fight it!
She remembered the old axiom her grandfather had pounded into her head from the time she was old enough to get her learner's permit. But aiming toward the piles of plowed snow that had been swept to the edge of the road seemed wrong.
Don't panic!
Heart racing, fear spurting through her blood, she tried like hell to steer her careening car back into the lane, but as the Edge righted, her fender sheered through the packed snow, sending a spray of ice into the air.
“Crap!”
She overcorrected, and the car began to twist again, shuddering and sliding into the oncoming lane.
Headlights glared bright.
Oh. God.
A big truck was bearing down on her!
Frantically, she yanked on the wheel.
The car slid sideways, and she worked the brakes again. Desperately she tried to steer out of the truck's path.
A horn blasted, echoing in the night.
“Oh, Jesus!” Her heart nearly stopped.
The damned brakes locked.
Still the little SUV skidded sideways, the driver's side exposed to the massive grille of a pickup barreling down on her.
“Son of a bitch!” Frantic, Kacey stepped on the gas while forcing her steering wheel to turn. Her car lurched, tires spinning crazily. “Come on, come on!”
Sweat beaded on her brow.
The truck bore down on her, close enough that she could see the driver's face. Their eyes locked. For a split second she thought she recognized him, had seen his face somewhere before. Then she braced herself for the impact. The driver turned away and blasted his horn. The truck slid as the driver stood on his brakes.
She hit the gas.
Her Edge jolted suddenly, tires catching hold.
The little SUV leaped forward, straightening, but not before the corner of the pickup's front panel clipped her back bumper.
Bam!
The entire SUV shuddered! Kacey's seat belt cinched tight. Her vehicle was sent spinning crazily across both lanes, snow and ice flying, the inky night flashing through her frozen windshield.
“Come on, come on,” she said as if the damned vehicle could understand her. She worked the brakes and the steering wheel, fighting the spin, feeling sick.
The whirling, swirling darkness eased a bit.
Frozen, snow-covered trees that had been reeling monoliths careening past her windows now became distinct.
The road seemed to straighten.
Finally the Edge stopped.
Kacey's stomach settled. “Oh, damn,” she whispered, her heart thudding wildly, her pulse jumping. She took a deep breath and felt nervous sweat begin to dry on her skin.
Her vehicle's nose was pointed in the opposite direction of her house, now facing oncoming traffic as she was in the wrong lane. Fortunately, there were no cars or trucks approaching from either direction. Farther ahead, the pickup had stopped, his taillights glowing a bright red and reflecting against the dirty snow packed onto the asphalt.
Her hands were shaking violently as she eased onto the gas and carefully drove forward, sliding into the correct lane behind the idling pickup. She was pointed in the wrong direction, away from her house, but now, at least, she was in the right lane as far as traffic was concerned, though thankfully there was still none.
Like it or not, she had to talk to the dark-haired guy in the pickup and explain what had happened as she exchanged insurance information with him, but as her headlights reached the tailgate of the snow-covered truck, the once-idling truck took off, snow and ice flying from beneath its tires.
“Hey!” she yelled.
What the hell?
For a split second, she considered taking off after him. There was damage to her car, and potentially to the pickup. Technically, unless the driver of the car that had passed her and nearly sideswiped her was found, she was at fault. She stepped on the gas, but her tires spun and the truck was disappearing into the night, its license plate, from Idaho, smudged and dark, only the number eight—or was it three?—visible.
What was it about the driver that had seemed so familiar? His dark hair? The way he stared down at her? Something else?
Straining so hard to see the license plate of the retreating vehicle, at first she didn't notice the woman at the edge of the road. But a movement caught her eye, and she realized she wasn't alone. A tall, slim woman with graying blond hair peeking out of a white stocking cap was walking along a trail leading from the surrounding woods. Grace Perchant. The local woman who claimed to speak with ghosts and predict the future. At Grace's side was a huge dog, its bristly fur tan and gray, its eyes, those of a cunning predator. Part wolf, local gossip claimed, and Kacey believed it.
Grace approached her car as Kacey rolled down the window. “Did you see that?” she asked, and the other woman nodded. “I don't know why he took off.”
“Don't worry about it.”
The wolf dog growled low in his throat, eyes as pale as his master's fixed on the surrounding forest.
“Bane, hush!” Grace commanded, and the big animal became mute.
Kacey was still talking about the other driver. “But . . . his truck might be damaged and my car—”
“Your car is fine.” Grace glanced toward the darkness into which the driver had guided his truck.
“I should speak with him.”
“No.” Grace's gaze returned to Kacey's. Pale green eyes were round with concern. “You should never speak to him.”
“Why? You know him?”
Grace was shaking her head and again turned to face the stretch of icy road that disappeared into darkness. “I only know that he's evil,” she said, her breath clouding in the air. “He means you harm.”
“He took off! And I don't think he meant to hit me.”
Grace turned back to her. “Be careful,” she warned and, whistling to the dog, walked across the road to a spot where the ditch wasn't quite so deep and a path curved into the surrounding forest.
“Weird,” Kacey said under her breath, still shaken up, then, with some effort, turned her car around and cautiously drove the last four miles to the house she now called home. The lane was piled thick with snow, but her car, dented though it was, churned through the white powder and drove easily to its spot in the garage.
It was nearly eleven by the time she let out her breath and listened to the engine tick as it began to cool. After climbing out of the car, she flipped on the interior lights to survey the damage.
A crumpled bumper on one side, a few scratches, and a small dent were all that had happened. Easily fixed. And she was lucky to have survived. The accident could have been so much worse. Telling herself to deal with everything in the morning, she locked the garage behind her and started for the back door. The night was still, snow gently falling, the path she'd broken earlier already partially filled with new snow. Yet she had no trouble following it, her boots stepping in the large prints she'd left earlier. On the porch she paused and looked around the yard. Why, she didn't know, just an uneasy feeling that had been with her all night. The accident hadn't helped, nor had the other driver's quick exit.
What had Grace said? That the driver was “evil,” that he meant Kacey harm?
That's ridiculous. Don't go there!
He was just another driver in a hurry. And yet she felt a chill deep in her soul and remembered thinking fleetingly that she'd seen the driver somewhere before. “Now you're imagining things.” She let herself inside and made certain the dead bolt was secure behind her.
Snapping on lights, she had the ludicrous sensation that someone had been inside. “Oh, for the love of God.” Still, she eyed each room, stepping through the archways and doors as she unwound her scarf, then hung it and her coat on the hall tree near the front door.
No knife-wielding, masked boogeyman leaped out at her.
No dark shadow crossed her path.
No pairs of eyes glowed from behind the curtains.
Muttering beneath her breath, she headed up the stairs. One step down from the landing, she paused, certain she smelled something out of the ordinary lingering in the small alcove where a portrait of her grandparents was mounted on the faded wallpaper Kacey had sworn she would take it down. She hadn't. The pale pink rose pattern had been Grannie's favorite, and Kacey had had neither the time nor the heart to strip it from the walls.
She touched her finger to her lips, then brushed it over her smiling grandparents' faces and wondered what they knew about the women who looked like her. Jocelyn Wallis and Shelly Bonaventure, “dead ringers” for her who had lived in the area.
She continued to climb the stairs. The third step from the top creaked as it always did, and Kacey smiled, remembering how she'd avoided stepping on that particular plank as a child, first considering it “bad luck” and later so as not to wake her snoring grandfather and light-sleeping grandmother as she snuck out of the house during those blissful, hot Montana summers, when the smell of cut hay and dust filled her nostrils and she rode her horse bareback through the moonlit fields.

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