Chosen to Die (29 page)

There was a moment of silence as they were all lost in their own thoughts and ideas. Then Alvarez said, “Elyssa O’Leary and Brandy Hooper,” reading from the missing persons report she’d printed from her computer. “They’re the most likely candidates for Star-Crossed.”

“We haven’t found any vehicles registered to them,” Van Droz remarked.

“We will,” Watershed said. “Just a matter of time.”

“Well, if it’s Hooper and O’Leary, then it looks like Star-Crossed has been cozying up to medical students,” Zoller pointed out. “Start with Ms. Hooper. Twenty-seven, a resident at OHSU in Portland, Oregon, reported missing nine days ago when she didn’t show up at her parents’ home in Missoula. Reports were filed in Oregon, Idaho, and Montana. She’s the only girl we have on file with the initials
B
and
H
, which, when added to the
E
and
O
from Elyssa O’Leary’s initials, who, by the way is a nursing student, would give more credence to the BEWARE THE SCORPION’S…something with an
H
.”

“O’Leary has an apostrophe,” Alvarez said.

Everyone looked at her. “You think he went that far? To even add in the apostrophe?” Grayson asked.

“He has that much attention to detail,” she responded.

“Again. A lot of assumptions,” Gage said. “There’s always the chance that other girls with the same initials have been abducted. Someone who hasn’t been reported, or, at least not reported in this jurisdiction.”

“O’Leary’s parents believe her boyfriend, Cesar Pelton, is involved in her disappearance,” Zoller reminded them.

“Any confirmation on that?” Grayson asked.

Brewster shook his head. “Chandler was checking on that.”

Gage said, “For now, we won’t assume these women are dead. They could still be held captive by Star-Crossed, or just be unlucky enough to have the initials of some of the victims.”

“Fat chance,” Watershed stated. “We know he’s got them.”

“There’s a possibility we’ve got the wrong girls,” Alvarez said. “So we won’t notify their families, nor are we going to assume they’re dead. We’re going to find them, and we’re going to also find the girls these initials do represent.”

Grayson nodded his agreement, but Brewster shook his head. “I’m with Watershed. We
know
these are the girls.”

“What we need to do is find them,” Grayson returned. “And until we have concrete evidence that either Brandy Hooper or Elyssa O’Leary is a Star-Crossed victim, there will be no talking to the press or the womens’ families. For the moment Manny Douglas and the
Reporter
are keeping a lid on the contents of the notes, but they can’t wait to spill. So let’s go get this guy! Get the choppers in the air. Find them!”

He said it with fervor and everyone in the room quickly got to their feet. As they bustled out, Alvarez saw the worry in their eyes. They all believed that somewhere out in the Montana wilderness, two other women were already dead, their bodies blue and frozen.

Maybe three, if you counted Pescoli.

Jeremy felt like hell. He’d crashed on Tyler’s mom’s lumpy couch after taking off from the jail. Now his back felt like he’d been sleeping on a bowling ball.

He sighed and got himself into a sitting position. It was still better than the drunk tank. What a bad trip
that
had been, with the old guy yabbering on and on about aliens and old women and Yetis…and still no word on Mom.

If he could think of
anything
to do to help find her, he’d do it. But what could he do? Who could he call?

His cell phone was vibrating in his jeans pocket. He pulled it out, annoyed, and saw that Bianca had called him about a jillion times. And then there were her texts:

Where R U?

Come get me!

Call me!!!

I h8 it here!

Where’s Mom?

Every text with a damned exclamation point, as if she were wired. Or on something. Though as far as he knew, she was straight. Just a pain in the butt.

Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he got to his feet, used the bathroom, then splashed water over his face to wake himself up. He poked his head into Tyler’s room where Tyler was facedown on the bed in his clothes, his face buried in a pillow. He looked half dead, but then made a loud, smacking noise with his mouth as he shifted position.

Tyler’s mom was still sleeping, too. Jeremy could hear the sound of snoring through the closed door to her room. She was sawing some serious logs.

He grabbed his keys, cell phone, and wallet, then walked out of the second-floor apartment, down the stairs to the parking lot. It was snowing like crazy and there had to be four inches piled up on the hood of his truck. He started to put on his gloves, but only had one. Searching his pockets, he didn’t find the other, so he headed inside again, searched the couch, and couldn’t find it.

Great.

Outside again, he nearly slipped on the stairs, then walked through the snow to his truck.

Man, was he sick of the stuff.

When he moved out of the house, he figured he’d head to California, where there was hot sun and hotter chicks. He’d learn to surf and maybe work in a surf shop on the beach, or in a computer store, or something. He’d do anything, if he could just get out of this cold.

But first Mom had to come home. Had to. It just couldn’t be any other way.

His phone buzzed again. This time it was Heidi.

“Yeah?” he said, as he reached his truck and began batting the snow from its windshield with his one glove.

“What’s up?”

“Not Tyler.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“My dad said you were in the drunk tank.”

“Guess who put me there?” He was still pissed as hell at Heidi’s jerk of a dad.

“Well, he let you go,” she reminded him, in that wheedling voice that used to turn him on but now bugged him.

“’Cuz I shouldn’t have been arrested!”

“He thinks I should break up with you.”

“Not exactly a news flash, Heidi.”

“Are you mad at me?” she demanded, getting pissed.

“How would you like to spend the night in a drunk tank with an old guy who thinks he was transported to some alien ship? Not fun.”

“Where are you now?”

“Leaving Tyler’s.”

“Can you stop by and pick me up?”

“No!” Did she have any brains at all? “I’m not gonna go another round with your dad. I know he’s probably at work. I don’t care. I’ll talk to you later.”

He clicked off and climbed into the cab, then started heading toward the center of Grizzly Falls. He didn’t know where he was going, who he could possibly see. Who might help him find his mom.

He just knew he couldn’t count on the police.

The wipers slapped the snow aside but it kept coming down. Jeremy turned by the sheriff’s department and got a little heebie-jeebie shiver down his spine. Didn’t wanna go back there!

His cell phone buzzed again.
Damn it, Heidi.
But this time it was Bianca.

“I got your billion messages, okay? I’m just busy,” he said impatiently, turning the wheel and heading down the hill into Old Grizz.

“Come and get me!” she wailed. “I can’t stand it here. Where’s Mom? Have you heard anything?”

“No! I—” Jeremy sucked in his breath sharply. There, just climbing out of his truck, was Nate Santana, his mom’s lover. Maybe he was the bastard who’d kidnapped her. Maybe it was
his
fault!

“What?” Bianca demanded.

“Gotta go.” He clicked off, tossed the cell onto the passenger seat, then parked his truck next to Santana’s. Hurriedly, he climbed out, following the dark-haired man down the slippery, snow-covered sidewalk. “Hey!” he yelled. “Santana!”

The man cocked his head, then slowly turned around. Behind him, the neon sign of the Spot Tavern glowed through the white haze. Seeing Jeremy, Santana frowned, his harsh features growing even harsher. Jeremy strode up to him and they stared at each other through the falling snow.

Looking at him, thinking about him with his mom, thinking about everything that had happened to all of them these last few days, Jeremy felt anger boil up inside him. He wanted to kill the bastard!

“I oughtta rip your fucking head off!” he yelled furiously. “What have you done with my
mom
!”

What the hell?

It took Santana a second to recognize Jeremy Strand, Regan’s son, with his tousled, didn’t-bother-with-a-comb hair and wrinkled pants. But there the boy was, standing just yards from him, eyes blazing, bare fists curled, standing on the balls of his feet, looking like he was ready to lunge.

“You think I had something to do with your mom’s disappearance?” Santana asked, stunned by the kid’s nerve.

“I know you’ve been doin’ her!”

“Hey!” Santana took a step toward the kid, pointing a gloved finger at Jeremy’s face. “That’s enough! I wish I did know where your mother was. I do. But I don’t. I had nothing to do with her disappearance.”

“Sure.” Jeremy spat on the ground. He was itching to take a swing.

“I don’t have time for this BS. Take your attitude and go home.” He felt the clock ticking, the seconds of Regan’s life sliding away. In a lower voice, he added, “I know it’s rough, man, but this isn’t helping.”

“Like you would know!” Jeremy’s jaw was set. Hard. He didn’t appear as if he were ready to back down, and now a couple of men who had been heading into the bar had paused near the parking meters, watching from beneath the brims of hats fast collecting snow.

Nate groaned inside.

Just what he needed: a crowd.

Next thing you knew a police cruiser would stop by.

“Just calm down,” he said, opening up his palm in a conciliatory gesture.

“You’re the only lowlife she hangs out with.”

Santana gritted his teeth. The kid was spoiling for a fight and Santana thought it might be a good lesson to take him on. They were about the same height, though Santana probably had thirty pounds on the kid. But sometimes, he knew from his own experience, something physical, including a wrestling match or fistfight, was just what a testosterone-fired teenage boy needed to get his brain back. To think straight.

The guys near the meters weren’t budging. Hoping for some action. The door to the bar opened for a second, the sounds of conversation and music tinkling out, and then Ole Olson, a regular who was as wide as he was tall, walked onto the street. He was zipping up his coat and stopped short just outside the door, fascinated by the hint of a fight. This was no good.

“Listen, Jeremy, you need to go find your sister and wait.”

“My sister.” Jeremy snorted. “She’s a pain.”

“That might just be a family trait.”

“Hey! Don’t go knocking my family!” Jeremy bristled.

“It’s what your mother would want. For her kids to be together.”

“How would you know what she’d want?”

“I want her back, too,” he gritted. “And I’m trying to figure it out, so don’t get in my way!”

“Don’t take any shit, kid,” Ole, never long on brains, said, still trying to work his zipper. “Go on, what’re ya waitin’ for?” His fat hand yanked on the zipper tab so hard it snapped off. “Oh, hell.”

“Is that what you want? To knock me flat?” Santana asked.

“Yes.” Jeremy was emphatic.

“Then, come on. Take your best shot.” He figured Jeremy might take one swing, but he could duck it and pin the kid on the icy sidewalk, if he had to.

From the corner of his eye he noticed Ivor Hicks jaywalking from a parking lot across the street and making a beeline for the welcoming warmth of the Spot.

Jeremy saw the old guy, too. Watched Ivor walk through the door. If possible, his lips thinned more.

“I don’t have time for this,” Santana said, his attention on Ivor. Jeremy seized the moment, flinging himself through the air, throwing a punch that landed square on Santana’s jaw.

Damn!

Pain exploded on the side of his face. Instinctively, Nate grabbed the boy and twisted him around, using a move he’d learned in the military, which sent the kid to his knees.

Leaning forward, the boy’s arm twisted painfully, Santana gritted into his ear. “You do
not
want to mess with me. Got that? I’m doing everything I can to find your mom. I wasn’t kidding when I say I care about her. I’m doing everything, every damned thing I can, to find her and make sure she’s safe.”

“She doesn’t need you!”

“If you don’t want your ass to land in jail, you’d better just walk away. Take care of your sister. This isn’t the way to deal with it.”

With that he released the boy and strode into the tavern, exercising his jaw. He knew the kid was just acting out. That his father was dead. That Regan and a half sister were all Jeremy Strand had in the world.

But the kid had better learn early on he couldn’t just throw punches.

Inside the bar, Nate walked to one of the windows and watched Jeremy pick himself up. With a glowering look over his shoulder at the bar, he walked, shoulders hunched, down the street toward a dented Chevy truck that had to be twenty years old.

I’m going to find your mother,
Nate promised silently, as Jeremy, still frowning, pulled away from the curb, nearly hitting a truck with a canopy that pulled around a corner too fast and gunned up the slick street. Jeremy’s truck stopped just in time and Jeremy yelled something at the guy, but the truck was already speeding across the railroad tracks at the base of Boxer Bluff.

Drawing a breath, Santana turned from the window and considered Ivor Hicks, who’d parked himself on a stool at the bar in his usual spot.

I nearly hit the old truck!

Hell!

I have to be more careful!

Sweat breaks out over my body, but I tell myself it’s all right. The accident was avoided.

Another close call averted.

It was bad enough spying Ivor walking into the tavern as I came out of the restroom. Thankfully, he didn’t see me, was more interested in some altercation on the street, so I paid my bill and headed out the back door, something I do often enough not to bring any attention to me.

I just wanted to give myself an alibi, let some of the regulars get a glimpse of me.

But not Ivor.

No way.

Not that I thought for a second he could put two and two together and come up with four, but he was the idiot who saw me just after I sent good old Brady to his Maker and he might come out of his drunken stupor enough to realize it was me at the Lazy L, not a Yeti.

The old man is a definite problem.

Always showing up at the wrong time.

I glance in the rearview mirror and realize that the truck that had nearly pulled out in front of me belongs to Regan Pescoli’s kid. I’ve seen him hauling ass in the old Chevrolet more times than I care to remember.

Ironic, I think, as I drive up Boxer Bluff and past the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department, set back from the road not far from the jail.

I wonder if Manny Douglas has shared his information with the cops yet. Maybe yes. Maybe no. I know a part of him will want to keep the information and publish it, try to “crack the case” himself. His ego is so big that he’ll have the mistaken notion that his fame will spread and he’ll be propelled to national stardom. He has grandiose ideas. I’ve heard him brag that he once turned down a job at the
Seattle Post-Intelligencer
. “The
Post
,” as he calls it. Like there isn’t any other. Not even the
New York Post
or closer still, the
Denver Post
, or others scattered across the continent. Oh, yeah, Manny, you’re brilliant. Maybe losing you is why “The
Post
” is no longer printing, the reason it went fully digital. They lost out on that whip-sharp, ace reporter Manny Douglas, and things have just gone downhill ever since.

Hah.

I laugh aloud, then pull into my usual gas station to tank up, buy some coffee, and talk to the cashier, wish her a Merry Christmas. I’ll be on camera, and she’ll remember me, along with the waitress where I left a big tip for my breakfast.

Alibis, alibis, alibis.

If Manny has shared the contents of his mail, the sheriff’s department is a madhouse.

And if he hasn’t, they’ll learn soon enough.

“Have a good one,” I say with a wave as I carry my tall cup of coffee back to my truck.

“You, too. Merry Christmas!”

She’s a pretty young thing and if her initials had been right for my purpose, she might have become a candidate.
No, no, no! Remember: No one local. No one who can be tied to you. Except for Pescoli. That was the deal.

I fire up the truck and wonder about that. Maybe Pescoli was a mistake. But I couldn’t help myself.

Not only did her name lend itself so well to the creation of my message, but how better to stick it to Dan Grayson than by taking one of his own?

But you shot Brady Long. He’s local. The police will tie the bullet to the other killings.

That might have been a little bold; maybe even cocky, I acknowledge, as I roll out from under the overhang of the gas station where a black leg dangles from its eave, the booted foot of a stuffed Santa, trying to climb onto the roof of Bitterroot Gas and Mini Mart.

As I pull away, I see the rest of Santa’s body lying facedown as he appears to cling to the roof, his sack of toys spilling over.

Everyone in this town is an imbecile except me. It’s pathetic.

With a full tank and alibis all over the place, I turn on the road leading away from town and into the surrounding hills. I’ve had my fun, now it’s time to deal with Regan Pescoli.

She hasn’t been broken yet.

And even now is probably plotting her next escape.

Or is doing it right now.

My heart lurches.

You left her handcuffed and broken from the fight, but she’s not one to give up easily. Did you lock the door?

Glancing in the rearview, I see the worry in my own eyes and I step on it. I’m less than half an hour from the mine.

Run!

Keep moving!

Run as fast as you can!

God, it was freezing.

But Regan kept going, flailing through the snow, panicked to the marrow of her bones.

Once she’d realized she was free, she’d snagged a jacket, thrown it on, left the cabin, and started running. Blindly. Crazily. Certain her assailant was on her tail. She had no idea where she was and the sun was blocked by the snow, so she didn’t even know which direction she was heading.

She just ran.

As far and as fast as her battered body would allow.

But now the cabin was out of sight and she had to stop, dragging in deep, painful breaths, needing to get her bearings. She had to take stock and start thinking like a cop, not a frightened doe.

Squeezing her eyes shut tight, she grimaced, forcing the panic and pain to the back of her consciousness, trying like hell to find a calmness, the cold, calculating side of her brain, all of her training. She fought the urge to flee like a crazy person.

Sheer terror wouldn’t help her find Elyssa O’Leary.

Think, Regan, think.

She opened her eyes. Took another calming breath. Felt the snow melt upon her cheeks.

Already she’d made a mistake.

Her tracks would be visible for some time, even with the snowfall.

Whenever the son of a bitch returned, all he had to do was follow the broken trail of snow. It wouldn’t take a seasoned tracker to find her.

Swearing under her breath, swiping the snow from her eyes and pulling up the hood of her jacket, she stared at her all-too-visible tracks miserably.

They might as well have been marked with a bright red sign: This way to Regan Pescoli.

Pull it together or else you’ll die out here, if not from Star-Crossed, then from your own damned stupidity.

No way would it snow hard enough, or the wind blow fast enough, to cover her tracks.

But what about his?

She knew the sicko had taken Elyssa from the cabin. Recently. Surely there were other tracks? Maybe half buried, but tracks leading to a vehicle…the same damned truck that had brought her up here.

She had to go back. Circle around. Make it look like she was heading downhill, then double back around to the cabin and find his trail.

Shivering, her body aching, she hated to return.

But she had no choice, not really. To save herself. To save Elyssa. She had to track him down.

Santana straddled the stool next to Ivor’s. They were at the bend in the bar, farthest from the door, only ten feet from the restrooms. Christmas music played on a loop of prerecorded songs that were competing for airspace with the rattle of glasses, fizz of the soda dispenser, clicks from the video poker machines, and hum of conversation. Ivor was nursing a beer and staring glumly into his near-empty glass.