Deep Freeze (29 page)

Shivering violently, her painful teeth chattering so hard they rattled in her skull, she tried to think.

Frigid air swirled around her, whispering over her bare skin.

Was she naked?

She forced her other eye open and saw that she was in some kind of chamber…or laboratory, a dark, cylindrical room that was so cold that her breath fogged in shallow wisps. Suspended over a large tank.

What! Suspended?

Jesus, Roxie, think! Where the hell are you?

Little bits of memory emerged. The accident. The stun gun. The needle. Oh, God, some pervert had her!

She tried to scream but couldn’t force a sound. Her arms were stretched over her head, her wrists bound to a crossbar, her legs, too, strapped against a long, steel beam that pressed against her spine.

Looking down, she saw that the vat was glass and filled with a clear liquid.

Oh, God, it’s acid
, she thought wildly, trying to struggle, as she remembered the horror movies she’d watched so avidly. Panic squeezed through her insides. Ice-cold air swirled around her. She had to escape. Now! Frantically, she searched the large, frigid chamber. The ceiling was twenty feet above her, the rounded walls far away and darkened, but there were people in one corner. No, not people, but the faceless mannequins she’d seen earlier, all dressed in weird clothes…or costumes…clothes she was certain she’d seen somewhere, but that couldn’t be…She swallowed back her fear as she spied posters plastered upon the walls surrounding the macabre stage, posters from movies she’d seen:

Resurrection.

Beneath the Shadows.

Innocence Lost.

Summer’s End.

Movies starring Jenna Hughes…and her pictures were everywhere, tacked to the ceiling and walls. This was some kind of, what—macabre shrine to her? What the hell kind of madness was this?

This is a dream. A nightmare. That’s all. Calm down.

But her heart was racing, thundering in her ears. Though she was frigidly cold, she began to sweat, the thin, wet drops of pure fear.

Was she alone?

“Help!” she yelled. “Oh, God, please,
someone
help me!” But her voice was garbled and muted, even to her own ears. Fear and desperation clawed through her.

Then she saw him. Again.

The dirt-wad who had done this to her.

Stark naked, standing in the eerie blue glow of a computer monitor.

“You fucking bastard!” she tried to yell. “Get me down from here, you prick!” Her words were useless…unintelligible.

He stared up at her. Even smiled.

Oh, God, he was enjoying this.

Her bravado crumbled.

“Help me!” she tried to plead. “Please!”

He moved slightly and she noticed his erection…thick and hard. He was really getting off on this. Oh, God…she thought she might be sick.

He pushed a button on the computer. Music filled the chamber. A song she recognized. The theme from some movie.
White Out,
that was it—the movie was never finished but the song had been released.

The beam jolted.

Terror scraped down Roxie’s spine and she screamed.

With a whirring sound, the steel cable began to unwind.

Slowly the beam began to descend. By inches she was being lowered, closer to the tank of clear, deadly liquid.

“No! Oh, God, no!” She began to whimper and shake, struggled vainly against her bonds, watched in terror as she was lowered ever downward. “Please, for the love of God, let me go!”

The volume of the music increased until it was echoing in the chamber, ricocheting through her brain as the beam touched the clear liquid. She sucked in her breath, the cold burning her lungs as her toes hit the icy liquid.

Not acid.

But water.

Cold enough to freeze solid.

“Stop! Please! Why are you doing this to me?”

Her feet were submerged, muscles cramping against the cold as it crawled upward, ever upward. Past her calves to her thighs and higher still. She screamed wildly, trying to thrash, her legs and arms unresponsive, the bonds too tight, her blood congealing in her body. As the water reached her breasts, she knew that she was doomed. Through her tears and the curved glass of the vat, she saw the son of a bitch again, now so much closer. She spat at him, hitting the glass above the surface of the water. He didn’t so much as flinch. Just stood naked and hard.

Watching.

Waiting.

Killing her by frigid, deadly inches.

Fifteen minutes after deciding to quit holding an old grudge against Wes Allen, Carter was seated at his desk in the courthouse. He spent most of the morning answering e-mail, filling out reports, taking phone calls, and handling the regular business of the department, but all the while he thought about the missing women, Mavis Gette, and the notes Jenna Hughes had received. Were they connected? Not that he could prove anything.

But he wasn’t done trying.

It didn’t help that the D.A.’s office was on his ass. Amanda Pratt had stopped by his office earlier, sweet as pie, inquiring about the Mavis Gette case. The broken collarbone, a bit of an overbite, and finally, DNA, had proved that Jane Doe was Mavis Gette, whose killer was, presumably, still on the loose. As an Assistant D.A., Amanda was getting pressure from the District Attorney, who, in turn, was being pressured by the media and community to find Mavis Gette’s killer.

“We need to come up with some answers,” Amanda had said when she’d swung into his office earlier.

Get in line,
Carter had thought, but had said, “We’re working on it. If anything breaks, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Thanks, Carter.” She’d laid a hand on his, as if they’d somehow bonded. Then she’d wrinkled her nose and offered him a smile that was supposed to be cute and unthreatening. It wasn’t. The woman was a shark in a tight skirt and three-inch heels, out to promote number one and eventually become D.A. She didn’t care whom she skewered with her stiletto heels on the way up. Carter knew it. Everyone in the department knew it.

Fortunately, she’d finished with him and, shoes clicking down the hallway, had left him to his work. He spent the next few hours fielding calls, finishing reports, and studying pictures of the two missing women and Mavis Gette. Physically, they were similar in build, though not coloring. They were all pretty and petite, around five feet, three inches, all around thirty, all Caucasian. But Mavis had been a transient. Roxie a career woman. Sonja a wife and mother trying to make ends meet. Mavis and Sonja had lived in California, Roxie hadn’t.

But there was something that tied them together. He just couldn’t see it yet. Absently, he wrote the names of the women on a legal pad, thinking about each.

Mavis Gette’s dead.

Sonja Hatchell and Roxie Olmstead are missing.

You can’t tie them all together by the evidence.

And yet…as he stared at the computer images of the three women, he felt that they were connected. He just hadn’t figured out how yet.

“Hey!” BJ said, poking her head into his office. He’d been so engrossed in his own thoughts that he hadn’t heard her approach. “How about I buy you lunch?”

“What’s the special occasion?”

“We both need a break.”

“Don’t we always?” he asked, but was already reaching for his jacket. “Don’t we always.”

“Listen, Carter, don’t you know the old adage about looking a gift horse in the mouth? So shut up and keep up, unless you want to buy your own damned burger.”

“And I thought you were springing for steak.”

“In your dreams,” she said as they headed down the stairs and outside. Despite the cold weather, they walked the few blocks to the Canyon Café and grabbed a booth. Though it was late, the little restaurant was crowded, filled with patrons who had driven into town after over a week of cabin fever. The kids were back in school, all the businesses open, the Interstate no longer closed. Yeah, life was back to normal, except that he had one dead body, two missing women, and a stalker to deal with along with the regular crimes.

The strains of country music could barely be heard over the buzz of conversation, rattle of silverware, and crackle of the fryer. Two waitresses were hopping, pouring coffee and water, while a short-order cook placed orders on the counter and the smells of frying onions and sizzling hamburgers competed with the aroma of freshly baked pies.

BJ had snagged a recently vacated booth and they waited while a single busboy cleared the table and pocketed the two-dollar tip left among straw wrappers, napkins, and dirty dishes. Once the Formica had been swabbed clean, a waitress who’d worked at the café for as long as Carter could remember poured coffee and took their orders.

“Anything new with the bust of the kids up at Catwalk Point?” BJ asked.

“So that’s what this is all about—you want the inside scoop. From the OSP.”

Her eyes narrowed at him over the rim of her coffee cup. “Right—consider the fish and chips a bribe. I’m a high roller. But yeah, since you and Sparks are tight, I thought you might know more.”

Carter laughed. “The girls are safe. No charges, but because of Megan, you know that much already.”

“What about the others?”

“The boys will probably have to do some community service for providing alcohol, even though they aren’t twenty-one themselves. Actually, they’re getting off pretty easy.”

“Too easy,” she said. “But the good news is that Megan finally saw the light and broke up with Ian Swaggert.”

“Will it last?”

“Too early to call. But I’m hoping.” She lifted crossed fingers for Carter to see. “Ever since the ‘incident,’ and that’s what we call it, mind you, ‘the incident,’ Megan’s been toeing the line around the house. Jim doesn’t go ballistic like I do, just kind of mopes and looks at Megan with big, sad, disappointed eyes. You know the routine—his expression says all too clearly, ‘How could you do this to me?’ Like it’s all about him. Hey, I’m not complaining. It seems to be effective, at least for now. We’ll see, though, if that little worm Swaggert leaves Megan alone. He’d better, or he’ll have to answer to me.” She took a long swallow of her coffee. “See how you’re missing out, not having kids?”

The waitress deposited their lunch, a burger and fries for BJ, halibut and chips for Carter. BJ dug in as if she hadn’t eaten in a week. “I’m blowing my diet today,” she admitted. “It’s hell to try and lose weight during this weather. I mean, who wants a spinach salad with no dressing when it’s ten below?” She bit into her burger with gusto.

They talked about nothing important for a while, waved to a few local patrons they knew, and were nearly finished eating when BJ said, “I’ve finally got a report for you about who’s been renting or buying Jenna Hughes’s movies. Believe me, the list is long and infamous.” She pushed her basket aside. “Your name came up a few times.” He didn’t comment. “But then, you’re in bad company.” She pulled her wallet out of her purse and slapped some bills onto the table. “I checked with the video stores in town, in the surrounding areas, online, and even the library’s records. A lot of people have been watching Jenna Hughes movies around here, let me tell you. At least since she moved up here, and I’m not even talking about those people who have personal collections that they taped from their televisions.”

They walked outside and BJ huddled deeper into her coat. “So, aside from mine, any names pop out at you?”

“Mmm. Her biggest fan seems to be Scott Dalinsky.”

“Rinda’s kid?”

BJ nodded. “He’s got every movie she ever made—ordered them all online and even bought some movie paraphernalia through e-Bay.”

“You checked his credit card records?”

Her grin was wicked. “I’ve got my sources.”

“Who else?”

“Just about everybody in town,” she admitted, stopping on the curb and waiting for a truck to pass before she stepped into the crosswalk. The snow on the road was patchy, scraped by plows and melted by the warmth of vehicle engines as they passed. “And out of town as well. There’s a guy in Hood River and a woman in Gresham who are uber-fans, it seems. Around here, Wes Allen has a collection, as does Blanche Johnson and Asa McReedy, the guy she bought her place from. Then there’s a lot of kids in the high school including Josh Sykes…well, you’ll see the entire printout, but believe me, it only expands our suspect list rather than shrinks it.” They were walking up the courthouse steps to the warmth inside. They passed the security checkpoint and the records room before taking the stairs to the second floor. “Give me a minute,” BJ said, and showed up in Carter’s office five minutes later with not one stack of printouts, but three. The first list, of people who had rented or bought videos, was over thirty pages.

“This many?”

“That’s right,” she said. “And we’re just getting started. These are the people who’ve rented or bought a Jenna Hughes movie in the last two years and live within a hundred miles of Falls Crossing.” She sent Carter a sly look. “I was afraid the department might run out of paper if I expanded the search, but we can always change the perimeters, go back more years, or increase the physical area. I went a hundred miles because that will include the Portland metro area and the zip code for the postal station where the letter was postmarked. It allows an extra twenty-five miles around that zip code, so if our creep decided to be clever and drove across town, or from the suburbs, we’ve covered his ass. If he drove farther, then we need to expand the perimeters, but this seemed right to me, assuming that the guy lives within driving distance of Jenna Hughes’s place. We know that either he or an accomplice left the note in her bedroom.” She dropped the second list onto the first. Again, the printout was a thick sheaf of typewritten papers.

“Popular lady,” he said, reaching for his pencil and wiggling it between his fingers as he skimmed the list of people who had rented or bought movies.

“Too popular, it seems.”

“Mmm.” The names were arranged in descending order. Those who’d purchased/rented the most copies of her movies at the top of the first page, the least on the last page. “Too popular. And too sexy. Though you probably haven’t noticed.”

He shot her a look, then skimmed the list of names. Scott Dalinsky was at the top of the list. “Have you cross-referenced this with the people she knows?”

“Mmm. Last page.”

He flipped through the pages, and there, big as life on the final sheet, were at least thirty names, including his own. Scott Dalinsky, Harrison Brennan, Wes Allen, Travis Settler, Asa McReedy, Yolanda Fisher, Lou Mueller, Hans Dvorak, Rinda Dalinsky, Estella Trevino, Seth Whitaker, Blanche Johnson, Jim Stevens. “Your husband?”

“Hey, Jim’s a red-blooded American male. Not immune. How about this one? Derwin Swaggert, the preacher. Ian’s dad. You think he rented
Resurrection
because of its Christian overtones, maybe used it for reference in his Sunday sermon?”

Carter snorted.

“Or
Beneath the Shadows
—probably has something to do with the Twenty-third Psalm. You know, there’s that passage about walking through the
shadow
of death.”

“You really have a thing against the Swaggerts,” Carter observed.

“Just their kid. And only when he messes with mine.” She motioned to the list. “I’ll leave this with you, and oh…check this out, uh, page seven, I think…” Quickly, she flipped the pages over and ran a finger down the list. “Here ya go. Roxie Olmstead rented
Innocence Lost
less than a week before she disappeared. Chew on that awhile.”

“I will,” he said, then eyed the other computer printouts she hadn’t yet handed him. “More information, I presume.”

“Ah, Sherlock, there’s a reason you’ve been elected sheriff. It must be your keen detective skills.”

“Oh, hell. All the while I was sure it was good-ol’-boy charm.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s it,” she said, sarcasm dripping from every word. She slapped the second set of sheets onto his desk. “I checked with the Webmaster for Jenna Hughes’s official site, found out who sends her the most e-mail, who logs in the most frequently. I’ve got a huge computer file, but only printed out the names of fans, again, who live within a fifty-mile radius. I can expand that as well.”

He eyed the reports. “Efficient, aren’t you?”

“I like to think so.” She leaned a hip on the edge of his desk. “The next step I took was to look over the fan Web sites dedicated to Jenna Hughes—not only the official fan site, but all those other nonsanctioned ‘unofficial’ fan Web sites. What a trip. She garners more than her fair share of obsessive types, let me tell you.”

Carter’s jaw hardened and he didn’t like the turn of his thoughts—that any sicko with a computer could have a little piece of Jenna Hughes.

Like you do?
his mind taunted, and he shushed the guilty questions, didn’t want to go there.

BJ was still explaining. “Some of those sites are filled with all kinds of crap, including nude photos that could be fake, sexual references, and all sorts of discussions about how sexy she is.

“If this is the kind of thing that happens when you’re gorgeous, rich, and famous, count me out. Browsing through some of those Web sites, I thought I should be wearing hospital gloves because my keyboard was probably contaminated. And all the while that I searched, I was getting pop-up after pop-up screen, in continual loops. Damned irritating. I think I should be getting not only overtime, but hazardous-duty pay as well.”

“Put in for it. See what the powers that be say,” Carter suggested without much humor.

“I’ll tell them it was your idea,” BJ teased as she turned back to the printouts.

Carter had realized, of course, about the dark side of celebrity, the lack of privacy, the photo-hungry paparazzi, the obsessed fans, the tabloid exploitation, but he’d always figured it just came with the territory, the quintessential price of fame. But now, as he considered the fear that had become a part of Jenna Hughes’s life, the ugliness seemed more real, the danger more certain. He felt an inner rage, a quiet determination to find the creep who was terrorizing her and put him away.

BJ was still talking about what she’d uncovered on the Internet. “It was more difficult to find someone who took responsibility for the more bizarre sites, of course, but I was able to go through to the chat room logs and the bulletin boards and figure out those who seemed most obsessed with Jenna Hughes and her movies. The problem is, those people aren’t required to use their real names—they use all sorts of strange aliases, so I’m still trying to find out who some of them are.”