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“Okay, Chilcoate said reluctantly, clicking off and reaching in a pocket for his smokes. Lit one up, thought carefully. He opened the bedroom door and let Santana get an eyeful of the upstairs equipment. He couldn’t afford for anyone to see what was in the basement. “All right,” he told the intense stranger. “I’ll get to work. I’ll let you know when I have anything.”
Santana nodded. “Got any kind of time line on when that might be?”
“Go home. Go to bed. Tomorrow’s another day.”
The tall man smiled faintly, a flinty movement of his lips that held no humor. “Make it fast.” Then,
“Please.”
Chilcoate walked him to the door and as soon as it was closed behind him, he threw shut all of his special locks. He stubbed out his cigarette and waited, counting to ten, as he heard the engine of the man’s
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truck fire, then heard the crunch of tires on snow as Santana turned the vehicle and left.
Chilcoate waited five more minutes before heading down the narrow stairway to the basement and his true operation, ducking under ductwork, aware of the hidden cameras he’d placed in the cobwebby corners himself. At the back wall, in an alcove ostensibly designed to hold firewood, he hit a switch and the wall swung open, revealing an array of sophisticated, state-of-the-art computer and photographic equipment, radios, and cameras. He rubbed his hands together as he dropped into a rolling desk chair that groaned under his weight. Now that Santana was gone and he was safe, he was starting to look forward to the task at hand. Time to hack into government computers and find out as much as he could about Brady Long, that fucked-up killer they called Star-Crossed, and how the police were faring in catching him. I can’t believe that she duped me!
The damned detective nearly ruined everything!
Worse, the voice in my head keeps pounding at me: The taunts you made were a mistake! You were too cocky! I can hear her voice telling me that I’ll never amount to anything, that I will end up like my father. Fat chance, Mother!
&nb
sp; And yet, I wasn’t prepared for how clever the detective turned out to be, how unafraid. That will never do . . .
I must regain control.
I glance at the door to the detective’s room, but 310
Lisa Jackson
she is quiet now. Maybe I should have given her more of the date-rape drug, kept her unconscious, but my supply is running low and besides, I wanted the fight. But not like this!
Moving to the mirror, I examine my face critically, minus my disguise. My nose is slightly swollen from getting smacked by her flailing hands, but it’s the marks on my neck from those damn handcuffs that really give me away. In this weather, however, turtlenecks are the rule, so it won’t be noticeable, but she should have never been able to touch me. Never!
I won’t make that mistake again.
And the bite marks on the back of my neck? Those are painful and deep. I twist around and look and am satisfied that the turtleneck also covers them. But pulling down the back of the shirt reveals that the skin is ruptured, the teeth marks clear. The wounds continue to weep a little, but not enough to be noticeable for my purposes today, and by tomorrow, they should be forming scabs. Bitch! Forensically, if I were to be caught, even the morons at Pinewood County would be able to match them to Pescoli’s strong jaw.
Fury rages through me. I look forward to killing her. But later. After the others. She will pay dearly for each and every wound she inflicted.
You’re subdued now, though, aren’t you, bitch? Not a sound. Hurts like hell, doesn’t it? You’re lucky you’re still breathing.
With an effort I drag my attention from her and glance at the document Brady Long so kindly pulled from the safe for me. The will. It has specks of blood on it. Brady’s blood. For a moment I relive the moment of the kill. The surprise in his face. The awe.
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I will have to destroy the will, but later. After I visit one of my other guests: Elyssa. She’s ready. Ripe. Tomorrow she will leave the haven I’ve made for her and begin her last walk on this earth. So, tonight, I play the part of her loving savior. There are no disguises needed for Elyssa. The only cover is my turtleneck, which hides Regan Pescoli’s ill-advised attack.
I’ve made a pot of potato soup and I pour some into a bowl and place it on a tray along with a plate of bread, apple slices, and cheese. I add a cloth napkin and a spoon and then make my way through the tunnels that wind around these hills, bringing me finally to steps and higher ground, to the stone and log cabin where Elyssa waits. The cabin is almost directly above the rooms belowground, but it’s a circuitous trek to get from one place to the other, a natural defense that keeps my guests unaware of each other even while they’re in the same area. I unlock the door to the cabin and Elyssa nearly jumps up from her bed. Yes, she is ready. Her injuries are all but gone.
“Liam!” she cries. “Where have you been? I was afraid you weren’t coming back!”
“I’ve been clearing the roads, trying to make them passable for you. The storms have finally given us a break, and I’ve been able to cut some trees out of the way. The roads are slick, but tomorrow, when it’s daylight, I’ll get you back to safety.”
