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Giving up on the bridle, Santana went about his other chores, all the while thinking of Regan, wondering where she was, an icy fear that she might already be dead, tied to some lonesome tree in the middle of the forest cutting through his soul. Yesterday, when he’d visited Chilcoate, he’d felt in control, but after his scattered dreams a gnawing fear had taken hold.
Gritting his teeth, he shoved the image of Regan from his mind and began measuring oats for the horses. Once he was finished with his chores, then he’d check with Chilcoate.
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Whether the sheriff liked it or not, Santana intended to run his own investigation. Because Regan Pescoli’s disappearance was personal. I’m jangled.
As I always am after I’ve accomplished my mission. But it’s too early and I’m not finished, I think, as I drive into the next storm. It’s barely started, just a few snow flurries of thick flakes, but if the sky and the weather service can be believed, soon another blizzard will roll through.
I hear her crying.
Irritating moans emanating from the back of the truck. Despite her gag and the whine of the engine and the hum of the tires, I can hear her. Because I’m rattled. My nerves on edge. Never have I done two in one day.
“Two in one. Two in one. Two in one.” This becomes my mantra and I say it aloud, in time with the wipers, but she just won’t shut up. Elyssa’s cries have a way of cutting through the noise and burrowing deep in my brain.
Yelling at her through the back window that opens to the canopy won’t help. She’ll just wail all the louder.
And I feel the bite marks on the back of my neck. Inflamed. Angry. Like my building rage.
“Maybe music,” I say and snap on the radio with a flick of my wrist.
But I’m far from the radio towers, deep in the mountains, and all I can hear over the crackle of static is Burl Ives’s voice lilting on and on about a holly, jolly Christmas.
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Not this year, I think and click off the radio. I concentrate instead on the job I have yet to do. I’ve already picked out the area, far from the other one.
Won’t Grayson and his crew be surprised?
“Merry Christmas!”
I have to shift down as I turn a corner and start up the hill, the four-wheel-drive propelling the truck through the drifting snow.
Up, up, up. This one is not going to be left in a valley. I’ve picked this spot with great care. It’s perfect. She lets out another moan.
What a whiner!
She deserves to die.
And she turned so quickly from vowing her love to that loser boyfriend of hers, to wanting me. A slut.
The wipers strain as the storm increases and the engine whines, tires slipping a bit as I drive to the ridge. I should have started earlier, as I knew the blizzard was on its way. I don’t have much time. Come on, come on, I think, as the old truck fishtails just before I round a final corner on this abandoned road. I know the clearing is just on the other side of the ridge. With some difficulty, I manage to turn the truck around, backing up, then pulling forward several times, just enough to point the nose of the vehicle down the hill for a quick escape. I can’t allow myself to become overconfident and get the truck stuck.
Not that the imbecilic cops would ever find it. There is still another vehicle they haven’t located and probably won’t until the spring thaw, a white
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Volkswagen Beetle, crumpled and buried deep in Stone Ridge Canyon. Idiots!
Once my truck is pointed in the right direction, I park, cut the engine, and set the emergency brake. Then it’s time.
She’s shivering in the back, making protesting noises as I open the door and pull her out. She is already covered with goose pimples, yet nervous sweat is visible on her body.
