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Save the others.
Save yourself.
Just get the hell out now!
She was already moving to the door that opened to the outside. Whatever the obstacles she had to face in the frozen wilderness, it was a helluva lot safer than staying here.
She could get help.
Lead them back here.
And arrest the son of a bitch.
If she didn’t kill him first.
Carrying a cup of coffee, Alvarez walked into the task force room, where those on duty were gathering. The notes that Manny Douglas left with them appeared to be authentic. Alvarez had checked, comparing them to the ones that had been placed with the victims. These new ones, when set directly over their older counterparts, looked as if they’d been traced, each letter perfectly positioned. Of course, the new evidence would be scrutinized and tested, compared by experts, analyzed by 378
Lisa Jackson
the FBI, but it looked like there were two more StarCrossed victims. Two more dead or dying in the forest, though not, it seemed, Regan Pescoli. Yet . . .
She set her cup of coffee on the table already littered with half-full cups and notepads as others took seats, the sound of chair legs screeching across the floor accompanied by muted conversation. Cort Brewster and Dan Grayson entered the room together and stood near the desk where Zoller was on phone detail. The meeting was informal, just a means to update as many as possible who were working the Star-Crossed Killer case. Grayson said, “I’ll make this quick as we’re all busy. Manny Douglas from the Mountain Reporter showed up today.”
The reporter’s name elicited a catcall from Pete Watershed. “My favorite.”
There were mumbled snorts of disgust, as everyone had read the searing article. Grayson continued,
“It seems that Star-Crossed has decided to communicate through him.”
“Douglas?” Watershed frowned.
“That guy doesn’t know the meaning of the truth,” Rebecca O’Day, a corporal deputy, said, shaking her head.
“Well, he’s now our conduit,” Alvarez said as she passed around copies of the notes Douglas had left at the station.
“So now the creep is runnin’ to the press?” Brett Gage asked. He was the chief criminal deputy, whose easy smile belied a will of steel. “Damn.”
“Two more,” O’Day whispered.
They all examined the message:
CHOSEN TO DIE
379
B E W A R T H E S C
I O N ’
H
“No R or P for Pescoli,” Trilby Van Droz said slowly. “But if you add them in, the third word could be scorpion.”
“There’s an apostrophe,” Alvarez pointed out. “A possessive.”
“Then, what’s this guy saying?” O’Day asked.
