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Billy had knocked Cartwright flat. He’d ended up in the emergency room with a broken nose. At the time, Santana had thought Cartwright had gotten off lucky. As a kid, Billy’s temper had gotten the better of him, but as an adult, he’d seemed to keep it under control.
Santana pushed his truck onto the county road. Rising in the distance was Mesa Rock, a flat-topped mountain butting up to the abandoned Kress Silver Mine and Hubert Long’s Lazy L, where Santana worked.
“Right under your goddamned nose,” he said,
CHOSEN TO DIE
419
cutting a glance at his reflection in the rearview mirror. His jaw was set, his eyes dark as obsidian, the corners of his mouth pinched in disgust. If he’d pieced this together earlier, if he’d looked in the right places, Regan might never have been abducted. He silently cursed himself as the road began a series of sharp switchbacks. Traffic was light; he hardly saw another vehicle. Good.
Shifting down, he thought of Brady Long. What a prick. He and Billy had been acquaintances, nothing more. But that had been a lifetime ago. What had set Billy off now?
Who the hell knew?
He had to call the police. Alvarez was out, so, with one hand, he punched in 9-1-1.
Before the second ring, the phone was picked up by a female operator. “Nine-one-one dispatch. What is the nature of your emergency?”
“This is Nate Santana. I’m looking for Detective Alvarez or anyone on the task force! Now.”
“Sir, is there an emergency?”
“Hell, yes, there’s an emergency. I know who the damned Star-Crossed Killer is and where he’s located.”
“Is anyone injured?”
“Five people have been killed already!”
“Sir—”
“Just get a message to Detective Selena Alvarez or Sheriff Dan Grayson of the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department! Tell them that I’m on my way to the Kress Silver Mine, out on the south side of Mesa Rock. I think that’s where he’s got them. His next victims are in the mine, and Billy Hicks, he’s the damned Star-Crossed Killer!”
“If you’ll stay on the line—”
420
Lisa Jackson
Through the windshield he spied a minivan coming from the opposite direction and seeming out of control. The running lights were on dim, but they were heading right toward him. Damn!
He dropped the phone on the passenger seat. The minivan’s tires were gripping, trying and failing to gain traction, as the vehicle slid across a patch of ice.
“Shit.”
Running lights bore down on him.
With both hands, Nate eased his truck toward the shoulder, keeping his speed steady.
“Don’t do it,” he warned. “Lady, don’t hit me!”
The driver was worried, a woman with a van filled with kids. The nose of the van crossed the center line, if it could have been seen, her wheels bumping out of the twin set of ruts left by previous vehicles. Santana didn’t have time for an accident or anything slowing him down. He pushed his truck to the limit of the road, his right tire precariously close to where he knew there was a ditch. It was filled with snow now, the edge indistinguishable, but he had to get past her car!
He saw the minivan’s fender heading straight for him.
He punched the accelerator, his truck fishtailing as he shot past the van. With an effort, he straightened out the wheels and jumped forward. With one eye on the rearview mirror, he watched as the van wove across both lanes once, twice, then found its grip and lane. “Get home,” he muttered under his breath and felt a fine sheen of nervous sweat between his shoulder blades. “It’s Christmas Eve!”
The minivan disappeared from view and he
