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Nervously, he made his way to the front door, opened it, and stepped inside. But within minutes, he determined that she wasn’t inside, though someone had been. The spare bedroom, complete with tiny bed, had recently been occupied.
Had this been where he’d kept her? Locked her inside? Surely she could have escaped this place? In a further search, he found the other bedroom, a stark room rimmed in plank walls, with hooks for clothes and an ancient cast-iron bed, made with military precision.
Hicks’s room.
He wondered if the bastard had brought Regan here? Stripped her down. Maybe tied her to the iron rails of the headboard while he . . . No! He knew from the media reports that as demonic as the Star-Crossed Killer was, he didn’t sexually abuse his victims. Quickly, he returned to the main living area where the fire had grown cold and several doorways led to deep tunnels. Was Regan hidden inside them somewhere?
No—the footprints indicated otherwise.
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Unless they were from some other woman, one of the other victims whose initials were part of Hicks’s disturbed message to the police. Still the entire house seemed unoccupied, recently vacated. No sound emanated from the dark, subterranean hallways and he sensed that they, too, were empty. And the footsteps outside.
Fresh.
Heart thudding, his mind conjuring up all kinds of horrible scenarios for Regan, he stood for a second in the middle of the house and closed his eyes. He felt as if the place were dead inside, no living creature drawing a breath.
Damn. Opening all the doors to the tunnels, he bellowed, “Regan! Regan Pescoli?” He waited, his voice echoing back to him as he listened hard, hoping for some sound of response, the faintest reply. Nothing.
Not the tiniest sigh.
Nor the cock of a gun if Hicks had heard him and were siting on him.
Again he tried. “Regan, it’s Nate! Where the hell are you?” he yelled at the top of his lungs, his voice booming.
If Hicks was lying in wait somewhere, Santana had certainly blown any element of surprise. But he felt nothing.
Sensed no stirring.
Just dead air.
For now he had to trust his gut instincts. He hurried back outside and running, followed the trail of small footsteps partially covered in snow.
*
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436
Lisa Jackson
Alvarez was driving as if the devil himself were chasing her, wheeling around corners, heading into the hills surrounding the Kress Silver Mine and the cabin Billy Hicks called home.
Her cell phone was vibrating like hell in her jacket pocket and she grabbed it and flipped it on when they reached a straight stretch.
Grayson, riding shotgun, was already talking to the 911 operator. He hung up and said, “Somehow Nate Santana figured out that Hicks is our boy.”
“I just heard.” Alvarez hit the redial button.
“Let’s find out what he knows.” She braked for a corner, but the Jeep held as she headed north and suddenly Mesa Rock was looming over the surrounding hills. Santana didn’t pick up. “He’s not answering,”
she said.
“Shit.” Grayson muttered,
