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“Pescoli?” she called, slowly making her way through the small house. A living room with an attached dining area and the kitchen were empty. The Christmas tree leaned precariously in the corner near the mantel, a few scattered packages beneath its decorated limbs. Magazines and yesterday’s newspaper, with a bold headline about the Star-Crossed Killer, were scattered over a battered coffee table and wellused couch. The bathroom, choked with hair and skin products, was bone dry, no moisture clinging to the mirror or beads of water in the tub/shower combo. Regan’s daughter’s room was a mess. CDs, nail polish bottles, DVDs, and clothes strung over her twin bed and floor. The bookcase was filled to overflowing with stuffed animals and dolls that, Alvarez suspected, Bianca had just about outgrown. Regan’s bedroom, only slightly bigger and only slightly neater, was vacant.
Alvarez ventured down the squeaky stairs and
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pushed open the door to Jeremy’s room, a ten-byten space complete with a television, some kind of electronic game system, and desktop computer huddled at the foot of his bed. It was dark except for a lava lamp giving out a weird, shifting glow. Dirty dishes peeked out from beneath the bed and posters of pro ball players and rock bands covered the walls. Above it all was the lingering sweet, smoky scent of marijuana.
So Jeremy was a pothead.
Perfect, she thought. Just what Pescoli needed: a teenage daughter growing up too fast and a son who was using drugs and involved with the undersheriff’s spoiled daughter. She eyed Jeremy’s room and wanted to kick the kid to kingdom come. But of course, he wasn’t around.
On the nightstand was a picture of Joe Strand, Jeremy’s biological father, though Lucky Pescoli had basically raised the kid and was the main father figure in Jeremy’s life. Maybe I’d smoke dope, too, if that were the case, Alvarez thought. Then there was Pescoli’s daughter, Bianca, whose self-involvement was awe-inspiring. As a single mom, Pescoli had her hands full. Nothing in Jeremy’s room gave Alvarez a clue to Pescoli’s whereabouts. She walked upstairs again and into the kitchen. Standing at the stove, where a frying pan showed remnants of hash browns, she felt like an intruder, a voyeur examining her partner’s life. “So where are you?” she asked, walking to the desk where a few envelopes were displayed, a couple of bills marked Past Due in bold red letters. There was no sign of a struggle. No indication of any kind of violence whatsoever, just scratches on the exterior doors near the bottom of the wood, no 58
Lisa Jackson
doubt from the little mutt of a dog that was missing, though there was still water in a dish on the floor. Through the window, she stared at the snow in front of the garage. Slight depressions showed where the last vehicle had driven through. Four, maybe five inches of new snow had piled over the old. Meaning Pescoli had been gone—? At least twelve hours. Maybe longer.
Alvarez took the door into the garage and frowned as she ran the beam of her flashlight over the wet puddles where Pescoli’s Jeep had been parked. How long ago?
Returning the key to its hiding place, she was left with a feeling of dread. Slow-growing but sure. Something was definitely wrong.
Walking back to her Jeep, she studied the cabin and placed a call to Grayson. When he didn’t pick up, she left a message on his voicemail, then headed to the road that would eventually lead her to Lucky Pescoli’s house.
She only hoped the son of a bitch was home. Chapter Four
“Oh, God, save me,” a frightened female voice whispers through the darkened hallways as I am finishing my exercise routine. Ninety-three. Ninety-four. Ninety-five. I count off each of the push-ups as sweat runs into my eyes and my arms start to shake, my hands flat against the cold stone floor, the fire hissing and casting the room in shifting golden shadows. My face burns, the scratches not yet healed, sweat like salt into the shallow wounds.
Outside the night is raw, a storm howling through this solitary canyon, hard beads of snow adding to the accumulation of several feet of fine white powder. Icy crystals that help me with my mission.
“Please, help me . . .”
I hear the desperation in her cries and it’s soothing to me even as it breaks my concentration. Ninety-six. Ninety-seven.
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Lisa Jackson
My form is military perfect, my back level, my muscles gleaming with perspiration, my shoulders and arms screaming, but the pain feels good, the sweet torment of my muscles straining, of mind over matter.
Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine.
She’s crying now. Mewling and whimpering in the small bedroom. Like a lost kitten whose eyes have not yet opened, searching in the darkness, calling out to the mother cat.
How perfect.
I pause, but only for a second as I savor the last push-up, slowly, painstakingly lowering my body until my chest nearly brushes the floor, then just as determinedly, inching my weight upward. I hold my body in the final, perfect, suspended position and study my reflection for a minute. Flawless, strident muscles, thick hair, a handsome face staring back at me, veins bulging with the effort.
One-fucking hundred.
“Someone, oh please . . . can anyone hear me?”
she moans.
It’s time.
I release the pressure on my muscles and silently roll to my feet. From the back of a chair I retrieve my towel and dab away at the sweat as I listen to her cry. The longer she waits and worries, the more quickly she’ll learn to trust me.
