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A footstep?
Then a soft thud and another footstep, the un-
CHOSEN TO DIE
171
mistakable sound of leather scraping against the
floor.
The hairs on the back of Nate’s scalp prickled. Could the killer still be in the house? Was he coming back to make certain the job was finished? Maybe Santana had interrupted him.
Don’t jump to conclusions. It could be Clementine; her son could have taken her car. Or she might have left Ross inside when she drove off. Neither scenario changed the fact that someone had killed Brady Long.
Stealthy as a cat, Santana climbed to his feet, then slipped silently to the side of the room to hide just inside the doors, out of view to anyone who passed. Someone would have to take a step or two inside the room before he would be visible. The only weapon he had on him was the jackknife he used to cut baling twine. Not much good against a pistol or revolver.
He waited.
Thunk.
Step.
Noiselessly he opened his knife. Hearing his own heartbeat, he tensed, ready to spring, his eyes glued on the open doors.
Closer and closer.
The sirens kept screaming and suddenly emergency vehicles, lights flashing, shot into view through the window, spraying snow from their tires in all directions.
“What the—?” a male voice asked, just on the other side of the door.
Santana’s hand tightened over the hilt of his knife.
172
Lisa Jackson
“Brady? Holy Mother of God!” The warbling voice rose an octave. “The Yeti, he did this to you?”
Yeti?
A second later, Ivor Hicks, using a cane, hobbled into the room.
Chapter Thirteen
“I don’t care what you say, I’m not running this investigation using psychos, whack jobs, and/or nutcases!” Sheriff Dan Grayson was in a foul mood as he stalked down the hallway to his office. It didn’t help that one of his best detectives was suggesting the irrational.
“Grace Perchant knows something,” Alvarez, at his side, insisted.
“Trust me, she doesn’t know up from sideways.”
He’d been in Spokane going over the notes and records of the copycat killer who’d been captured by the Spokane authorities and had been up most of the night. Early this morning he’d returned to find that not only had Pescoli’s wrecked Jeep been located, but now there was another car impounded that could be part of a possible crime, a red Saturn registered to another missing woman. And Alvarez, one of his most down-to-earth detectives, was sug-174 Lisa Jackson
gesting they take advice from Grace She-Who-Talksto-Ghosts Perchant. Christ, this was a mess.
“Grace called. She’d had a dream—”
“Oh, for the love of God, that’s it? A dream. Look, I don’t give a damn if she hung upside down by her toes like a sleeping, rabid bat! She’s a nutcase. Everyone in town knows it! Maybe you can convince the FBI to talk to the local loonies, maybe they have some kind of pseudoparanormal division like you see on TV, but not here, not in my department!”
