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Change nothing. Remain the same. No one will ever know.
“Padgett?” she heard, her name said a little more loudly, the black doctor trying to get her attention. Padgett never stopped rubbing the beads or moving her lips. “Hail Mary, full of grace . . .”
Chapter Fifteen
Nate Santana had never been one to sit idle. So today, while the police were swarming all over the main house, he was going to track down the bastard who’d shot Brady Long. Before the damned snowstorm covered the killer’s tracks. So thinking about it, he checked on the stock, then saddled Scout, a sturdy, paint gelding with pale blue eyes and a marking on his flank that looked like the state of Alaska. Strapping a pack and a bedroll behind the saddle, he then grabbed his Winchester and headed out. There was no reason to bring Nakita, though the dog whined miserably as he left; but the snow was deep and drifting and until he needed the husky’s keen nose, he’d follow the tracks himself on horseback.
He cut across the back of the property, on a path that should intersect the boot prints he’d seen earlier. He’d spied the direction they were headed, and if Ivor’s Yeti was the killer and not a hallucina-
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tion, then the tracks should head due west, into the foothills and, he suspected, intersect with an old logging road that ran between Long’s acres and those of the federal government.
As the gelding plodded through the drifts, Santana kept his eyes on the frigid landscape, searching for anything out of the ordinary.
Why had someone killed Brady Long? Not that the man didn’t have his share of enemies, but why now? In the middle of the worst winter in Montana’s history? And who would know Long was arriving? His current girlfriend, that model, Maya something-or-other? Someone he worked with? Friends he planned to meet? Or just Clementine? Then there was the deeper question. The one that tore at his soul. Was Brady Long’s murder connected to Regan Pescoli’s disappearance and all the other killings committed by the Star-Crossed Killer? A coincidence?
Or cold, hard truth?
There hadn’t been a murder in these parts since Calvin O’Dell’s wife shot him dead for sleeping with her grown daughter, and that had happened five or six years before; Santana hadn’t even been in Grizzly Falls when the scandalous events had unfolded. But since then, no homicides. Not even gangs or drug busts or hunting accidents—nothing in Pinewood County. Now, not only had Star-Crossed decided to make the area his private playground, but a copycat had followed in his footsteps. Now, if Brady Long’s killer proved to be someone else, then there would suddenly be three murderers on the prowl. Awfully unlikely for these parts, but who knew? Brady’s could be a murder for hire. He wanted to believe it. The man had made 202
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more than his share of enemies, but his thoughts kept circling back to the fact that the same caliber weapon used in shooting out the tires of StarCrossed’s victims’ vehicles had been used on Brady Long.
But Star-Crossed doesn’t kill with a firearm. He leaves his prey to die in the wilderness. This isn’t really Star-Crossed’s M.O.
Nate tugged gently on the reins, guiding Scout across a meandering creek that wound through an outcropping of boulders and a few scraggly pines. Ice snapped under the gelding’s hooves and a bit of water ran beneath the frozen surface of the brook. He was north of the house now, far from the helicopter pad, the snow falling around him, the wind a brittle reminder that winter had settled in hard. Eyeing the ground, he searched for prints, any kind of depression in the white blanket that covered the ground.
“Where did you go, you son of a bitch?” he wondered aloud, his breath a cloud as he searched for any trace of the cold-blooded killer.
What if this maniac has Regan? The back of his neck tightened at the thought and his eyes thinned as he scoured the ground. I’ll kill him, he thought, I’ll kill the bastard and won’t think twice.
He felt as if steel bands had been coiled around his chest and they were growing tighter with each breath, with the knowledge that the woman he loved was in the madman’s clutches. The woman you love, think about it, Santana. That’s a big leap from good times, hot sex, and no strings attached. He’d met Pescoli in a bar.
Hadn’t known she was a cop.
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Hit on her.
She, sipping whiskey, had been amused, one dark red eyebrow arching in intere
st.
“You want to buy me a drink?” she’d asked, shaking her head, burnished curls shining in the soft lighting of the Spot Tavern.
“Maybe,” he’d responded and signaled to the bartender, who slid a second short glass of Jack Daniel’s to clink against her first.
“That was easy,” she said.
“Easy’s my middle name.”
“I doubt it.” He’d smiled at her then and she’d returned the favor.
