The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa Jackson
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were a few other buildings. One could be a garage. And one a barn. But they were slippery paths and huge drifts along the way. “Damn it all.”
She opened two drawers before she found the knife, a thin, long-bladed filet knife, perfect for cutting flesh from bone. Or for protecting herself. Holding the weapon tight, she worked her way to the living area again and saw not only snowshoes but skis mounted on the wall.
Lots of good those would do her.
The phone!
Damn it, Jillian, what have you been thinking? Where’s the friggin’ phone?
Propelling herself back into the kitchen again, she saw no evidence of a telephone, and when she flipped a light switch, nothing happened. The power was out. No surprise there, with the intensity of this storm.
No phones in the kitchen.
Back to that large hall-like main room.
Once through the doorway, she looked around for a land line, a cell phone or a computer, any device she could use to contact the outside world once the electricity was restored. She needed to get out of here, to let someone know where she was, to…Where the hell was it?
Her ankle throbbing, she moved around the perimeter of the main room. Wasn’t there a land line? A modem for computer service? Even a stupid television?
Careful, Jillian, your city-girl roots are showing.
There had been a time when she and Aaron had backpacked through areas that had been undeveloped. They’d slept under the stars, washed themselves in mountain lakes, eschewed all the comforts and stress of modern life.
Aaron.
Memories of hiking through the wilderness assailed her. Pacific rain forests of the Olympic Peninsula, the mountainous trails of the Cascades in Oregon, exploring the alpine meadows of the San Juans, discovering remote sections of Colorado and the everglades in Florida. But the ultimate trip, the one they’d planned and saved for and talked about in every conversation for nearly a year, had been the adventure of a lifetime, a long backpacking trek through the wilds of South America, where he’d disappeared and died.
Or not.
She grabbed a corner of the table to steady herself as another wave of memories washed over her. Aaron was the reason she’d left Seattle. Someone had sent her pictures of a man claiming to be him, someone in Missoula. That’s why she was driving through the mountains when she’d heard the rifle shot….
Her knees quivered as she again remembered that distinctive crack of a rifle. Then her tire had blown and her car had spun over the edge of the cliff and…and someone had intentionally caused her car to careen into the frozen ravine? Someone had tried to kill her?
Why?
Who even knew she would be driving through these mountains?
The caller, you idiot! The damned person who sent you the pictures that were supposedly of Aaron. He lured you here and he’s probably the stranger who “saved” you. Remember, there’s a killer on the loose up here.
Oh God, oh God, oh God…
Her heart jackhammered. She couldn’t run away. Couldn’t get far at all in her injured state with a storm raging through these mountains. For the love of God, she didn’t even know where she was. But somewhere, he had her cell phone and some means by which to leave this tiny cabin.
Thud!
Startled, she jumped at the noise and turned swiftly only to realize the sound had come from the fire, a chunk of wood that had burned through and broken.
Her pulse was beating out of control and she was all too aware that any second the man who had brought her here might return. What then? What will you do then?
Panicked, she started going around the room again, checking the outlets, searching for a phone jack.
Nothing!
She saw nothing.
Hurry, hurry, hurry!
Dear God, she was going out of her mind.
Think, Jillian, don’t lose it, just think. There has to be a way to communicate with the outside world. He couldn’t be up here isolated and completely cut off from—
Click!
She bit back a scream.
The sound of a deadbolt slipping out of place made her skin crawl. This noise wasn’t the damned fire!
He was back!
The distinctive creak of a door opening and the stomp of boots on the kitchen floor met her ears.
“Get in here!”
Oh God, someone was with him? A partner? Or some other victim?
Frantically, she glanced at the door to the bedroom. If she could slink noiselessly across this room, slip through the door and sink onto the bed, she could hide there, again pretend to be asleep, but it was too far. She’d never make it. Her fingers curled over the hilt of the thin knife and she slid the blade up her sleeve, determined to hide it. Keep it.
In case she needed it.
The door in the kitchen slammed shut and she nearly jumped out of her skin as the sound of the wind became muted again.
Calm down, Jillian. It’s time for the acting job of your life. Don’t let him know you don’t trust him. Don’t slip up for a minute. Whatever his bullshit story is, pretend to believe it. Maybe his guard will slip….
Terrified, she turned toward the kitchen, nearly falling in the process. Her heart was in her throat, but she maintained a placid expression that she hoped belied her fear.
More stomping.
No other voice.
Heavy footsteps resounded along with another sound, a quick click-click scratching sound.
She held herself up by the edge of his big table. The metal crutch was tucked under her arm, her fingers wrapped around the handgrip so hard her knuckles showed white, the handle of the knife hidden in her other palm.
Sweat beaded on her forehead though the temperature in the room was cold.
Okay, bastard, she thought, mentally gearing up for a fight. I’m ready.
He appeared, big as life, in the archway between the kitchen and living area. Tall and rugged-looking, he was dressed head to toe in black ski gear as he filled the archway between the kitchen and living area.
All the spit dried in her mouth.
“Well, look who’s up,” he said without a trace of a smile. Was he talking to her or whoever was with him?
“If it isn’t Sleeping Beauty.”
Chapter Ten
Alvarez offered the woman a cup of coffee and tried to keep her expression bland, as if she believed anything Grace Perchant, the ghost whisperer, had to say. She was alone with the thin, pale woman in the interrogation room, but both of them knew other people were observing the conversation on the other side of the mirror. More were watching the monitor, as the interview was being recorded. “You know, we’re sorry to bother you again. You’ve been a big help, but we just want to make certain we have all the facts straight, that we haven’t missed anything.”
Grace didn’t so much as nod. Sometimes it was hard to tell if she even heard a person. Pescoli always said it was because she had so many dead people screaming inside her head, she couldn’t hear the living. But then, that was sarcastic, never-believe-anything-that-isn’t-hard-fact Pescoli. “Tell me again about finding the car.”
Grace Perchant sat in the straight-backed chair at the table, ignored the steaming cup and stared up with the palest green eyes Alvarez had ever seen. “I already told the other detectives. I was walking my dog, Bane, and I looked down into the canyon and saw the car. It glinted