The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa Jackson
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walking into a store, near a sidewalk where cars were parked on a snowy street.
“Who are you? Just who the hell are you?” she whispered to the picture, and at the sound of her voice the dog climbed to his feet, metal ID tags jangling on his collar. With a glance at her, he walked to the front door, where he whined loudly and scratched.
“Need to go out?” she asked, with a glance outside.
Where the hell was MacGregor?
Gone. Not coming back. Maybe someone, whoever you thought was outside the other night, attacked him.
Now she was being ridiculous, letting her paranoia get the better of her.
Harley whined loudly.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Hold onto your horses.” She hitched to the gun cupboard and, feeling a little foolish, grabbed the loaded rifle with her free hand. She didn’t like the idea of having to use the weapon, but knew she could if threatened. Grandpa Jim had seen to that.
She whistled to the dog. “Come on, Harley, you know the drill. Out the back.” Using her crutch, she hobbled to the back door and opened it and the dog shot out before she had second thoughts and worried that letting Harley outside was a mistake. What if the damned dog took off after MacGregor?
Got lost.
He’s a dog, for God’s sake.
He’s home. He won’t stay out in the cold for long.
He just needs to get out, stretch his legs, urinate a few times.
“Stick around, please,” she muttered, and watched as he lifted his leg on the trunk of a small tree near the back of the garage. He ambled through the chest-high snow, seeming to find joy in breaking a trail through the icy powder.
Jillian, in the doorjamb, felt the cold air and shivered. She was about to go inside when she saw Harley, now out in the middle of a clearing near the back, stop suddenly, ears cocked forward.
She almost called out to him but held her tongue.
Something in the dog’s intense gaze gave her pause. Her fingers flexed over the handle of the crutch.
Nose in the air, hair bristling on the scruff of his neck, Harley stared intently into the woods.
Sweet Jesus.
Panic spurted through Jillian’s blood.
She hoisted the rifle to her shoulder.
Don’t be paranoid.
The dog growled low in his throat and lowered his head, his tail, too, moving downward.
This was no good.
She’d been around dogs enough to know when they sensed danger.
Harley started moving through the heavy snow, breaking a trail toward a thick copse of pines, where his gaze was centered.
Heart in her throat, rifle aimed at the spot where the dog seemed to be staring, a place on the other side of the pine trees, she stayed close to the building and whistled to the dog, just as she’d heard MacGregor do a dozen times.
The spaniel’s ears didn’t even flick as he advanced, moving awkwardly through the shoulder-deep snow.
“Harley!” she commanded, eyeing him through the sight of the rifle. “Come.”
Was the dog crazy? He was nearly buried.
Still the damned spaniel ignored her. He slipped beneath the first sagging, snow-laden branch of a Ponderosa.
“Damn!” she said under her breath as she clicked off the safety.
The day was clear and still. Sunlight reflecting on the ice, nearly blinding. Not a breath of wind. No birds calling. Just the sound of her own anxious breathing.
She squinted hard. Strained to hear the slightest noise. “Come back,” she mouthed, hoping the dog could hear her.
Don’t freak out. The dog could have seen a squirrel.
Or a deer.
Or a wolf. You read recently where the gray wolf has made a comeback in Montana.
And they travel in packs.
Could tear a domestic dog to bits.
All the spit dried in her mouth.
She’d never in her life been afraid of wild animals, had always thought humans were far more deadly, but now…“Harley, get back here!” she yelled, her one booted foot a little unsteady, the other toes bare in the cold air. “Harley! Come!” Heart thumping wildly she lowered her rifle and made her way to the edge of the porch, eyeing the broken snow where the dog had disappeared.
“Harley!” she called again, her voice echoing off the mountains.
Bam!
A rifle cracked loudly.
“Oh God!”
The dog yelped in pain.
“Harley!” Jillian yelled, her heart clutching. Oh God, now what? She had to go after the poor animal. “Harley!” He could still be alive!
She stepped off the porch before remembering two steps had been buried in the drifts. The rubber tip of her crutch slipped a little, but she steadied herself, then plowed forward along the half-broken path the dog had created.
Who would shoot him?
A hunter mistaking him for a wolf or coyote?
Or…someone who had been lying in wait?
Someone with a dark, deadly purpose.
Someone who had shot out the tire of her car….
Oh God. She forced the gun to her shoulder, licked her lips nervously and, ignoring the cold, pushed onward. She didn’t say a word, listened hard to hear the sound of the dog whining, footsteps or whispered voices—but nothing disturbed the quietude.
At the edge of the copse, she leaned forward, ducking under a branch, a sharp, shooting pain cutting through her abdomen and ribs. This is nuts, Jillian. Go back. What can you do for the poor animal if you do find him? Carry him back to the house? How?
Gritting her teeth, she kept moving forward, trying to be as silent as possible, her heart drumming wildly as she followed the path where, beneath the trees, the snow wasn’t as deep. She heard the tiniest gurgle of a creek, probably nearly frozen, and over that, the distant reverberations of an engine.
MacGregor’s snowmobile?
Oh please.
Using the barrel of her rifle to push aside low-hanging branches, she heard the dog’s whine…he was still alive! And MacGregor was coming. The roar of the snowmobile’s engine was getting closer…or was it?
Come on, MacGregor, get the hell back here.
She stepped around an outcropping of rock and saw the dog, a patch of black and white on the snowy ground. And more. Stains of bright red where blood was matting his coat and seeping from his body into the pristine whiteness of the forest floor.
“Oh, Harley,” she said as he lifted his head. “Oh no, I’m so…”
He wasn’t looking at her.
But at a spot just over her shoulder.
She took one step forward.
His lips pulled back into a hard growl, exposing sharp teeth. From the corner of her eye, Jillian caught a glimpse of movement, a flash.
Fingers tight over the gunstock, she swung.
But it was too late. Her attacker was upon her back, forcing her onto the frozen ground. Jillian squirmed as the sickening sweet smell of a chemical stung her nostrils. There was a flash of a dark, gloved hand mashing into her face, a bare span of scarred wrist catching her eye as the damp rag was forced over