The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa Jackson
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She’d barely thought about the suitcase until now, which surely was a testament to her unclear mental state. It was nuts, but her nerves were strung tight, her body ached and she looked and felt like hell. Seeing the overnight case she’d packed days ago brought into sharp focus the fact that her real life was light years away, as well as the undeniable fact that she might never be a part of that life again.
“I thought you might want to change clothes,” he said as he placed the bag near her.
She cleared her throat. “That would be nice.”
“I’m not sure you can get any pants over your ankle.”
“I’ll see.”
He hesitated. “Do you need some help? I could—”
“No!” Her reaction was swift, her voice louder than she’d intended. “Sorry. No, I think I can handle it myself.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “You know, I think I should change my diagnosis. You’re getting around pretty well for having cracked ribs. There’s a chance, if you’re lucky, you might just have bruised them. Trust me, they would still hurt like hell.”
“Believe me, they do.”
“But if they were cracked, you wouldn’t be able to move like you do.”
“Good.” It didn’t matter if they were cracked or broken, they still pained her. “If you don’t mind, would you just carry my bag into the bedroom?”
He did as she asked, and she climbed to her feet and eased into the bedroom, where she closed the door and, with more trouble than she thought possible, changed her underwear and bra and slid cautiously into a heavy-necked sweater. Her ribs ached with each movement, but she was determined to get through the ordeal. Her jeans were a little more difficult, but she did have one pair of boot-cuts that were slightly too big and she managed to pull them over the bulge of tape around her ankle.
Afterward, she even slapped on some lipstick and a bit of mascara and, using the small mirror over a beat-up bureau, surveyed her image. It was better, although her skin was still greenish and scraped, her eyes sunken.
Half an hour later she emerged, returning to the living room, where the fire was crackling loudly and MacGregor was stacking more wood on the hearth. The pile was now nearly three feet high.
She knew why.
“You’re leaving,” she said, realizing he was trying to make it easy for her to keep the cabin warm while he was gone. A black pot simmered on the coals and packets of dried soup and oatmeal were stacked on a table near the fireplace.
“If I don’t go now, I might not get another chance. I’m determined to find a way to get you out of here. If I can make a phone call, I’ll do that. If I have to saw through some of the trees to open up the roads, then I’ll be a little longer. In any event, I should be back in a few hours. At least before dusk.”
The thought of being in the cabin alone, just sitting and waiting, was difficult. But she didn’t have any choice.
“I’m leaving Harley with you, and there’s the gun in the closet.”
She nodded.
He walked back to the spot where she was still standing, balanced on her crutch. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he said, and then, to her surprise, he brushed the barest of kisses against her cheek. “Hang tough.”
Chapter Seventeen
Help me!
Oh God, please, someone help me!
Rona struggled, fighting the cold, battling the constricting rope that lashed her to the tree, but the more she squirmed, the tighter her binds cut into her flesh. She tried to scream, to yell, to let someone know what he was doing, but the gag, more like a damned muzzle, held back her voice and the only sounds she heard were muffled cries, the frantic beating of her heart, the rush of the wind and her mind screaming at her that she’d been a fool. A fool of the worst order.
How could she have trusted him, this monster who was binding her to the rough bark of a tree? He’d slid her clothes off and she hadn’t resisted. Had he drugged her? Had she been paralyzed with fear? Or had she felt so desperate and alone that she longed for his attention?
Oh God, she’d been an idiot, letting him skim off her clothes, allowing him to kiss her skin and then, when she was caught in an instant between temptation and fear, slip the noose around her neck. Only then did she realize how deadly was his trap.
Please, God, help me, she prayed, tears falling from her eyes as the frigid snow, hard with crystals, bit at her skin, causing it to pimple with the cold.
Surely he didn’t mean to leave her here.
This had to be a test, that was all.
She heard him grunt as he pulled on the restraints and her back was yanked hard against the rough bark of this solitary fir tree. In front of her was a meadow, now covered in snow. She blinked hard, trying to dislodge the white flakes, hoping to see a way out of this horrible, freezing situation.
“Let me go! Don’t do this. Please, please!” she cried, but her words were mute and dull, nearly unintelligible. And they were falling on deaf ears.
He’d known he was going to kill her.
All along.
And yet she’d believed him when he’d said he would take her to safety, that as soon as the storm lifted he would get her to a hospital or find a phone and call 911. Or…
And you fell for it. You dumb little fool!
She began to cry again, tears streaming from her eyes, blurring her vision and tracking down her icy cheeks. God, she was cold. Colder than she’d ever been in her life. Her bare nipples felt raw and puckered and there was no source of heat in her body. Even her blood felt sluggish and thick, and for the first time her feet began to go numb.
Frostbite.
Exposure.
Killed by Mother Nature and her own stupidity.
If only Connor was here…he would help her…Connor, oh love, what…what have I done? Blackness pulled at her consciousness and she tried to stay awake, to take one last look at the bastard’s handsome face, but her thoughts were leaving her and she thought she saw Connor standing before her, whispering that she’d only gotten what she’d deserved…then there was someone else…a woman…“Mom?” she said to the apparition because, really, her mother had been dead for nearly three years…but…
The darkness came again, swallowing her and she was vaguely aware of the sound of pounding. As if someone were knocking on the door. “I’ll get it, Mama,” she said, though no words escaped her lips and her mouth tasted bad. “I’ll get it….”
Pescoli glanced down at her paperwork and stifled a yawn. What she wouldn’t give for a hit of nicotine to sharpen her focus.
“Son of a bitch!” Sheriff Grayson stormed out of his office, swearing a blue streak.
Every muscle around Pescoli’s spine went rigid and her stomach clenched tight as her fists. It was Saturday afternoon, the skies had cleared in the last few hours and several of the detectives had come into the office to catch up on paperwork or go over their notes. She tossed her pen aside and pushed away from her desk. “Let me guess,” she said, already knowing the answer. “Someone found another DB in the forest?”
“Yep,” Grayson said, his face muscles taut, his jaw rigid with barely suppressed rage. He was already stuffing his arms through his jacket, his sidearm visible in its shoulder holster. “We didn’t get the bastard soon enough.”
“What?” Brewster, who had heard the conversation through the open door to his office, strode into the hallway, his jacket in hand. “Are you shittin’ me?”
“Wouldn’t do it,” Grayson