Far below, crumpled and half buried in snow, was the remains of what had once been Pescoli’s Jeep. The rescue team, with the help of ropes and climbing gear, returned.
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“No one inside,” Randy, a ruddy-faced fireman, said as he approached. He was shaking his head and turned to another fireman, Gary Goodwin, a man Alvarez had only met a couple of times. “Got a smoke?”
Goodwin obliged, offering up an opened pack of Winstons and a Bic lighter.
“Purse?” Alvarez asked as Randy, thick gloves on his hands, fumbled with the bummed cigarette and a lighter.
“I didn’t see one.”
“Weapons? I’m sure she had her sidearm, a shotgun, and rifle with her.”
“Nothing.” He was shaking his head. “But it’s damned dark, I looked real good with my flashlight, but I could have missed something.” He lit up and tossed the lighter back to his buddy.
“You didn’t,” Goodwin said, glancing down the hill again. “There was some junk in there, sunglasses, empty cigarette pack, shopping bags, but the Jeep’s pretty crumpled up. Maybe we’ll find something tomorrow, when we’ve got daylight.” He didn’t sound convinced as he jammed a cigarette into his mouth.
Alvarez silently agreed. And she figured the rest of the crew from the sheriff’s department would be on board with Randy’s assessment. If Pescoli had been abducted by the Star-Crossed Killer, her assailant would have cleaned out the Jeep, wiped away or taken any evidence with him, as he had with all the others.
Alvarez felt sick inside. She coughed, and the men stepped away from her. She flapped a hand at them and said, “Not the cigarettes. A nasty cold.”
They stayed back. Alvarez didn’t blame them. 72
Lisa Jackson
She cleared her throat and gazed out at the frigid landscape. Their only hope was that the killer’s M.O. of nurturing his victims back to health before brutally leaving them to die in the frozen wilderness would buy Regan some time. If that was the case, then there was a good chance Pescoli was still alive and if she wasn’t too injured, she might be able to escape. She, if she hadn’t sustained a head injury, would know what she was dealing with. The other victims hadn’t been so lucky.
Lucky. Yeah, right. God, what a mess. She spent another half hour on the ridge before calling it a night. There was nothing more she could do. The crime scene guys would go over the vehicle and surrounding area with fine-toothed combs and sophisticated equipment, the Jeep would be towed to the garage where it would be examined again and again. If the killer messed up . . . But so far he hasn’t.
Now the clock was ticking down, vital seconds in Regan Pescoli’s life slipping away.
She rubbed her gloved hands together, trying to get some feeling back in her fingers. Her toes, too, were beginning to tingle and go numb despite warm socks and boots. And the cold medication she’d taken hours before had worn off. Her nose was running and her ears were plugged. Walking to the edge of the cliff, she looked far below to the area where Pescoli’s car had landed. How had Star-Crossed known Regan Pescoli would be traveling this road at that particular moment in time?
How could he know?
Frustrated, she turned and looked up at the hill
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rising above the road. From the ridge he might have had an open shot. Still, the odds of pulling it off were against him.
In the morning if the weather held off, officers would scour the ridge and hill, searching for shell casings or a spot where an assassin could lay in wait. Maybe this time they’d find something.
She squinted up through the darkness. Had the bastard camped out here in the middle of a blizzard with near-whiteout conditions?
He had to know.
Alvarez pictured him waiting. Patiently. Silently. Finger on the trigger.
She felt a chill deeper than the coming night. How had the killer learned that Pescoli would be driving hell-bent for leather over this pass? From Pescoli’s ex-husband? Her kids? Or had Pescoli’s assailant somehow tapped into her cell phone and was monitoring her calls?
Or had the sick son of a bitch just gotten lucky? What were the odds of that?
And there was that word again. Lucky. Just like the nickname that Luke Pescoli wore so proudly. An odd, unsettling connection.