Chosen To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“Nothin’ good.”

“You think this is the work of the Star-Crossed Killer?”

“I don’t know.” Spitzer threw a frown up at him as she carried on the conversation. “I’m just the dumb ranch hand who came in when Brady Long was dying.”

“Yeah?” she said, then shook her head and snorted a laugh. “Not in my book, Santana. No way.”

Spitzer hung up the phone. “The crime scene techs are on their way,” she said. To Santana, she said tersely, “Now, why don’t you tell me why it is you can’t just mind your own business?”

“Brady Long made it my business,” he said, but kept his thoughts about Regan Pescoli to himself. As yet, there was no connection between her abduction and Long’s murder. Just speculation. So far.

“You got that wrong,” Spitzer said.

“We’ll see.” Rather than get into it with her fur-218 Lisa Jackson

ther, Nate returned to the paint and turned the horse back around.

The police are idiots!

Morons!

I can’t believe that they were fooled by an imbecilic copycat, and a poor one at that, and now they’re running around chasing their own tails over Brady Long.

I should feel some satisfaction over this, but instead I’m frustrated as I make my way back to the cabin, the truck’s engine whining as I take the final curve and pull into the lean-to where my snowmobile is hidden. There’s just enough room for the two vehicles, and this shed is still half a mile away from the place I’ve hidden them—the next two women who will end up frozen. The discovery of their dead bodies will show the police just how inept they are. In desperation the sheriff’s department is even listening to the crazy old man now, about the “Yeti”

he viewed on Brady Long’s property.

Ha!

What the hell was Ivor doing up there?

He could have messed everything up.

Once again, I think I might just have to kill him. In a way, it would be a blessing for him. Take him out of his unrealized misery. Shut him up permanently and save him the embarrassment of being the town looney.

I cut the engine and listen as it dies, ticking softly as it quickly begins to cool.

The police, of course, tried to keep him quiet, but, as always, and because the deputies on duty are inadequate, Ivor managed to get to one of the tele-

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vision reporters who had camped out in town. I saw the “breaking news” on the television over the bar when I stopped in for a drink and conversation with Nadine. There was Ivor Hicks in all his glory, eyes wide behind his oversized glasses, insisting that a huge white creature, a Yeti, with a long club had killed Brady Long.

“I was afraid fer my own life, let me tell you. I figured the creature might have X-ray vision or worse. Looked straight at me with gold eyes that seemed to glow.”

Try as they might, the cops just hadn’t been able to shut him up, and Talli Donahue, a blond reporter for KBTR, was always ready to interview the old man. It was almost as if she were making fun of him when she posed her questions, as if she wanted to wink at the camera. She’d had a twinkle in her eye, almost like “Watch this,” as she and Ivor spoke. She’d caught him in town, trying to make his way into the Spot, his favorite tavern, a place I know he frequents.

Reporting!

All that tabloid trash.

It’s getting as bad as the shoddy police work. I can’t wait to step up my plan. I climb out of the truck and cover it with a large insulated tarp. I don’t want to chance the engine freezing and not starting when I need it most. Then, strapping on my snowshoes, I start hiking back to the cabin with the sad news for Elyssa that I never made it to town, that for a few more days she’ll be stuck inside the cabin. But I promise, the storm is about to break and I’ll be able to get her out soon.

And I will, I think, savoring this part of the plan. Finally she’s ready and so am I.

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