Chosen To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

Alvarez held up a hand. “Now wait a minute—”

“That’s all she said, but once she mentioned your partner, I had a dream and the images were scattered and sharp, didn’t make any sense. But I think they were of Regan Pescoli.”

“A dream? While you were sleeping.”

“Yes . . . I found myself outside. With the dog.”

“Has this happened to you before?”

Grace shook her head. “Never. Not until these killings,” she said. “What’s happening to me now is different. The dead want justice, I believe. They’re

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reaching out to me with more insistence than ever before.” She said it with a conviction that worried Alvarez. This woman really believed that the dead talked to her.

On the floor beside Grace, the wolf dog stretched and yawned, large teeth showing before Sheena closed her golden eyes and slept again, her breath whistling softly through her nostrils.

“In this dream did you see her killer? Did Wendy happen to mention his name? Describe him? You said ‘he,’ which we assume, but is there anything about him that you can tell me, something that would help us locate him?” As she heard the words pass her lips, Selena cringed a little inside. She was a woman who believed in science and evidence. She didn’t trust psychics or visions or dreams or anything that couldn’t be explained by fact. Yet here she was, hoping this woman who most of the townspeople thought was off her rocker could help.

“I only have a sensation. A man in white. He camouflages himself to blend in, I think. With the landscape. The snow.”

“But Wendy saw him.” As had all the victims. Alvarez was convinced that they had come to trust him, to believe in him, though she had no proof of that; it was only her theory.

“She saw him, but she didn’t transfer his image or description to me. I’m sorry.” And she looked it, seated on the corner of the dusty couch, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes nearly luminescent. Alvarez asked a few more questions and Grace answered quickly, honestly it seemed, but who knew? The woman could be as loco as everyone thought. But Alvarez urged Grace to tell her anything she could remember. 232

Lisa Jackson

“There were some things that I was told about,”

Grace said, her silver hair catching the hearth light.

“By Wendy Ito?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of things.”

Almost as if she were in a self-imposed trance, Grace stared into the fire, then started talking about seeing a needle, a hypodermic. And a straitjacket, and a stretcher of some kind. Alvaez tried to press her when she trailed off, but Grace could give nothing concrete: no name, no description, no address. Nothing to tie one person to the crimes. Grace slowly surfaced and said, “You need to help her,” which only fueled Alvarez’s feelings of anxiety and inadequacy.

“I will,” she promised, then headed back outside. Climbing into her Jeep, she was just turning around when her cell phone rang. She picked up as she drove onto the main road, her wipers fighting like hell to clear the windshield of the damned snow that showed no sign of letting up. “Alvarez.”

“It’s Joelle. Are you coming back here?”

“On my way.”

“Good, good.”

Alvarez got a bad feeling about the conversation. Joelle hadn’t just called to suggest she be part of the Christmas cookie bake-off. “What’s up?”

“It’s Regan’s son.”

“Jeremy?” Alvarez whispered, her heart sinking. The kid was already in a helluva lot of trouble; he didn’t need any more. “What about him?”

“He’s down here at the station, demanding to know what’s happening with his mother. I tried to calm him down and suggested he go home, even offered him some cookies and fruitcake.”

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