ainst the authorities time and again, and Nate suspected his home was boobytrapped. If there was a stand-off, he wasn’t sure he’d bet on the police . . .
Could it be Simms? He’d been married once, but that wife was dead. Died in childbirth in the throes of delivering their sixth son. And those boys were terrors, each and every one. Enough to send a sane man over the edge, and Simms’s sanity wasn’t rock solid as it was. Once upon a time the man had been more stable, less prone to conspiracy theories and boiling rage. Nate recalled that Simms had known Padgett Long, way back when, maybe even had a crush on her, but she, of course, hadn’t shown him the least bit of interest. Before Padgett’s accident, she’d been the “it” girl around these parts and Bob Simms wasn’t even the faintest blip on her radar. And since then Simms had been on a downhill slide. Who else? Nate asked himself, and came up with another name: Gordon Dobbs, also a marksman,
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though he spent most of his time making chainsaw art and was surprisingly adept at it. Nate was pretty sure Gordon’s wife had left him recently; there’d been talk in town, though Nate purposely avoided listening to any gossip. Now, he wished he’d opened his ears a bit more. Could Gordon be morose enough to kill? To plan these vile deaths? Again, it seemed unlikely.
Then what about someone on the police force? Wasn’t one of the deputies—Pete Watershed—once a sniper for the army? Hadn’t Santana read an article last year in the local paper, the Mountain Reporter, that Watershed had tranquilized a marauding black bear with a perfect shot? And Cort Brewster was always entering some kind of sharpshooting contest or another. Bragged about his skills. It was tough to get away from the man and his stories if he caught you around town. Another reason Santana had steered clear of Grizzly Falls as much as possible. But now he needed to get involved. Now he needed to be in the center of this investigation. For Regan.
He had to find her!
With renewed purpose, he called the sheriff’s department, gave his name, and asked for Selena Alvarez. It was late, but he believed she would be there. Regan was her partner and, with the little he knew of Selena Alvarez, he was pretty sure she would still be on the job.
He was right, for a few moments later she answered carefully, “This is Detective Alvarez. What can I do for you, Mr. Santana?”
“Brady Long’s killer is Star-Crossed. They’re one and the same man. Maybe it hasn’t been deter-292 Lisa Jackson
mined yet, but it’s true. You know it and I know it. Tell me you’re working on that assumption.”
“I have to work with facts. And that’s not a fact.”
“But it will be. I’m going on gut instinct, Detective. And I’m going to find this son of a bitch.”
“You are not part of this investigation,” she reminded him briskly.
“I could help you.”
“You would just get in the way.”
“You’re wrong,” he said tautly.
“Let us do our job, Mr. Santana.”
He’d seen a bit of the press conference on television with Grayson ducking questions and answering in vague generalities. It had convinced him they were all scratching their heads and covering their asses.
“Go ahead, then. You do yours. I’ll do mine.”
“What does that mean?” she demanded sharply. But Santana had already hung up in disgust. It had been a waste of time to call her. He thought for a moment, then took two strides to his desk area. He wasn’t the most organized man, but he had a file or two that held important papers. He thumbed through them quickly, grabbing a small note tucked inside, memorizing its contents, then dialing another phone number. If he was gonna do this, he was gonna need help. Chris was being a butt! Flopped on her bed, texting like mad, Bianca was practically begging him to come over. Yeah, Dad’s idea to have him over was lame, lame, lame, but there was nothing to do. Noth- ing! Even Jeremy, that loser, hadn’t bothered calling or texting.
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But he did escape here, didn’t he? Figured that out, somehow.
Everyone in the house was going stir-crazy and the tension was as thick as Michelle’s face makeup. Bianca tried not to think about that too much as she sent another text and hoped Chris responded. He was kinda bugging her.
Did he know she needed him right now?
And what would be the excuse to blow her off this time? That he was playing video games with Zach and Kevin? He could do that anytime. Sighing, she plucked at a piece of pink thread from the bedspread and looked out the window. The sky was dark, the snow wasn’t falling anymore, and a moon was rising, reflecting silver on the trees and ground. “We’re going to have a white Christmas,” Michelle had told her a week ago. Big deal. This was Montana. White Christmases happened almost every year, and Bianca was sick to death of them.
She stood up and stared outside, contemplated sneaking out, but knew that she couldn’t get away with it. Plus, she didn’t have any way to get around. In the panes of glass, she saw her own watery reflection and she thought about Mom. Where was she? Biting her lip, Bianca nearly jumped from her skin when the phone suddenly rang. Maybe Chris had called the house!
No way. He never phoned her at her dad’s. On the second ring, she heard Michelle, say,
“Hello? . . . Yes . . . yes, he’s here . . . just a sec,” and then louder, “Luke! It’s for you.”