Reach the police!
Find help!
But, as if he’d read her mind, he’d slammed the tailgate shut and locked the canopy.
Click.
The sound was soft, but it resonated through Elyssa’s brain, reminding her that she was locked away.
Alone.
About to die.
The glimpse she had of the other woman had burned into her brain: a tall, thin woman with small breasts, brown hair, and eyes that were wide and frightened. She’d begun screaming behind her gag as she’d been dragged from the truck. Elyssa had heard her frightened, strangled cries as Liam, if that was really his name, paid no attention. Now there was nothing—no noise other than the frantic beating of her own heart.
And the silence was deafening.
Crushing.
Shaking, she sent up a prayer. Dear Lord in heaven, please help me. Help her . . . save us. Tears drizzled from her eyes as she thought of her parents, how her mother would be hanging the stockings on the mantel and her father would be sitting in his chair, reading a newspaper, the television turned to some sports channel. And Cesar. Was he missing her? With his children.
Oh, God, how she missed them all.
How she wished she’d told them all how much she loved them.
340
Lisa Jackson
How—
Footsteps crunched through the snow outside. For a split second she thought someone might have come for her. A bit of hope lightened her heart. Until she heard the door lock click.
Felt the truck sink a bit as he climbed inside. Then heard the engine cough and start, roaring to life. With a crunch of tires, the pickup began to roll forward.
Elyssa O’Leary closed her eyes and prayed. These, she knew, were the final moments of her life.
Chapter Twenty-Five
It was as if something was in the air. Something intangible, dark and evil.
Nate had spent a restless night, hoping Chilcoate would call, knowing he wouldn’t. His mind had spun with ideas and dead ends, going over the information about Regan’s abduction and the other killings in his memor
y. He couldn’t quiet the questions and images and when he had finally drifted off, his dreams had been splintered and sharp. One minute he was making love to Regan, his body slick with sweat, the scent of her enveloping him as he kissed her, ran his fingers along her long legs. He’d heard her voice, deep and smoky. “That’s it, cowboy,” she’d whispered into his ear. “Right there . . . yeah, yeah . . . oh, yeah . . .” and then she’d withered away from him, her face twisting in fear, and he was standing on the brink of a yawning, dark canyon, snow falling all around.
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Lisa Jackson
He’d awoken shouting her name and had finally given up on sleep, spending the next few hours swilling coffee, studying maps, trying to piece together how Brady Long had been connected to the other victims, or more importantly, the killer. And why the hell had Ivor Hicks shown up? While Long’s body was still warm, his soul not yet admitted into hell?
Ivor had arrived, at least three miles from his own place, little more than a shack at the base of Mesa Rock.
None of it made any sense, he thought, as he tried and failed to get Lucifer to take the bit. “Come on, boy,” he’d cajoled and tried to get into tune with the animal. Lucifer had let him pat his sleek black shoulders and hadn’t so much as pawed or tossed his head as Santana had placed the straps of the bridle over his neck. He’d acted as gentlemanly as he had the night before.
But the bit had set him off and rather than battle with the big colt, Santana had backed off. Truth to tell, he wasn’t in the mood.
And Lucifer took advantage of it.