Chosen To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“Hey! Elyssa!” My voice booms across these canyons. Finally, she looks up and I click off the shot. 348

Lisa Jackson

Not my best, I see, the digital image distorted a bit, but it will have to do. At least I caught the image of pure terror in her eyes.

Good.

I’m out of time.

And nature will take care of the rest.

I leave her then, jogging back the way we came, snow already filling the trail that we so recently broke through the snow.

This experience wasn’t the best. I like women with some fight in them, a little fire.

Like Padge

tt.

I wonder about her as I jog, my breath fogging the air, my skin breaking out in a sweat under my insulated clothing. Does she know about her brother? Has she heard? Finally she is free again. And the demon is dead.

I cut across the creek, cracking the ice, seeing a trickle beneath it, then head up the hill, along the deer trail, almost slipping once, but catching myself. Though Elyssa’s sacrifice has been less than exhilarating, the next will be one of the best. Better than either of the last two. Regan Pescoli is a worthy adversary, and the pain I feel in my muscles, the bites on my neck, are constant reminders that I must not underestimate her.

That would be an irreversible, fatal flaw. I’m breathing hard as I climb the hillside, following the trail and knowing that even now Elyssa is expiring, the first one probably already dead. Perfect.

A tiny zing sizzles through my blood at the thought that I ended her life. I had that power. This, the way I kill them, is slow. Slightly impersonal. I never feel

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that surge of supreme ecstasy I imagine a killer might feel who wields a knife.

But knowing that I controlled another’s destiny, a woman, I’m sure, who was put on this earth to fulfill my needs, suffices. For now.

Over the final hillock, I spy my truck. Quickly I load up, toss my backpack and kit into the back. Despite my gloves, I feel the cold. No time to waste!

I climb into my truck, spark the engine, then let off the emergency brake. Snow begins to fall as the tires grip and I work my way down the hill, easing down the steep slope, the snow tires digging deep, transmission whining.

It’s slow going, but eventually, around a final corner, I spy the county road in the distance. A few vehicles are traveling at a slow speed through the curtain of snow and I smile.

Once on a level surface, I increase my speed, frown at the clock, and tell myself it’ll all work out. I need to take care of an errand or two, then return to the mine and make sure Pescoli is as broken and needy as she was when I left her last night. My jaw tightens. It worries me a bit that the marks will be permanent; always a reminder that she almost got the better of me.

Almost.

Setting my jaw, I head home.

I need to clean up before I return to town, where, I anticipate, all hell is breaking loose. It’s a good feeling and I turn on the radio once more only to hear Burl Ives’s voice and that irritating melody again. “Oh, by golly, have a—”

I push the button to a country-western station. 350

Lisa Jackson

For the love of God, what’s wrong with the DJs, playing that insipid song over and over again? Despite Randy Travis’s deep voice, I can’t get the whole holly jolly thing out of my mind.

As the windshield slaps at the snow I find myself humming to the catchy little melody.

It’s a damned curse.