But Regan kept going, flailing through the snow, panicked to the marrow of her bones.
Once she’d realized she was free, she’d snagged a jacket, thrown it on, left the cabin, and started running. Blindly. Crazily. Certain her assailant was on her tail. She had no idea where she was and the sun was blocked by the snow, so she didn’t even know which direction she was heading.
She just ran.
As far and as fast as her battered body would allow.
But now the cabin was out of sight and she had to stop, dragging in deep, painful breaths, needing to get her bearings. She had to take stock and start thinking like a cop, not a frightened doe. Squeezing her eyes shut tight, she grimaced, forcing the panic and pain to the back of her consciousness, trying like hell to find a calmness, the cold, calculating side of her brain, all of her training. She fought the urge to flee like a crazy person. Sheer terror wouldn’t help her find Elyssa O’Leary. Think, Regan, think.
She opened her eyes. Took another calming breath. Felt the snow melt upon her cheeks. Already she’d made a mistake.
Her tracks would be visible for some time, even with the snowfall.
Whenever the son of a bitch returned, all he had to do was follow the broken trail of snow. It wouldn’t take a seasoned tracker to find her.
Swearing under her breath, swiping the snow from her eyes and pulling up the hood of her jacket, she stared at her all-too-visible tracks miserably. 394
Lisa Jackson
They might as well have been marked with a bright red sign: This way to Regan Pescoli. Pull it together or else you’ll die out here, if not from Star-Crossed, then from your own damned stupidity. No way would it snow hard enough, or the wind blow fast enough, to cover her tracks.
But what about his?
She knew the sicko had taken Elyssa from the cabin. Recently. Surely there were other tracks? Maybe half buried, but tracks leading to a vehicle . . . the same damned truck that had brought her up here.
She had to go back. Circle around. Make it look like she was heading downhill, then double back around to the cabin and find his trail.
Shivering, her body aching, she hated to return. But she had no choice, not really. To save herself. To save Elyssa. She had to track him down. Santana straddled the stool next to Ivor’s. They were at the bend in the bar, farthest from the door, only ten feet from the restrooms. Christmas music played on a loop of prerecorded songs that were competing for airspace with the rattle of glasses, fizz of the soda dispenser, clicks from the video poker machines, and hum of conversation. Ivor was nursing a beer and staring glumly into his near-empty glass.
“Merry Christmas,” Santana said, shaking off the remnants of his fight with Regan’s kid. He hitched his chin toward Ivor’s drink. “What’re ya havin’?”
“Coyote Creek Pale Ale.”
“On Christmas Eve?” Santana looked at the barkeep, a tall, lanky twenty-five-year-old who was pre-
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maturely balding. “Give him another. I’ll have the same.”
Ivor eyed Santana. “Wouldn’t mind somethin’
different . . . Well, you know, like you said, bein’ as it’s Christmas and all.”
“Whatever the man wants,” Santana said.
“Jack. On the rocks,” Ivor said, quickly, then looked over the tops of his glasses as if he’d suddenly got wise that Santana might not be on the upand-up. “You want somethin’ from me?”
“Just conversation. I just saw you here and thought that after yesterday, you know, findin’ Brady Long and all, we deserved to unwind.”
“I’ll drink to that!” Ivor said, some of his misgivings allayed as the barkeep sent a small glass his way and he immediately lifted it to his lips. A glass of the pale ale appeared before Santana.
“Helluva thing yesterday,” he said, taking a sip.
“About Brady Long.”
“Oh, yeah.” Ivor shuddered. Took another drink as the “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” began to fight for airspace with the laughter and conversation. The bar began to fill up as men who had worked short shifts filtered in.