But it was too late.
She fell, her feet giving out. Down she went, over 404
Lisa Jackson
a steep embankment, into a wide gully, tumbling faster and faster, free-falling along the steep hillside, out of control, the world spinning, snow everywhere. Using her hands as best she could, she tried to break her fall, digging her fingers into the snow, creating drag, trying to slow her speed so she would avoid the trees and rocks that loomed near the bottom of the draw. On her back, head first, the sky shifting overhead, her arms out, hand grabbing. Bam!
Her left hand smashed against something sharp. The knife flew from her grasp.
Oh, no!
Dig in!
She tried to catch herself, to grab onto a root or rock or limb—anything!—as she careened down the wash. Then she saw him staring after her, running along the top of the ridge, keeping her in his sites.
Bastard! she thought, Goddamned sick bastard! She gave up trying to stop the free-fall. Whatever lay below was infinitely safer than dealing with the killer who now realized she knew his face and could ID him.
Grayson turned off the wipers and guided his Jeep into his reserved spot in the lot at the sheriff’s office. A few other vehicles were parked in the heavy snow and two news vans had taken up residence on a side street. If he could, he wanted to avoid the reporters. Dealing with Manny Douglas earlier this morn-
CHOSEN TO DIE
405
ing was all Grayson figured he could handle. For the past four hours, he’d been on the road, coordinating with the rest of the search party, looking for any sign of the missing girls, driving the most desolate canyons and ridges in this sub-freezing weather, staying within the perimeters previously established. Checking and rechecking the areas where the two missing women were last seen, as well as the routes they most likely would have taken to get to their intended destinations.
But the search had been fruitless.
And even, he suspected, pointless.
So far, none of the search party had found anything. No bodies, dead or alive, had been located tied to stark trees in the lonely hills. Nor had either of the missing girls’ vehicles been discovered in one of the myriad of canyons and ridges that rimmed the town.
But maybe a wild-goose chase, too.
Maybe someone close to the investigation was getting his rocks off by sending Manny Douglas the notes.
A stupid thought.
Desperate.
The notes were real. He could only hold out hope that the notes were premature—before the killings—or an attempt by the killer to throw them off track and embarrass the sheriff’s department. Except Brandy Hooper and Elyssa O’Leary are miss- ing.
It all came back to that. God help them.
“Come on, boy,” he said, shrugging off the weight of his job and whistling to Sturgis. The black Lab bounded out of the Jeep and, tail wagging, followed Grayson past a cluster of die-hard smokers 406
Lisa Jackson
battling the wind and cold on the department’s front entryway.
He tore off his gloves, hat, and jacket as the inside of the office was sweltering, the thermostat hovering near eighty. “It’s hotter’n hell in here.”
“Don’t look at me,” Joelle said, her face red, beads of sweat dotting her forehead. “I called the repairman, but Rod isn’t sure he can get anyone on Christmas Eve.” She fanned herself with her hand. “I don’t know what else to do.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He had bigger fish to fry. The damned heat was nothing. He tossed his jacket onto a side chair as Sturgis settled onto his bed, but before he could round the desk, Grayson’s cell phone rang.
Stephanie Chandler’s number popped onto the screen. Grayson was surprised, as they’d talked earlier in the day when he’d called and explained about Manny Douglas’s visit and the notes the reporter had received from Star-Crossed.
“Grayson,” he said into his cell.