Imagined the hunt.
It was the killing time.
And he knew where to find her…
CHAPTER 27
If Mohammed wouldn’t come to the mountain, then the damned mountain was going to haul ass to him.
Roxie Olmstead was tired of getting the “no comment” routine from the Lewis County Sheriff’s Department, and she was pissed that she couldn’t get through to Carter. The guy was stonewalling her, no doubt about it.
She’d left voice messages and e-mail messages and even hung out around the courthouse, hoping to flag Carter down and get some kind of information about Mavis Gette, the woman found in pieces up on Catwalk Point. Even after the corpse had been identified, Carter had refused her calls—well, actually, that bitch of a receptionist, Jerri Morales, had coolly informed Roxie that Carter was “out” or “in a meeting” or “unavailable.” She’d only found out about Mavis Gette from a statement issued by the Oregon State Police.
“Hell,” she muttered, walking out of the offices of the Lewis County Banner. The wind blasted her, pushing her hood off her head and running icy fingers through her hair. Clutching her laptop, thermos, and purse, she hurried through the blowing snow to her car and unlocked the little four-door. Her stomach was acting up again and she popped a couple of antacids after she scraped a vision hole in the ice covering the windshield, then flicked on the ignition and the Toyota’s defroster started warming the glass in front of her. Her Corolla had over two hundred thousand miles on it and was beat to hell, the interior shot, but with an engine that wouldn’t quit. With a standard “three-on-the-tree” transmission and studded snow tires, the old car could get Roxie just about anywhere. Including Sheriff Carter’s house.
She smiled to herself as she considered the lawman. Tall and good-looking, Carter appeared more like Hollywood’s vision of a cowboy than a real sheriff. It bugged the hell out of Roxie that he wouldn’t give her the time of day. Well, tonight things were going to change.
She turned on the wipers to help scrape off the ice, and switched on her favorite radio station, one of the few that came in here, and listened to ’80s pop as the ice slowly melted and the car’s interior warmed. Before she could really see much, she swiped a spot clear on the inside of the windshield and picked her way through the few cars in the lot, then gunned it onto the street. Her car slid a bit and she grinned. God, she loved the snow, watched as it swirled and danced in front of her headlights. At a stoplight, she braked, found a tube of lip gloss in her purse, and swiped a little pinkish stain over her lips. She was admiring her work in the rearview mirror when the light changed; she stepped on it before the guy on her bumper got impatient and laid on the horn.
Driving out of town, she mentally sketched out what she would say to Carter when he answered his door.
If he wasn’t home, she’d wait. She had a thermos of coffee, a blanket, and a book that was interesting enough to hold her attention, but not so consuming that she’d lose track of time or her quarry. If he didn’t show up in an hour, she’d bag it and try again tomorrow. As much as she wanted to corner him, there was only so much time she could spend in this cold, and she wasn’t going to use up all the power in her little battery.
But, by God, he was going to talk to her.
Face-to-face.
She had questions to ask him, and, in her mind, was plotting what she intended to say to him, how to approach him, how to avoid getting his door slammed in her face. She even thought of using a ploy—“Sorry, Sheriff, I ran out of gas, right up the road”—but knew he’d see right through it. What to do? How could she get past his formidable facade and into the real man beneath his tough veneer? Just what was it that made Carter tick? She knew all the standard facts about him: age, education, that he’d lived in Falls Crossing most of his life; he’d been married, and his wife had died in a deadly cold snap not unlike this one, but she’d like to pierce through that invisible armor of his. What was the man behind the badge like?
She’d hate to think how many times she’d fantasized about him. There was something about a brooding, quiet, secretive man in a uniform that turned her on. Oh God, she’d hate to think what some shrink would make of that, especially since her father had been a cop.
So intent was she on her inner thoughts that she braked and signaled by rote, driving into the snowstorm and heading toward his home. Humming along to an old Billy Idol tune, she barely noticed the thin traffic, the few cars she met on the snowy roads, nor anyone following her.
Engine humming, her Toyota skimmed along the road, snow tires holding onto the icy pavement, headlights sending thin beams that cut through the night and glistened against the dirty, sandy, packed snow. The song ended and she glanced in the rearview mirror, noticing for the first time how close a car was behind her. Right on her ass. “Jesus,” she growled, as if he could hear her. “Hey, buddy, this isn’t L.A.” She sped up, her tires sliding a bit, and he was right with her. An idiot. One of oh, so many. Man, if she could get his license plate. That was it. She slowed, but he didn’t pass, just hugged her bumper, probably afraid to try and make it around her on these twisting, icy roads.
Fortunately, the turn-off to the road leading past Carter’s house was just a mile ahead. No doubt she’d lose this bastard then.
She shifted down for the corner, put in the clutch and felt it give. Oh, hell, it had been temperamental lately. The car behind her didn’t slow. “Watch out,” she said, managing to ram her Corolla into second gear, then tried for first just as she reached the turn-off. The prick was still on her butt! Not backing off an inch. What the hell was he thinking? Carefully, she eased her foot onto the brake and started into her turn.
Bam!
Her head snapped.
What the hell? The idiot behind her had clipped her bumper!
Her Toyota began to spin crazily.
Instinctively she stood on the brakes.
Wrong! The car slid out of control, still cutting 360s and reeling wildly toward the trees. “Shit!”
She tried to remember to turn into the spin, not to lock her brakes, but the side of the road and the trees were whirling ever closer. Too close. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!” she yelled, trying not to freak out, praying the car would slow. She was at the edge of the road now. A huge Douglas fir with thick, twisted bark loomed into view.
Closer. “No!”
Closer, the NO TRESPASSING sign right in front of her. “Jesus, no!”
Thud!