Deep Freeze (West Coast 1)

“Don’t know. She’s not in the vehicle, and there’s snow piling up on it.”

“Where is she?”

“That’s the problem. No one knows. She left her office around seven, logged out at six-fifty, and, according to her landlady, hasn’t been home, not even to let her dog out. She’s single, lives alone. We called the local hospitals and she hasn’t been admitted—she also didn’t call for a tow, nor in to the police to report the accident. We haven’t started in on her friends or family yet.”

“Maybe she took off. Had one too many drinks and didn’t want to face the consequences, went somewhere until she sobered up.”

“It looks like someone did pick her up. Another vehicle’s tire tracks and boot or shoe prints. But what’s odd is that her purse and laptop are still in the car. She didn’t take them with her, nor did whoever showed up on the scene.”

Carter felt a frisson of fear skate down his spine.

“Then there’s something else. She printed herself a route map, off of the Internet. Directions to your house, Sheriff.”

“My house?” What the hell was that all about? A razor of guilt sliced into his brain. Hadn’t the Olmstead woman been dogging him for the last week or so, hoping to get an interview or at least a quote? He’d ignored her. “Secure the scene,” Carter said, punching it. His Blazer shot forward, sliding just a little. “I’ll be right there.”

Carter didn’t like the sound of it, thought about how Sonja Hatchell had disappeared. How Mavis Gette had been discovered up at Catwalk Point. Two cases that weren’t necessarily linked, both entirely different situations, a hitchhiker who took a ride with the wrong guy and a waitress who, along with her vehicle, had vanished into a frozen night. But they all had connections to this area. Don’t go jumping to conclusions, he warned himself, but he had a bad feeling about this, a real bad feeling. It didn’t go away as he drove through the snow to the turn-off where not only a patrol car from the OSP had arrived, but several reporters, not just from the Banner, but a local news van as well. Probably because of the call to the newspaper by the police to try and locate Olmstead. Someone had tipped the TV guys.

A small woman in a blue parka was quick to accost him, shoving a microphone in his face. “Sheriff Carter? I’m Brenda Ward, KBST.” A cameraman was tagging after her. “Do you think Roxie Olmstead’s disappearance is linked to Sonja Hatchell’s?”

Carter turned and faced the reporter, noticed the camera’s lens focused on him. “We don’t know that she has disappeared. What we have so far is a single-car accident, probably because of the storm, and other than that I really can’t speculate or comment at this time.”

She started to step closer, waved her cameraman in, but Carter ignored her and walked to the scene of the accident. Luckily, she didn’t follow past the tape.

The situation was just as Hixx had explained over the phone, but as Carter stood with his back to the wind, snowflakes swirling all around him as he observed the smashed front-end of the Toyota, he had doubts. Something was wrong here.

Very wrong.

Lying on a cold, hard slab she awoke. Every muscle in Roxie’s body ached. Her head pounded. Her mouth tasted like crap. And above all, she was freezing. So damned cold she could barely draw a breath. She opened an eye as memories collided in her brain. She’d been driving to see the sheriff, some nutcase had forced her off the road, there had been a horrid crash, and then she’d been zapped with a stun gun.

Worse yet, she was naked.

Wearing only her goose bumps.

Jesus, what had that creep done to her?

She was tied, unable to move much, and scared to death, but she tried to tamp down her fear. Wherever she was, she had to get out. ASAP. And she had to be quiet, so as not to alert the pervert that she was awake. Slowly she twisted her head against cold, smooth concrete, craning her neck, straining to see, hoping to determine where the hell she was and how to escape.

The lights were dim but she focused and saw that she was in a warehouse or big, yawning building with high ceilings covered with posters and pictures. Of one woman. Jenna Hughes. Holy crap, what kind of sicko was he? She saw no windows, no doors, but knew there had to be an exit somewhere. In the middle of the big room was a stage filled with half a dozen people or so. Half-dressed women. Some bald. Some completely naked. A couple with waxy painted faces, some without any features at all.

Roxie’s heart nearly stopped as she gazed at this group of women, none of whom moved so much as an inch…no, she realized, not women, but statues. Surreal statues. She blinked twice and realized they were actually mannequins, the kind she’d seen in Saks and Neiman-Marcus.

What the hell was this? Some crazy Stepford Wives scenario? And why was it so damned cold? Didn’t the creep believe in heat? Or was this part of his torture? At that thought, her insides turned to water. Torture. Oh, God, no. She studied the mannequins clustered around a recliner—no, not a La-Z-Boy but a dentist’s chair, complete with drill.

She heard a noise and froze.

Music filled the room. Music from Summer’s End, one of Jenna Hughes’s movies. Roxie had seen it half a dozen times on cable TV, had identified with Marnie Sylvane, the central character, a lonely schoolteacher who could never find love. Marnie Sylvane. Hadn’t the creep called her “Marnie” when he’d attacked her?

What kind of weird shit was going on here?

From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of him. He was standing in a glassed-in room, staring at a computer monitor. She shivered with a new fear, and as if he sensed it, he turned suddenly, eyes focusing on her.

“Ah, Marnie. Awake, are you?” He smiled chillingly and walked through a glass door to the large room.

“I’m not Marnie,” she said, and his smile slipped a little.

“Of course you are.”

“I’m Roxie Olmstead, a reporter with the Lewis County Banner.” She was struggling to get to her feet, but her ankles were tied with thick ropes and she couldn’t push herself upright. Damn it all. “My husband is going to miss me and he’ll call the police, but that’s not the worst of it. He’ll come looking for you and he’ll break your neck when he does!”