As she curved around the bend in the creek, he pulled up beside her. They were skiing two abreast.
She caught a glimpse of him because, just as the tree with its broken branches loomed, she flinched. She turned her head, eyes round in fear, mouth pulled back to scream, as he shoved her.
Hard.
Into the rotting pine.
Now, as he remembered the horror on her face, the sickening sound of her body slamming into the bark, the thud of her head cracking against that jagged, protruding broken branch, he grinned again.
One less Unknowing walking the earth.
And now, he thought, bringing himself up to the minute, he would take care of the one he should have dealt with years before. His scar seemed to throb as the wipers swatted away the snow and some inane Christmas song rolled through the speakers.
“Three Kings, my ass,” he muttered, and he felt that little zing sizzle through his blood, that spark of anticipation, as he thought of what was to come.
Acacia.
God, he’d like to fuck her. Just to show her what he could do ... Then again, he’d settle for killing her. Watching her eyes widen in surprise when she recognized him, seeing her pupils dilate in terror, witnessing her understanding that he would snuff the life from her.
He felt his cock twitch and stiffen. With a moan, he let out his breath slowly, loosening his fingers as they gripped the wheel. He had to park out of sight again and snowshoe in, which was perfect, and the falling snow would make an excellent cover, get rid of his tracks.
Smiling, he drove into the foothills.
He knew just the right spot.
“So that’s it?” Alvarez said into the hands-free device of her cell phone as she drove. “Black paint that you can buy anywhere?”
“Sorry,” Gus said without an ounce of apology in his voice. “It is what it is. And what it is . . . is Premium flat black number three-oh-eight. It’s been the same formula for nearly fifteen years.”
They were talking about the paint marks retrieved from Elle Alexander’s van, and instead of the paint that was transferred belonging to a certain make and model of car, it was from a spray paint can, the kind that could be bought all across the country and was used to paint anything from outdoor furniture to model cars or barbecues.
“Great.”
“Hey, I gave you what I had.”
“I know. Thanks, Gus.” She hung up and considered how many stores in the Grizzly Falls area had sold that particular brand in the past fifteen years. Would they get lucky and find someone who had purchased it lately? And what if the paint had been bought in Spokane or Boise or Missoula or who knew where?
At least she had the information on the coffee grounds. Alvarez was alone. Pescoli had received a call from Jeremy just as they were leaving. He’d told her that Chris Schultz was over, so she’d had to head home again. Alvarez had told her not to bother returning, but Pescoli had made it clear she would deal with the matter and show up as soon as she could. It seemed Pescoli had been half annoyed, half glad that Jeremy had decided to rat out his sister’s boyfriend. It was almost a sign of maturity.
Alvarez found Acacia Lambert’s address and turned into the long drive that led to the house, following a couple of sets of fresh tracks. To her unwelcome surprise, Trace O’Halleran was waiting for her as she pulled up beside his truck. The tech crew had already arrived as well, parked to the side of the garage. One of the guys, Rudy, was outside the department-issued van, smoking a cigarette and talking to Trace. Rudy’s partner, Eileen, was inside the vehicle, keeping warm as the van’s engine idled, exhaust fogging in the air.
Alvarez considered Trace. He wasn’t the killer; his alibis had proved that. But he was in this thing up to his sexy eyeballs; she just hadn’t quite figured out how.
Yet.
What was it with him and the women who might just have all been sired by Donor 727?
There was no time like the present to find out.
As she opened the door of her Jeep, she heard another vehicle in the drive and saw the play of headlights in the snow. Seconds later Dr. Acacia Lambert herself had parked her car in the drive, behind Alvarez, and had walked over the mashed snow to the group, just as Eileen climbed out of the van.
They discussed the plan to sweep the house. They were to find the bugs, try to locate the exterior source, but leave everything as it was. Kacey and Trace would talk as if they were the only ones in the house, catch up on the day, while the techs combed each room for listening devices and, perhaps, cameras. Afterward, they would dust for prints.
Clearly Kacey had been hoping the mics would be immediately removed, and Alvarez couldn’t blame her. But she saw the wisdom of keeping them in place, and so they all headed toward the house.
If Trace had made a mistake and there were actually cameras in the house as well, they were screwed and would tip off whoever had bugged the house. Then again, if the guy was nearby, there was a chance he would see them, anyway, and probably figure out they were onto him. Even though the house sat back from the road, he could have an observation point.
They made their way to the back porch but stopped short when a deep-throated dog started barking from within. “Hey, Bonz, it’s me! Hush!” Kacey ordered, but the animal kept up the ruckus until she was inside. Only then did his hackles lower and his tail begin wagging in wide arcs as he happily greeted everyone. Though he looked as if he were aggressive with predominately pit bull genes, he lowered his head like a gentleman and waited to be petted by everyone filing inside.