Born To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

CHAPTER 31

Calm down.

Pretend nothing’s wrong.

So the bitch went to Gerald? So what?

It was inevitable. As are the police.

And things are only going to get worse when they find the other one....

Glancing down at the screen of his GPS tracking system, he realized that Acacia had driven home from Gerald’s company in Missoula, which was exactly what he’d expected. And yet he couldn’t help but worry, his hands sweating in gloves, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as he thought of everything that could go wrong.

He’d been so diligent....

He was on the move again. There was just so much to do, and time was his enemy.

He’d switched license plates on the truck, just in case, putting on the set of stolen Idaho plates.

His windshield wipers wiped off th

e snow as he thought about yesterday and how he’d surprised another one. She had been cross-country skiing on a trail that was one of her usual haunts. He’d had to wait several days in the empty parking lot, hoping she would appear.

Finally, yesterday, as he’d pretended to be checking his own equipment, the nose of her Honda had appeared. After she’d parked, she’d geared up and he’d offered a hand in greeting as she’d snapped on her skis and taken off.

He’d waited until she was around the bend and through a copse of pine before he’d taken off after her, his strides strong and swift. She was athletic, and he was surprised how long it had taken to catch up to her, but he’d kept her red jacket in his line of vision until she’d started up the incline that ran along the creek.

He’d accelerated then, pushing himself, feeling the cold wind permeate his ski mask as it rattled the trees.

Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh!

His skis skimmed over the thick powder.

He dug his poles into the soft snow with smooth, sure regularity and gained on her.

She was thirty feet ahead of him and gliding through the sparse stands, her skis smooth near the creek bank, the wires from her iPod now visible.

Twenty feet.

Up another short incline. Perfect.

He dug in, pushing harder.

Sweating.

Closing the distance between them.

Ten feet.

Behind his ski mask, he grinned. She hadn’t heard him, didn’t know he was following. So into her music and the beauty of the fresh snow in the wilderness, or some such crap, she skied innocently.

Unaware.

Closer still.

Now the tips of his skis were nearly touching the backs of hers. They were heading into a thicker grove, where birch and pine quivered with the wind. One gnarly pine, with a thick trunk and several broken branches, caught his eye.

Perfect!