Who knew what lurked beneath those hemlocks?
Wolves?
Cougars?
Something worse?
With a furtive glance to the forest, she hurried her pace to the garage, deciding once again she wasn’t cut out for this rustic, frontier-like life. From here on in, her idea of roughing it would be at Super Eight motel, sipping drinks by the pool. Forget this snow. Forget the forest. Forget the damned isolation where her cell phone didn’t even work unless she was standing out in the middle of the damned lane.
Of course she wasn’t supposed to use it, she thought, snagging the hatchet from the inside of the lean-to that served as their garage. What a pain. Setting the lantern on the dirt floor, she found some chunks of pine and deftly cut kindling. The sound of the dry wood cracking, though, somehow reminded her of broken bones.
It was probably because of Maurice.
Obviously he was caught up in something illegal and he was an ex-con, so that was a bit of a problem. Hopefully, it was only drugs or burglary . . . he wouldn’t say. “You need to stay out of it, honey,” he’d told her when she’d asked, and so she’d let it go.
Now, as she swung the stupid hatchet and split kindling and froze her butt out here, she was thinking she’d made a mistake. It wasn’t the first time. She’d started saying to Maurice that it was time to move on, that she was bored, that she missed the crew down at the Long Branch, and he’d gotten snappy with her, even once balled his fist.
Man, he’d better never hit her, because she wasn’t about to put up with that kind of crap. She had once before, with Lenny, and lost a tooth because of it before she’d had him up on charges, so Maurice better mind his p’s and q’s.
So far, so good, she thought as she hauled the wood inside and stoked the fire as best she could, urging the flames along, blowing on them and watching as they finally crackled and caught.
She was just about to add some more wood when she heard the engine of the old van and her heart soared. He was back! For a minute all her complaints faded and she thought about greeting him at the door in nothing but her boots. Wouldn’t that surprise him.
Quickly she stripped down, layer after layer, until she tossed her bra into the pile of her clothes and walked to the center of the living area. The boots were more practical than sexy, but they would have to do, so she posed, tossing her hair over one shoulder, placing a hand on the hip she bent out and with her mouth in a perfect, pouty O that she patterned after Pamela Anderson—well, when she was younger, on Baywatch, like around the time she was married to Tommy Lee—and waited.
She heard the sound of footsteps on the porch.
Her
heart swelled and a smile teased her lips. Maurice would be so surprised!
The door opened to bang against the wall.
“Hey, baby,” she cooed before she saw the rifle. “Wha—??”
Blam!!!
The bullet slammed deep into her brain and she dropped.
Pescoli didn’t sleep a wink.
She’d watched the digital display on her clock count off the hours, but while the dogs snored and Bianca holed up in her room, Pescoli thought about the case and tried not to worry about the fact that her son hadn’t bothered to return home. Images came to mind, mental images of Verdago at his sentencing threatening the judge, or Grayson’s body jerking from the attack upon him, or the ashes in Kathryn Samuels-Piquard’s fireplace, or Wanda Verdago’s apartment with the woman’s mouth opening and closing, her words a blur, a sword running through her son’s body . . . She jerked in bed, suddenly fully awake and realizing she’d actually been dozing, hovering at that twilight place at the edge of sleep.
Her head pounded and she felt a general malaise. Tossing and turning, she finally gave up at four-thirty and decided to get on with what promised to be the day from hell.
After letting the confused and yawning dogs outside, she brewed coffee and grabbed one of Bianca’s protein bars that tasted about as good as it sounded, then threw on her clothes, made a quick stab at her makeup, and scribbled a note to her daughter and ghost of a son.
“Be good,” she warned the dogs in a whisper before peeking into Bianca’s room to find her daughter sleeping soundly, her pink duvet wrapped around her like a cocoon.
The house was locked tight, Bianca secure with two dogs to protect her. Pouring hot coffee into a travel mug, she shrugged into her coat and took off.
For some reason, she was jazzed. Maybe it was the caffeine or the lack of sleep, but she was energized and ready to take on the day no matter how it played out, even though she knew it would be a rough shift at the station.
Not long ago, she’d been considered a hero; she and Alvarez having brought several serial killers to justice. But today, and for the rest of the year and into the next, probably, she would be the goat.
“Okay, it’s on,” she told herself as she pulled into the parking lot just before five. Usually this section of Grizzly Falls with its busy street that cut through some of the county offices was bustling with activity, but at this early hour the sheriff’s department was quiet, the few cars in the parking lot covered with two inches of snow, no one on the street.
Spying the paper stand, and inwardly cursing herself for being a masochist, she found the right change and saw, through the glass of the box, her picture front and center. Muttering under her breath, she was able to pick up the early edition of the Mountain Reporter.