Deep Freeze (West Coast 1)

Then she saw him. Again.

The dirt-wad who had done this to her.

Stark naked, standing in the eerie blue glow of a computer monitor.

“You fucking bastard!” she tried to yell. “Get me down from here, you prick!” Her words were useless…unintelligible.

He stared up at her. Even smiled.

Oh, God, he was enjoying this.

Her bravado crumbled.

“Help me!” she

tried to plead. “Please!”

He moved slightly and she noticed his erection…thick and hard. He was really getting off on this. Oh, God…she thought she might be sick.

He pushed a button on the computer. Music filled the chamber. A song she recognized. The theme from some movie. White Out, that was it—the movie was never finished but the song had been released.

The beam jolted.

Terror scraped down Roxie’s spine and she screamed.

With a whirring sound, the steel cable began to unwind.

Slowly the beam began to descend. By inches she was being lowered, closer to the tank of clear, deadly liquid.

“No! Oh, God, no!” She began to whimper and shake, struggled vainly against her bonds, watched in terror as she was lowered ever downward. “Please, for the love of God, let me go!”

The volume of the music increased until it was echoing in the chamber, ricocheting through her brain as the beam touched the clear liquid. She sucked in her breath, the cold burning her lungs as her toes hit the icy liquid.

Not acid.

But water.

Cold enough to freeze solid.

“Stop! Please! Why are you doing this to me?”

Her feet were submerged, muscles cramping against the cold as it crawled upward, ever upward. Past her calves to her thighs and higher still. She screamed wildly, trying to thrash, her legs and arms unresponsive, the bonds too tight, her blood congealing in her body. As the water reached her breasts, she knew that she was doomed. Through her tears and the curved glass of the vat, she saw the son of a bitch again, now so much closer. She spat at him, hitting the glass above the surface of the water. He didn’t so much as flinch. Just stood naked and hard.

Watching.

Waiting.

Killing her by frigid, deadly inches.

CHAPTER 30

Fifteen minutes after deciding to quit holding an old grudge against Wes Allen, Carter was seated at his desk in the courthouse. He spent most of the morning answering e-mail, filling out reports, taking phone calls, and handling the regular business of the department, but all the while he thought about the missing women, Mavis Gette, and the notes Jenna Hughes had received. Were they connected? Not that he could prove anything.

But he wasn’t done trying.

It didn’t help that the D.A.’s office was on his ass. Amanda Pratt had stopped by his office earlier, sweet as pie, inquiring about the Mavis Gette case. The broken collarbone, a bit of an overbite, and finally, DNA, had proved that Jane Doe was Mavis Gette, whose killer was, presumably, still on the loose. As an Assistant D.A., Amanda was getting pressure from the District Attorney, who, in turn, was being pressured by the media and community to find Mavis Gette’s killer.

“We need to come up with some answers,” Amanda had said when she’d swung into his office earlier.