The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa JacksonЧитать онлайн книгу.
a bitch,” she muttered as the Subaru’s engine suddenly strained. She hadn’t really believed the weirdo on the other end of the line and God knew the photos could have been doctored, but she wasn’t one to live with any kind of doubt. So what if it was just a twisted joke? At least she could finally put Aaron’s memory to rest.
Right?
She’d left Seattle without telling a soul other than to ask her nineteen-year-old neighbor, Emily Hardy, to take care of Marilyn for a few days. So now she was in the middle of the Montana wilderness, a blizzard brewing. “Turn around,” she told herself, realizing she was chasing the same damned ghost she had been pursuing for years.
Hadn’t Mason, her second husband, accused her of just that? “Damn it all to hell.” The Outback’s tires slid a bit and she slipped the gearshift into a lower gear. “Come on, come on.” The mid-size car lunged forward, engine groaning in protest.
Spruce Creek wasn’t that far behind her. If she found a wide spot in the road, she could turn around and give up for the night.
The thought of a bed and a warm room in a motel made her sigh. She could hole up and spread her map out, check out the best route between here and Missoula, where she would spring her surprise on Mason.
But turning back felt too much like quitting, and she’d never been a quitter. Not since third grade, when she’d been bucked off a horse and decided to give up horseback riding all together. Until her grandfather had stared down at her with kind blue eyes and said, “Hey, Jillie, don’t you know, quitting’s for sissies? I never figured you to be one to run and hide when things got a little rough.” He’d helped her back on the wild-eyed colt, walked that painted pony for hours, until Jillian’s confidence had returned. So she wouldn’t give up now. Grandpa Jim had been dead and buried for over fifteen years, but she still felt as if he could see her every time she considered throwing in the towel.
Setting her jaw, she saw the next corner on this white, snow-flecked ridge. Maybe this was the summit. Maybe she’d finally reached a point where the road would wind down to the next town and she’d find a hotel or bed and breakfast where she could spend the night, take a long, hot shower and—
CRRRAAACCCKKK!
Jillian jumped.
The sharp report of a rifle echoed through the canyon.
BAM!
Her front tire blew.
“Oh Jesus!” Her heart flew to her throat. “No!”
The car spun crazily, wildly careening from one side of the icy road to the other.
“Oh God, oh God…oh…”
Don’t overreact!
Drive into the spin.
Grandpa Jim’s voice filled her brain and all the advice she’d heard about driving in ice and snow flashed through her mind.
Already skidding, the Subaru bouncing off the wall of ice on the mountain side of the road, shaving off snow and ice only to slide to the other side of this narrow ridge, toward the yawning canyon of the cliff face, as Jillian fought to control the Outback.
“Please, oh please…” She pressed the brakes and gripped the steering wheel.
Closer to the edge of the ridge, where the tops of trees were the only indication there was a bottom to the steep ravine, the automobile wavered and shuddered. “No, no, no!” she cried. To hell with the advice. She couldn’t turn into the spin and steer toward the abyss. Frantically, she yanked on the wheel, cranking it away from the gaping hole and trying like hell to keep the car on the road.
She stood on the brakes.
The tires jerked beneath her, anti-lock mechanism working to grab the icy pavement.
“No,” she whispered through her teeth, her heart tattooing wildly, her mind screaming. She stomped on the brake pedal, trying to slow the damned car down!
She braced herself against the steering wheel, her foot jabbing hard on the brake.
Stop! Stop the car, now!
One wheel slipped over the edge.
The car rocked crazily.
She cranked on the steering wheel again. Hard.
Too late!
Momentum propelled her Subaru over the edge.
And then the car was falling, plunging into the coming night.
Through the windshield, Jillian saw the tops of snow-covered trees, heard the scrape of branches tearing at the car’s underbelly and sides.
Glass shattered.
Metal twisted and groaned.
She screamed, arms covering her face, both feet on the brake pedal, as the mid-size car hurtled into the dark, gaping abyss of the canyon.
Perfect!
The silver vehicle with Washington plates plummeted into the canyon.
Free-falling almost in slow motion.
A thing of beauty.
The “accident” planned to meticulous perfection.
The Subaru tumbled and dropped.
Brittle tree branches snapped.
Frozen snow fell in clumps.
Metal shrieked.
A scream rang through the ravine, a scream of pure, unadulterated terror.
Which couldn’t have been more exquisite.
All of the waiting had been worth it.
Jillian Rivers, the bitch, was finally about to die.
Jillian’s eyelids snapped open.
But she couldn’t see…all around was darkness.
She groaned as a burning, grinding pain shrieked through her body. And her vision, oh God, why couldn’t she make out anything? Her legs were on fire, her head thudding, something covering her mouth and nose, cutting off her air.
Oh, sweet God in heaven, what happened?
Where am I?
And please, please make the pain stop!
She tried to draw in a breath, gasping around whatever was over her face, suffocating her.
Panic engulfed her, but she attempted to put it at bay. It was dark, but not completely, and the object over her face wasn’t pressing down, wasn’t stopping the flow of air completely. Her mind cleared as she tried to bat it away. What the hell was it? A pillow? No. A damned balloon? No…oh dear God, it was an air bag!
Teeth chattering from the cold or shock, she flailed at the damned bag and pushed it to one side. Despite the pounding in her head, she tried to focus. Slowly she realized she was trapped in the twisted wreckage that had been her Subaru.
A car wreck?
I was in an accident. Oh Holy Mother, my ankle!
She sucked in a breath, tried to think back. She was trapped inside a car, her ten-year-old Subaru Outback, now mangled and dead. It was freezing cold, wind screaming through the shattered windshield. Her head pounded and she felt blood, sticky and warm, in her hair.
Her thoughts were scattered and disjointed, as if she were drunk, blackness threatening to pull her under, pain keeping her conscious.
You’ve got a concussion, you idiot. You’ve got a stupid concussion. That’s why you feel light-headed. Wake up, Jillian, and figure this out! You’re going to freeze in here.
She moved just a bit.
Pain stopped her cold.
Every bone in her body felt as if it were broken, her muscles and skin bruised,