The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa JacksonЧитать онлайн книгу.
profile of the killer was weak.
What they believed was that the killer was a male who wore a size-eleven shoe and was between the height of five feet ten and six three. But again, this was primarily assumption. The paper the notes were written on was common computer paper, available in any office supply store or department, the ink from the pens unremarkable, a common blue from disposable ballpoints.
And the notes he left, damn. What the hell did they mean?
Pescoli down-shifted as they came to a hairpin corner and Watershed’s truck slipped a bit. “Son of a bitch,” she muttered under her breath as her rig slid, then found enough traction to right itself. “Remind me why I don’t live in Phoenix or San Diego. You know, where cold is seventy?”
“You’d hate Phoenix. And the desert gets cold at night.”
“Not this cold. But okay, then San Diego. I think I might move there. Next week.”
Alvarez couldn’t help but smile at the image of Pescoli, in her boots, jeans and down vest, roller-skating on a sidewalk near a beach in Southern California.
“Laugh if you want to, but I’m doin’ it. When we get back to the office, I’m searching for job openings from LA south.”
“Good luck.”
Pescoli actually flashed a quick we-both-know-I’m-full-of-crap grin.
The roads improved closer to town, where traffic had beat the snow into slush that was bound to refreeze. De-icer trucks were busily spraying the streets as both pedestrians and vehicles battled the elements.
Pescoli eased into the lot. She parked her Jeep as close to the main door as possible, then switched the engine off. Alvarez zipped up her jacket, pulled on her gloves and tugged her hood over her hair as she stepped out of the vehicle and hurried inside.
Once at her desk, she peeled off the layers again, then found the fax from the Washington DMV. According to the car’s registration, it belonged to a thirty-six-year-old woman named Jillian Colleen Rivers, whose address was listed as Seattle. An e-mail came through as well, with a picture of Jillian Rivers as good as any of those licensing photos could be.
“Jesus,” Alvarez said, staring at the picture of a woman who might already be dead. Shoulder-length dark brown hair, eyes listed as hazel on the license but appearing gray in the photo, strong nose, small mouth, easy smile, high, pronounced cheekbones, maybe the hint of freckles.
Alvarez dialed the number of the Seattle PD, connected to a detective who worked homicide and explained the situation.
“We’ll check it out,” Detective Renfro assured her. “Just give me a couple of hours.”
“You got it. And see if this woman has any outstanding warrants or priors.” But as Alvarez hung up, she knew that Renfro wouldn’t be able to locate the woman.
No way.
Jillian Rivers was probably a model citizen, like the other women left in the forest to die. And as such, well on her way to being the sadist’s next victim.
Thud!
Jillian heard the noise, tried to rouse, but couldn’t.
What was it? A door slamming?
Vaguely she was aware of pain in her leg and ribs. Jesus, they ached.
Trying to think past the pain, she attempted to lift an eyelid. It didn’t budge.
Dear God, where was she? She’d been in a car wreck, yes, that was it…and someone had come to help her…but she couldn’t think, couldn’t piece together her thoughts. In the distance she heard a high-pitched keen that, in her dazed thoughts, she decided might be the wind. As if it were racing through some deep ravine.
Oh God, what had happened?
Time was meaningless.
Her life seemed far away. Distant.
But she was no longer cold, and though she knew she should wake up, the blackness that had been her companion for God only knew how long kept her wrapped in its warm cocoon.
And she succumbed to its gentle lure.
She needed to sleep.
To heal.
She’d deal with the rest later….
She is awake.
I am sure of it.
Something in the air has changed. Her moaning stopped a while ago, and I know she’s awake and frightened.
They always are.
But I will placate her.
Get her to trust me.
For now, though, I need to let her be alone.
In the dark.
To learn to fear the isolation.
When she realizes I am her only human connection, she will have no choice but to depend upon me. It will take only a few days and in those days she will heal.
Resisting the urge to open the door to her room, I pick up the heavy book of astronomy I’ve inadvertently dropped to the floor and return it to my worktable. After squaring it precisely with the other books stacked in one corner of the planks, I stand and stretch, my eye catching sight of the bar in the doorway to my sleeping area. The smooth steel rod is mounted near the top of the frame. Soundlessly I walk to it, reach up, grab the cool, smooth steel and take a deep breath. Then I flex every muscle, drawing my face up to the bar and lifting my legs at a right angle to my body. I hold the pose for several long, slow minutes, waiting until my muscles start to scream, and then even longer, as I tremble and sweat with the effort of maintaining the perfect pose.
Only when I am certain I can’t hang on for a second longer, I count resolutely to sixty and release, dropping to the floor. I wipe my sweaty palms and jump up again, this time doing a hundred chin-ups in quick succession before I again lift my legs in front of me, again hold the position, legs outstretched, toes pointing, my strident muscles visible through taut skin, my body shaking from the effort.
This is part of my regimen.
Discipline.
Mental and physical discipline.
Directly in front of me, in a mirror on the far wall of the bed chamber, I see my reflection and check to make certain the pose is perfect.
It is.
Of course.
I hear her moaning again, more softly, and I smile, for soon I will open the door, “rescue” her all over again, hold her, reassure her, convince her that I will do everything possible to make her safe and bring her back to health. She will ask about her friends, her family, EMTs and hospitals and getting back to civilization, and I will explain about the lack of communication, but will tell her that as soon as the storm blows over, I will get help.
All I have to do is keep her alive for a few days.
And then, once the storm passes and she is able to hobble, the next phase will begin.
She will learn about discipline then.
About pain.
About mind over matter.
I release my pose and land deftly on the floor, barely making a sound. The moaning has stopped again.
Good girl. That’s it. Be brave.
I nearly open the door to her room, but resist again, and walk to the window, where ice has crusted and white snow blows in great flurries. The panes clatter a bit over the rush of the wind, but the fire inside snaps and dances.
Though I am naked, not a stitch of clothing on my body, I am warm, sweating and satisfied.
Everything is going as planned.
“So