The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa JacksonЧитать онлайн книгу.
them.”
Chandler nodded again. “So do we. Now, tell us. Who do you think called you?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t recognize the voice?”
“No, it was a whisper and caller ID didn’t come up with a name or number.” She looked from one agent to the other. “And I don’t know who sent me the pictures. The postmark on the envelope was Missoula, so I was going to confront my ex-husband, as he lives there.”
“Mason Rivers?”
“Yes, he’s an attorney, excuse me, a partner in the law firm of Olsen, Nye and Rivers,” she’d said, but had the feeling they already knew this information as well. “We were divorced two years ago.”
“When was the last time you saw him?” Halden asked.
“Just a few days after the divorce was final. We exchanged the final things we had of each other’s. It was all very…civil.”
“And since then?”
“Nothing. I wasn’t invited to the wedding.” Jillian felt a twisted smile curve her lips. “Sherice, that’s Mason’s new wife, she’s not a big fan.”
“Of yours?”
“Of any woman Mason remotely showed an interest in. That goes double for ex-wives.”
Halden chuckled, but Chandler didn’t react.
They asked a few more questions, then, satisfied for the moment, concluded the interview and took their leave.
Jillian had been left alone, hooked up to an IV she didn’t think she needed, her vital signs monitored by one nurse after another.
The feeling that lingered after the FBI agents left made her uncomfortable. She sensed the detectives and agents were trying to trip her up so she would incriminate MacGregor. And that just wasn’t right.
And then her mind circled to her own circumstances. Why had someone lured her to Montana in an effort to kill her? After the second attempt on her life, she was damned certain, as the police were, that she had become the target of a serial killer.
How did that fit?
Who hated her so much?
Who hated the other women?
She glanced up at the muted television, noticing that the local news was on the air. There, on the screen, was her own face, the photo from her driver’s license.
“Oh God,” she whispered as she turned the sound on. A reporter dressed in a blue parka, snow falling around her, currently stood in front of the emergency room doors of this very hospital. Brunette and serious, a gust of wind ruffling her hood, she explained about Jillian’s abduction.
The image on the screen changed quickly to an aerial shot of a snow-covered clearing surrounded by forested hills. Near the edge of the snowy glen was a lone cedar tree.
Jillian started shivering when she recognized the area. The snow around the tree was trodden and mashed, and ropes lay like dark snakes on the white ground.
Her stomach roiled as she stared at the lengths of nylon that had cut into her skin.
Deputies from the sheriff’s department were examining the roped-off scene as a camera from a helicopter recorded the whole tableau.
Jillian told herself to turn the damned television off, to stop looking at the place where she’d nearly died, but the images held a macabre fascination for her.
Even tucked in the warmth of the hospital bedding, she quivered. Her memories were vivid. Visceral. She remembered waking up tied to the rough bark, her flesh so cold it stung, the nylon rope digging into her skin like teeth.
She remembered the dark, gloved hands mashing that chemical-soaked rag into her face. And the glimmer of a scar on the wrist. Or was that her own wrist? She checked her arms, looking for a crescent-shaped scar. Nothing. Was it a memory? Or part of a nightmare?
Think, Jillian, think, she told herself as the screen switched again to the anchor desk, and then, to her horror, they listed the names and photographs of the women who hadn’t survived the maniac’s attack—pictures of vital, smiling women. Jillian thought she might be sick as the voiceover continued and yet another victim’s smiling face filled the screen.
“…and as an update, the other victim who survived the killer’s attack, still unidentified, is listed in critical condition at a hospital in Missoula. The victim, we’ve learned, has not regained consciousness at the time of this report….”
Another woman survived?
Riveted, Jillian watched the rest of the newscast, much of which was devoted to reporting on the “Star-Crossed Killer” and his targets. She learned of the victims, of how they had endured the same fate as she, stripped of clothing and tied to a tree, where a star had been cut over their heads.
She clicked off the television and glanced out the window again to the night, where snow was falling rapidly, millions of tiny flakes visible as they danced in the light from the security cameras.
Even now, the killer could be outside.
Waiting.
The soft strains of music filtered in from the hallway, an instrumental rendition of “Silent Night.”
She was exhausted and, deep down, frightened. Yes, she’d survived, but how did she know the killer wouldn’t try again? She thought of Zane MacGregor, now behind bars, and of Harley, still alive but suffering…all because some whacko wanted her dead.
Why?
Who?
What unknown enemy had she made? One determined to take her life?
Back to the same old questions.
She thought of Aaron and their marriage, how at times it had been strained and distant. There had been incidents when he’d seemed to not be in the same room with her.
Jillian yawned, fighting exhaustion. Aaron hadn’t liked living in Seattle. A wanderer at heart, he’d wanted to get away from the gloom of the city, go somewhere with more seasons. He’d always brought up moving east, over the mountains….
All of her bones seemed to ache and she realized how truly spent she was. She could barely keep her eyes open and figured the hospital staff had slipped some kind of sedative into her IV.
Well, fine.
For tonight, she’d stop worrying about the danger that lurked outside the windows in the darkness. Maybe she could forget that something deadly and intent waited for her. Tonight she would stay in the hospital, warm and safe.
But come the morning, she was outta here.
As she started to doze off, the words to the Christmas carol slipped through her mind.
“Silent night, holy night.”
Uncomfortable, she drifted off to sleep.
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