Chosen To Die. Lisa JacksonЧитать онлайн книгу.
the undersheriff, the better. Alvarez didn’t really like the man, though she couldn’t put her finger on why. Brewster was a stand-up guy, been with the department for years, married to the same woman for nearly a quarter of a century. A devoted father of four, he was deacon in the local Methodist church and all that, but there was something about him that made her edgy, something that didn’t seem to ring true.
That’s because you’re always suspicious, have been since your early teens, but you know why, don’t you? Just your little secret that you don’t dare share.
Ignoring that nasty little voice in her mind, she decided it was okay not to like Brewster. Just recently there had been an incident that reaffirmed Alvarez’s opinion of the undersheriff: Pescoli’s son, Jeremy, was found to be dating Heidi Brewster, Cort’s pistol of a fifteen-year-old daughter. The kids had been busted for underage drinking and the tension inside Brewster had been palpable.
Merry Christmas.
All of Joelle’s talk was falling on the sheriff’s deaf ears.
“Fine, fine, whatever you think,” Grayson muttered as his cell phone blasted and he picked up.
Alvarez hustled past the Christmas cookie discussion before Joelle could turn her attention her way. Tucking her scarf into her jacket, she headed outside where the wind whistled and the air seemed to crackle. She yanked on her gloves as she passed the flagpole where Old Glory was snapping and shivering in the stiff wind.
From the corner of her eye she noticed a news van, the last remaining one parked across the street, the driver cradling a cup of coffee that was so hot steam nearly obliterated the window. Most of the other members of the media had taken off, chasing the story in Spokane. Except for this lone newsperson, a die-hard still camped near the sheriff’s department. An orange slash and the call letters of KBTR were scripted across the side of the dirty white van.
Alvarez avoided the KBTR van like the plague. Her dealings with the media had been few and she preferred it that way. Better to keep her private life just that. Her boots crunched across the snow as she found her Jeep. Scraping an inch of snow and a layer of ice off the windshield, she spied Ivor Hicks’s truck rolling up the street. Great, she thought, watching Hicks as he huddled over the steering wheel of his wheezing truck. A hunter’s cap complete with orange earmuffs was pulled low over his head and his eyes seemed twice their size behind thick glasses.
Owlish.
And a nutcase that made Grace Perchant, Pinewood County’s resident ghost whisperer, look sane.
Ivor parked on the street and slid out, his heavy boots sinking into the snow that had been plowed into a dingy, deep drift near the curb.
“The sheriff in?” he asked, his glasses starting to fog.
“Just leaving, I think.”
“Maybe I can catch him…” Wincing against arthritis, he hitched himself toward the building. Alvarez was glad to see him go before he started talking about alien abductions and the like, his favorite topic since his own “abduction.” He still claimed to talk to Crytor, the general of the Reptilian alien forces or some such nonsense, and was forever reporting his conversations, all exacerbated by his affinity for Jack Daniel’s, to the police.
Today, Ivor was Grayson’s problem.
Alvarez settled behind the wheel of her county-issued Jeep and was out of the lot in seconds, her wipers cutting away any residual ice on the windshield, the heater blasting full force. She melded into the traffic winding its way down the steep streets that sloped down the face of Boxer Bluff. The upper tier of the town, including the sheriff’s department and jail, sat high on the hill overlooking the five-hundred-foot drop to the heart of the original town of Grizzly Falls, or “Old Grizzly” as it was called by the locals. Shops, restaurants, offices, and even the courthouse lined the main street that ran parallel to the river and offered views of the raging falls for which the town was named.
Her police band crackled as she drove through the outskirts of town. She tried the phone again, was directed to voicemail, and tried to tamp down the doubts that gnawed at her mind. There could be a dozen reasons Pescoli wasn’t answering, any number of excuses why she hadn’t shown up. She didn’t necessarily have to be the next victim of a sick serial killer…
But her initials work, don’t they? If you really think the killer’s trying to issue a warning, then theRandPof Pescoli’s name fit perfectly into the theory that the killer is slowly, with each victim’s initials, leaving the chilling note of:BEWARE THE SCORPIONorWARY OF THE SCORPIONor evenWAR OF THE SCORPION.
“What does it mean?” she asked aloud. “Beware the scorpion? Wary of the scorpion? No way.” She stepped on the accelerator as the Jeep angled upward and the houses became sparse, giving way to the icy forest.
Alvarez didn’t expect Pescoli to be holed up in her cabin, not unless she was deathly ill. But even then the woman would have enough sense to call out. Unless she was injured, couldn’t reach the phone.
Or had been abducted by a deranged human being.
Selena tucked in her shoulders, physically fending that idea off. Pescoli had sounded irritated on the message she’d left, ready to wring her ex-husband’s neck. But that wasn’t a news flash. Regan and Lucky had suffered a bad marriage and, as she’d always said, “a badder divorce.”
Alvarez didn’t leave a message, just kept driving along the plowed county road where the snow was covered in gravel and had packed hard over the pavement. To access the side roads, a vehicle had to burst through the icy berm that had been left in the wake of the plows.
Fir and pine trees, needles laden with ice and snow, stood guard as she located the private lane leading to Pescoli’s cabin. Snow nearly obliterated the tire ruts; no car, truck, or SUV had come or gone in a long while.
She navigated the winding lane, laying fresh tracks through the trees and across a small bridge before the cabin came into view. Pescoli’s son’s truck was parked to one side, snow piled high, but the garage door was down and the only lights that glowed through the windows were the colored strands of a Christmas tree.
Alvarez parked near Jeremy’s truck, grabbed a tissue and swiped at her nose, then climbed outside and broke a path in the snow to the front door. On the porch, she knocked and waited. But the house was quiet. No sounds of voices, or a television, or their yapping little terrier came from within. In fact, the place seemed ethereally silent as night slid through the surrounding thickets.
She hit the doorbell and knocked again, but got no response. “Pescoli?” she yelled. “It’s Alvarez!” Her voice bounced back at her, echoing through the deep canyons surrounding this isolated little house. On the porch she walked from one window to the next, shading her eyes against the reflection on the glass, noting that the house was empty, not a light on aside from the soft glow of the Christmas tree. Even the television was dark. She spied dishes on the counter and an open pizza box on a small table, but no signs of life. Nor evidence of foul play.
She walked around all sides of the cabin that hung on the side of a hill. On the backside, where the hill sloped, she peered into a window to Jeremy’s room, but it, too, was dark.
No one was inside.
Once she’d looked through all the windows of the house, she backtracked to the garage, found a small window, and standing on her tiptoes peered inside. Empty.
The whole family was gone.
A bad feeling followed Alvarez as she looked around for places someone would hide a key. Nothing under the mat or in the pots near the front door. She checked under the eaves and on the window casings.
Nada.
She’s a cop. It wouldn’t be near the door.
Alvarez retraced her steps to the garage and searched, but found nothing, then circumvented the house again and stopped at the far side near the back of the fireplace where she noticed a vent. Unlikely.
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”