Author: Lisa Jackson
Category: Suspense
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Her grandmother’s words echoed through her mind and she remembered learning the twenty-third Psalm as Nana had read it from the old family Bible.
Out loud, she whispered, “The Lord is my shepherd ...”
Why had she trusted the man at the side of the road?
Why did she believe that his car was stranded, that she was playing the part of the Good Samaritan?
Why did she trust him to reach into her car to use her cell phone?
The attack, the minute she rolled down the window and turned to reach for the phone, extracting it from her purse, had happened swiftly. Viciously. One second she was holding the phone, the next she was experiencing the jolting pain of a stun gun.
It had all happened so fast and so close to her house.
Now, thinking about it, tears ran down her face as she mumbled the words her Nana had insisted she memorize.
“I shall not want ...”
The words rattled through her mind and she tried to find her faith, but deep in her heart, she knew she was doomed.
Chapter 9
O’Keefe threw his keys on the scarred night table situated between the two beds at the dive of a motel he’d called home for the past twenty-four hours. After kicking off his boots, he placed his Glock into the drawer, the butt nuzzling up against Gideon’s Bible, made certain the door was locked and bolted, then stripped and headed for the bathroom, which was small enough that he could touch both walls. The tub/shower was clean enough, aside from a rust stain near the drain that looked as if it had been with the unit since before the Berlin Wall came down.
He didn’t care, was just thankful for the harsh spray of hot water against his skin. He was still reeling from coming across Selena Alvarez again. Then there was the fact that she wasn’t telling everything she knew about Gabriel Reeve; O’Keefe sensed it.
He doused his head under the spray, lathered up and tried not to think about another shower in another time and place. God, that had turned out to be a mess. He and Alvarez were wedged into his tight stall, wet tiles at his back, her warm tongue in his mouth, water cascading over both their naked, slick bodies. Her waist had been tiny, her abdomen flat, her mouth suggesting the deepest of erotic pleasures. They’d gone to dinner to discuss the case that was about to break, had a couple of drinks and one thing had led to another, so they’d ended up there, their clothes strung through the adjoining bedroom.
His blood had been pounding through his head. Hot. Hungry. The ache within him huge as he’d sudsed her smooth skin. Her breasts had been full and large, with big, dark nipples against bronzed skin with only the hint of a tan line showing where she’d once worn a bikini bra in the sun.
He’d suckled one of those incredible breasts, then the other, feeling her spine arch against his splayed fingers as he’d held her close, taking more of her into his mouth, the heat throbbing between them.
She’d moaned in sheer ecstasy, her fingernails digging into his hair, one smooth, slim leg coiling around his. It had been the singular most erotic moment of his life, and when her mouth—wet, luscious, lips a deep coral, white teeth flashing—had moved against his, he couldn’t help pressing his erection hard against her.
Never had he wanted a woman so desperately; he, who had always been in charge, who had held back when he’d wanted to, had felt, with this woman, as if he’d had no will. Still kissing her, the steam of the shower billowing around him, he’d lifted her up, his hands cupping her buttocks, his intent to settle her onto his engorged cock, but she’d snapped. As quickly as if he’d poured a bucket of cold water over her, she’d lifted her head, looked deep into his eyes and said, “No! I—I can’t do this. I’m sorry. Oh, God, I’m so, so sorry!” and she’d slipped away from him, scrambling out of the stall, pushing the glass door so hard it had banged against the surrounding tiles. Snagging a towel from the bar, she’d raced into his bedroom, leaving a puddling trail of water behind her.
“Selena? Wait!”
“I can’t ... I just can’t,” she was still saying as he walked into the bedroom and she was struggling into a pair of jeans.
“Don’t go.”
“Why? So we can ‘talk’ about this?” she’d flung back at him, pausing to make air quotes with her fingers. “There’s ... nothing to say. I just can’t do this, okay?” She’d pulled on her yellow T-shirt, her nipples hard against the thin fabric. Tears had been filling her dark eyes, and he noticed, oddly, that one of her hoop earrings had caught the light from a bedside lamp, glittering seductively from within the black, wet strands of her hair. “I’m ...” She looked at him, one tear tracking, and said, “... really sorry.” Then she’d angrily swiped the tear away, zipped up her jeans and, carrying her shoes, bra and panties, ran out of the bedroom, her bare feet slapping on the tiled stairs.
He’d been standing in the bedroom, so he crossed to the arched window with its small deck overlooking the parking area. Just after he heard the front door slam, she appeared, racing to her car, not so much as casting a glance up at him before climbing into the Honda and screeching out of the lot. He’d watched as her taillights disappeared into the stream of traffic of the main road cutting through this section of San Bernardino and then, speechless, he’d walked into the bathroom again, stepped into the still-running shower and turned the temperature dial far to the right, intent on taking the coldest shower of his life.
Now, under the needle-sharp spray of the dive of a motel, he realized just thinking about that night and Selena Alvarez had again caused an erection.
“Oh, hell,” he muttered and, bracing himself, turned the water mixer from warm to cold.
Pescoli was right, Alvarez thought as she stepped through her front door, she was a liar. Not only to her partner, but to herself.
Alvarez had been involved with O’Keefe, though not as sexually as Pescoli was intimating. And then all hell had broken loose. God, what a mess.
She remembered not being able to eat or sleep, her emotions strung like tight barbed wire, prickly and tense, and then the mistake, stepping in the line of fire, hearing her name at the last minute before a trigger was pulled and lives were changed forever.
It’s your fault. The same old accusation, one she’d tried to bury for years, rang through her mind. If only she hadn’t been so emotionally strung out, if only she’d thought before she’d reacted, if only she’d stayed in control, like she’d taught herself, maybe things would be different.
Too late! Now, her involvement with O’Keefe and the resulting debacle was going to all replay again and blow up in her face! She could feel it in her bones. Which only made a difficult situation worse. She yanked the door shut behind her and latched it. It seemed as if her entire, well-organized life was splintering into a million sharp pieces, each one determined to slice her emotions.
“Pull yourself together!” As she snapped on the hall light and shrugged out of her jacket, Jane Doe appeared, trotting to greet her, white whiskers almost comical against her black coat. “Hey, girl,” Alvarez said, picking up the cat, whose bones seemed to melt as she lifted the small, furry body. “You miss Roscoe?” Scratching the cat behind its ears, she listened to Jane’s motor start to run in a deep purr. “Yeah, me, too. Silly, isn’t it?” She’d had the exuberant puppy only a few months and yet he’d managed to burrow his way into her heart.
She checked her phone for the twentieth time, half expecting that she’d hear from someone who had found her dog and located her number on his tag, or even from O’Keefe with more information on Gabriel Reeve, but there were no messages and the rooms seemed cold and empty, even though she hit the switch for the gas fireplace and snapped on several lights.
Roscoe’s empty pen seemed to mock her and it was all she could do to pick up his water bowl, discard whatever liquid was inside and rinse it out.
He’ll be back.
She hoped.
And what about Gabriel Reeve? Her heart twisted; she’d have to find anything she could about him. Could he be her son? If so, w
hy had he run here? If not, what kind of coincidence was it that he’d broken into her home?
There had to be some kind of connection and she was damned sure she was going to find out what it was. She spent the next hour on the Internet, reading about crimes in Helena, finding one where a home had been broken into, a firearm used, one of the assailants who was underage having escaped.
It had to be Reeve.
She checked, found no other incidents and made a mental note to recheck with Helena PD in the morning.
And when you find out the truth, what then? What if Gabe is your son?
The thought of meeting the boy she’d given up, of dealing with his birth and the circumstances of his conception, caused her insides to twist, her head to pound. Old memories assailed her and she fought them back, as she had for nearly seventeen years. She couldn’t go there, wouldn’t. Not until she found out if Gabriel Reeve was really her own flesh and blood.
And what about Dylan O’Keefe?
Another wrench to her guts and she made her way to the bathroom, where she stopped at the sink and threw cold water—the only temperature she had—onto her face. “Pull yourself together,” she told the woman staring back at her, the woman whose face was pale and whose eyes were haunted by demons from her youth. “You can’t fall apart. That’s not you!” But the woman in the reflection didn’t seem convinced. “You need to be in control.” And that was it, the problem in a nutshell; Alvarez liked things neat and tidy, everything in its place, and the mess that had been her youth had no place in her life right now.
No place.
She had too much to do.
For starters, she had a case to solve. Make that three cases, because she was ninety-nine percent certain that Lara Sue Gilfry, Lissa Parsons and Brenda Sutherland had met with the same dire fate.
As she got ready for bed, yanking off her clothes and tossing them into the hamper, Alvarez forced her thoughts away from her own problems, at least for now, and thought about the women who were missing. What the hell had happened to them?
She’d concentrate on those three tonight; only later, when the moon was high in the Montana sky, would she dare let her mind wander to that dark place she’d promised herself she’d never visit again.
Despite it all, as she closed her eyes, she knew that her life was unraveling, emotional stitch by stitch.
Calvin Mullins couldn’t sleep.
The readout on Lorraine’s digital clock shined a bright hellfire three forty-seven. Too early, for even his standards. Though he prided himself on rising early, on spending an hour in prayer and another twenty minutes with his journal before finally spending another forty minutes on the elliptical machine one of the parishioners had donated to the parsonage, he tried to always stay in bed until four thirty. But in these wee morning hours, when so much was happening within his parish, he threw off the covers, slid into the slippers he kept at his bedside and walked quietly down the hallway. He’d been disturbed ever since the interview with Detective Pescoli and hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that things were going to get worse for him. Perhaps he could talk to the detective, impress upon her how his private life had to remain so ...
He’d spent hours in prayer and searching his soul, but the fear of exposure was a pawn of Lucifer, and recently, with all this trouble about Brenda Sutherland, he couldn’t find strength or serenity in his talks with God.
Perhaps today would be better. He changed out of his pajamas and into his exercise gear. He’d stretch, climb on the elliptical machine so that he could work out the kinks in Sunday’s sermon as he worked out the knots in his muscles. Perfect! The preacher never felt better than when he was multitasking, especially when part of the tasks were God’s work.
First, he’d walk to the office to pick up the pages he’d already printed and edited carefully by hand, then cleanse his mind and soul in prayer and contemplation before hopping on the machine and cranking up the resistance. Some martyrs went in for flogging or self-mutilation; Preacher Mullins figured exercise machines, if used properly, would suffice in sacrificing his flesh for the Lord. The elliptical training machine, paired with intense prayer and maybe fasting for good measure could, in these modern times, be considered a way to “sweat it out” for God, or something. He might have to do a little tongue-in-cheek sermon about what one could do in the service of the Lord; it would be a joke, of course, that could carry into the heavier text of the message.
Still mulling his new idea over, he threw on his jacket, gloves and stocking cap on his way out the back door. Outside, the night was still, aside from a slight breeze. No snow fell for the first time in hours and a silvery disc of a moon was surrounded by crystal stars flung into the dark night sky.
These predawn hours were much like, he supposed, the clarity and calm of the night of Christ’s birth. He even searched the sky for the star of Bethlehem that the Magi followed.
Mullins’s heart opened a little and his fears abated as he contemplated the magic and mystery of the Christ child’s birth. Here, in God’s showcase, alone in the outdoors, he found his true spirit, his communion with the Father.
From the breezeway connecting the parsonage with the church, he glanced at the crèche and then stood in awe of the snow-shrouded figures.
Carefully placed lamps illuminated the snow-covered nativity scene where the Christ child lay in the manger Mullins himself had fashioned years ago. Mary and Joseph leaned over their precious newborn. An ox’s and donkey’s head were visible over stall doors positioned behind the manger.
It truly was a work of art.
Something was off though. He broke a trail in the fresh snow to adjust the spotlight on Mary to make certain that her poignant smile was visible from the road. Then he looked again at the scene to make sure everything was perfect. It seemed so; the shepherd carrying a lamb hadn’t fallen and the three kings, wise men seeking to give the savior gifts, approached, all covered in snow, all piously ... wait a second.
Why were there four kings?
He blinked. Looked again. Counted softly, his breath clouding: “Gaspar ... Balthasar ... Melchior ... and a fourth?” One without draping robes or a crown or a gift held in extended hands. No, the fourth figure, covered in snow, seemed more like a modern-day Frosty the Snowman.
Probably some kid’s idea of a prank.
“Great,” he muttered, trudging through the snow, disturbing the perfection of the scene. And, yes, he saw impressions where someone else had been here, though the tracks were softened with a three-inch layer of snow. So whoever committed this sacrilege had done it hours before.
Wait a second. The figure, partially obscured with a frosting of snow, was definitely female. Seriously? And he could see ice beneath the snow. A sculpture. Blasphemy! That’s what this marring of the nativity scene was. Was the sculpture of a woman intended to be some kind of political statement, some ultraliberal nonbeliever’s way of pointing out that the only woman in the crèche was the blessed Virgin Mary? Or was it, perhaps, something worse?
At least he found it before morning light, or rush hour, if that’s what you could call it here in Grizzly Falls. At least school buses wouldn’t stop at the corner where the children inside looking out the windows might see the obvious mistake.
Or perhaps this was something much worse. Could it be that someone knew what had happened in Tucson and was sending him a personal and humiliating message? Someone who wanted to embarrass him? Cecil Whitcomb, Peri’s father? He’d never been satisfied with Mullins’s slap on the wrist. Could he have traveled all the way north to Grizzly Falls for retribution? Cecil had wanted, no, make that demanded, Calvin’s resignation from the clergy and, as furious as he was, Cecil wouldn’t have been satisfied with a public flogging.
Nonetheless, he couldn’t afford a breath of scandal to whisper through this parish, so he had to get rid of the offensive statue or whatever it was. Using his gloved hand, he tried to dismantle the thing, but it was rock solid. Heavy. “Come on, come on,” h
e whispered, brushing the snow from the thing’s “head” with his gloved hand. Sure enough, it was an ice sculpture, the features definitely feminine, but in the darkness, it was difficult to see.
Taking the time to adjust one of the spotlights so it was easier to work, Preacher Mullins returned to the crèche and the offensive piece of “art.” Something was very off about this ... It was more than a prank. With mounting dread, his innards tightening with a dark, new fear, he carefully brushed more snow away to stare deeper into the face of the sculpture and his own heart turned to ice.
Inside the thick ice, he stared into the wide, blue eyes of a very dead and frozen woman.
Chapter 10
Pescoli’s jaw hardened as she shined her flashlight into the face of the dead woman, a face distorted by an inch or so of ice. “What the hell is this?” she whispered, wondering at who would place a dead woman, naked and encased in ice, in the middle of a nativity scene at a church. Her red hair fell to her shoulders, her skin so white as to be translucent. All trapped in a thick, molded layer of ice.
The entire area was roped off with crime scene tape, and the techs were going over the churchyard, looking for trace evidence in the snow. Preacher Mullins, who’d made the 911 call, was huddled under the overhang of a breezeway linking the parsonage with the church, and his wife, white-faced and shaken, stood at his side. Police vehicles were parked on the street and the road had been blocked, traffic diverted.
From an upstairs window of the two-storied Victorian parsonage, the silhouettes of three girls and another woman, someone from the church no doubt, were staring at the activity. Every once in a while, Lorraine Mullins glanced over her shoulder and shook her head, indicating her children were to be spared this horror, but as often as the children were shooed away from the window, they returned, fascinated.
Alvarez exhaled a pent-up breath as she checked in with the officer in charge. A news van had rumbled up and parked near the roadblock at the end of the street. Traffic slowed to a standstill as it passed and bystanders were collecting in groups.