Part 1 (1/2)
DESERVES TO DIE.
LISA JACKSON.
”I think the murders are linked,” Pescoli said. ”That's the obvious conclusion, and I think it's the right one.” She almost lost her train of thought, Blackwater was staring at her so intently, but she went through all the facts again as they knew them, returning to, ”. . . the big connection so far is the missing fingers and rings, and that fingerprint. We only hope we'll come up with a hit and be able to ID whoever picked up Sheree Cantnor's shoe and Calypso Pope's bag.”
His eyebrows pinched together. ”Not one suspect so far?”
He knew that, too, but apparently wanted her to reiterate. ”No. At least not until we identify the print found on both Cantnor's shoe and Pope's bag. Or, if our killer is dumb enough to try and p.a.w.n the rings or give himself away.”
”You got anything else?” he asked.
”We're still looking for a connection between the two women, old schools, or boyfriends or friends, even friends of friends, but as near as we can tell at this point the two victims didn't know each other.”
”Random?”
”Or possibly each woman knew the killer, but not each other.”
Blackwater asked, ”You think the killer will strike again? Here?” He pointed to the office floor, but she knew he meant in the general area of Grizzly Falls. ”Or do you think he's moved on?”
Pescoli slowly shook her head. ”Just a gut feeling, but no . . .”
Prologue.
The Louisiana Bayou.
October.
She wasn't quite dead.
Though her eyes seemed fixed as they stared up at the night sky, her breathing was shallow, her heart still faintly beating as she lay, faceup on the tarp. She was still alive, but barely, only inches and seconds from meeting the grim reaper, which was a good thing, he thought. No longer could she taunt or ridicule anyone. No longer would she ever smirk again. Comatose, so near death that it would take little for her to cross over, she lay on the marshy bank of the bayou, an easy victim.
Crouching over her, he grinned at her ultimate vulnerability. If he wanted to, he could slice her throat and watch drips of blood acc.u.mulate over the grotesque smile he would carve into her white flesh.
He considered doing the deed with his knife, a slim switchblade that felt heavy in his pocket.
But no, she was close enough to death already and he had another, more intimate way of slicing her.
Something jumped into the murky water not ten feet away. A bullfrog maybe? It reminded him to get back to work; he didn't have much time. A full moon was rising, casting silvery shadows through the white-barked cypress, their roots exposed, Spanish moss draping over the dark water. Crickets chirped, fish jumped, and the water lapped gently in the isolated stretch of Louisiana.
Beads of sweat dotted his brow and ran down his face, creating salty tracks that pa.s.sed over his lips and dropped onto her still body as he took her left hand in his, splaying her fingers easily. Antique diamonds winked in the pale moonlight, their brilliance seeming to mock him. Oh, what those icy stones had meant, the promises that had been vowed, the secrets they held.
A deep, smoldering rage ran through him as he eyed the stones. Using his free hand, he pulled a slim, automatic pocket knife from his pocket and clicked the blade open. It too reflected the moonlight. Without hesitation, he went to work, holding her fingers wide, then cutting quickly, nearly seamlessly slicing her finger off at the knuckle.
She didn't so much as flinch.
As her blood pumped, he yanked the ring from its ugly stump and felt a welling satisfaction at a job well done.
Straightening, he looked down at her, nearly a corpse, her gauzy dress filthy, her beautiful face condemned to death.
He held her finger in his open palm, the ring now his.
Exquisite diamonds.
So easily removed.
So easily pocketed.
Satisfied, he kicked the body off its mound, watching it roll down the short bank. With a soft splash, she slipped into the murky water to float for a second, catching the slow moving current, heading downstream and out of sight.
”Good riddance,” he whispered.
He took in several deep breaths and wiped his brow before pocketing his treasure. As he turned back toward the dense foliage, he heard another sound over the chorus of crickets and bullfrogs, a quiet, ominous splash, the sound of a large reptile sliding into the water.
Perfect, he thought as the creature swam noiselessly under the water's surface. He smiled as he hurried to his hidden truck, knowing that she was already gator bait.
As if on cue, there was a loud splash, a frantic, sickening roiling of water, a flash of a white belly as the reptile rolled to make its kill, jagged teeth sinking into her skin, vise-like jaws gripping and pulling her under the water until the last bit of air escaped her lungs.
Then all went quiet for a second as the stillness of the bayou surrounded him and only the barest of ripples spread to the surrounding water. The chorus of insects, momentarily silenced, began again.
A fitting end, he thought. It served the cheating b.i.t.c.h right.
Chapter 1.
Grizzly Falls, Montana.
January.
This has to be the place.
Jessica Williams stared at the dilapidated cabin and her heart sank. Of course she'd been hoping for an isolated place to live, one without the prying eyes of nosy neighbors, but this little cottage went far beyond rustic, with its mossy roof, sagging porch, and rusted downspouts. At least the windows weren't boarded over, and there was a garage of sorts, but it was all piled under nearly a foot of snow. She doubted very strongly that there was any central heat within the building. If she'd expected a haven, she'd been sorely disappointed.
Too bad.
For the foreseeable future, this little eighty-year-old building nestled deep in the forested foothills of the Bitterroots was going to be home, whether she liked it or not.
”Not, is what I'm thinking,” she said as she hopped from the cab of her ancient SUV, a Chevy that had over two hundred thousand miles on its odometer, and into the pristine snow. The air was crisp and cold, the snow crusted over and no longer falling. For the last fifty miles of her long journey the Tahoe's engine light had been blinking on and off and she'd ignored the warning, praying that she would get there before the d.a.m.n thing overheated or gave out completely. Somehow, subsisting on energy bars, bags of Doritos, Red Bull, and bottled water, she'd arrived after nearly thirty-six hours on the road. She was tired to the marrow of her bones, but she couldn't stop. Not yet.
She glanced behind her vehicle to what could barely be called a lane where there was the merest break in the trees, just wide enough for her rig to pa.s.s. Twin ruts broke up the pristine mantle of snow, evidence that someone was occupying the cabin.
Jessica Williams, she reminded herself. That's who lives here. That's my name now. Jessica Williams. The name felt uncomfortable, like a scratchy coat that rubbed her bare skin, but it had to be worn.
Before she started unloading, she broke a path to the rotting porch and trudged up the two steps. Snow had blown across the porch, a couple inches piling near the door, dark dry leaves poking up through the thin layer.