Northwest: Deep Freeze Part 19

Carter's gut tightened.

He felt a current of l.u.s.t in his blood, just a tiny bit of want, which, he knew, was exactly what the publicity shot was meant to inspire. And the kind of imagery that could cause not only sane men, but those who were unbalanced, to think of Jenna Hughes intimately, to want her, to imagine themselves with her s.e.xually.

A scary proposition.

And now his problem.

He viewed several pages, read some facts about her, checked out some of the posts to the bulletin board, then surfed again. Without too much trouble, he found the picture of Jenna that was used for the publicity of Resurrection, the same sensual shot that had been copied, printed over, and sent to her by some sicko.

It was easy enough to download the picture.

A six-year-old could do it.

By the time Carter had finished his drink, he'd looked through a dozen sites, and only scratched the surface. He typed in several lines from the poem and came up with nothing significant, then gave up. Jenna Hughes had a serious problem, yes, but so did a lot of other people. He thought of Lester Hatch.e.l.l and frowned.

What had happened to Sonja?

Even in an ice storm, people in cars didn't just disappear.

Or did they?

He walked into the kitchen and poured himself another stiff shot. The wind was raging, rattling the windowpanes, howling in the trees, forcing brittle branches to slap against the old siding. G.o.d, he hated the cold.

How many times had he considered moving to a warmer climate?

To Tempe, Arizona, or Sonoma, California, or Taos, New Mexico. He'd gotten literature from over a dozen towns in the Southwest, weighed the pros and cons of pulling up stakes and chasing the sun, but had never followed through. It was almost as if he were fated to be here, that the invisible ties that bound him to Falls Crossing were strong as steel cable.

Back at his desk, he settled into his chair again and before he concentrated on the computer screen, he caught a glimpse of a Lucite cube that was forever beneath his desk lamp, yet never noticed. It had been a gift from Carolyn on their first wedding anniversary, and beneath the plastic surfaces were faded snapshots of him as a much younger man, a much less jaded man, a man who, at that time in his life, had known how to smile. Six photographs. All were of him, four included Carolyn, another was with David when they were gangly-looking freshmen in high school, and the last was a group shot that included Rinda Allen and her brother Wes, along with Carolyn and a few others. They'd been ringing in the New Year and were all wearing stupid little hats and blowing those ridiculous noisemakers...

That New Year's Eve party had been so long ago.

During another bone-cold winter.

He closed his eyes for a second. Tried to call up Carolyn's face. But all he could remember were images from photographs or home movies that had been taken over the years. Knowing he was making a mistake, he walked to the hall closet, pushed aside some loose tools, and found an ancient cardboard box. Inside were videotapes from a life he'd led long ago. He pulled out the first cartridge he came to, then walked into the living room. Hesitating only for a second, he shoved the tape into his VCR and clicked on the television.

A few seconds later, there she was.

His heart clutched.

She was laughing, her blond hair poking out of a red stocking cap, her scarf unwinding, her boots slipping as she ran through the snow and hurled hastily packed s...o...b..a.l.l.s back at the cameraman.

"Don't...Shane, don't you dare," she ordered, laughing as the image wiggled and a s...o...b..ll came from the direction of the camera to splat against her back. "Oh, you devil! That was dirty! Just you wait." She threw a few back at the camera. "When I get you home..."

"You'll what?" his voice demanded.

"I'll make you pay!"

"How?"

"I'll take it out of your hide."

"Can't wait," he'd said, and another s...o...b..ll flew past her head before the image stopped altogether. The last movie he'd ever taken of her. Three days later he was called to an accident. She'd been driving, hit black ice, slid off the road, down a steep canyon to Cougar Creek. Her neck had snapped. She'd been killed on impact.

Carolyn.

His wife.

The woman he'd sworn to love until death.

And he had.

Oh G.o.d, he had.

Long after he shouldn't have.

Faye just wasn't right.

Standing naked near the clear gla.s.s tank, he eyed the woman's near-dead body as it hung in the freezing chamber and wondered why he'd thought she'd do. True, she had a slight resemblance to Jenna Hughes, but her skin wasn't the correct shade; the tattoo of a ring of roses around her ankle was all wrong. The set of her jaw was sharper, her eyes smaller, her nose not quite as straight. She just wasn't perfect.

But then no one was.

Except Jenna.

Unhappy with his choice, he unstrapped this pale replica from her bonds and couldn't help but feel a thrill as her cool skin brushed over his. The sensation of cold flesh touching him caused his heart to pump, his blood to flow more freely. There were things he could do to her. Sensual acts he'd been planning for a long while. And he could do them now, while she was still alive, breathing so shallowly from her near-frozen lungs.

He drew in a short breath. Shut his mind to any erotic image with this woman-this fake. Lying with her, touching her, kissing her in this state would be sacrilegious. He had to save himself.

For Jenna.

The time was near...so near. He had to force himself to be patient. With the woman draped over his shoulders, he glanced around the room again, his gaze moving to the walls where he'd trained floor lights upward to the artwork surrounding the entire room. Pictures of Jenna Hughes stared down at him. Photographs he'd downloaded anonymously from the Internet, movie posters he'd bought over the years, blown-up pictures from magazines and newspapers, even grainy shots from the scandal sheets. She was everywhere, her image carefully and lovingly fastened to the ceiling and walls.

And to think that he'd even considered fornicating with this...this sad, pale, bald replica.

Shame burned through him as he carried her to a dark corner of the room and gently placed her into his specialized long box. She twitched a bit as her skin touched the previously mixed alginate, but he settled her into the coffin, where the gelatin-like substance oozed over her. Slowly, her body sank lower. The trick was to make sure that the alginate would suspend her body, that her b.u.t.tocks and shoulders wouldn't rest against the bottom of the tank while the alginate was at the perfect consistency, to ensure that the mold of her body was flawless. It was tricky work, as the stuff congealed quickly.

He was trying to create a full-body mask, though so far his attempts had proved unsuccessful, and he'd been forced to use mannequin bodies with head casts. His hope was to hone the process so that by the time he'd abducted Jenna, he would be able to cast her perfect body over and over, perhaps in different positions if he could find a way to keep her alive long enough, and build his shrine to her. He'd already made some mistakes.

In his first attempt, he had not shaved the woman's head properly, leaving her hair to mess up his image. A stupid, amateurish blunder. That mistake had been time-consuming. A waste. What had he been thinking? Since then, he'd worked more carefully, had honed his art to a science, planned the smallest detail, knew who he would use for his work...He'd spent the last two years creating a list of women who would be as near-perfect as possible for his shrine though he hadn't started actually sculpting his creations until last winter. Before Jenna Hughes had moved up here, he'd been studying specimens, looking for women with the right facial structure, acceptable frames.

Now, as Faye sank into the pink, oozing depths, he felt a sense of accomplishment. She didn't move. Couldn't, as she was immobile from the freezing. The alginate seeped upward between her legs, through the s.p.a.ce between her arms and torso, over her closed eyes. It slithered into her most intimate recesses and molded to her. The process would only take minutes. She would die of suffocation, but not struggle, as she was comatose, already a victim of the frigid ice water and relaxants.

Soon he would have a perfect mold. With extreme precision, he would extract her from the solid alginate, then stuff her useless body into the freezer before he disposed of it permanently.

He watched as the alginate began to solidify.

Just as he'd planned.

Leaving the coffin, he walked through a separate doorway to his computer room and sat at a desk with several keyboards. Anonymously, he logged on, and, starting with e-Bay and some of his favorite vintage dress shops, he began searching. Somewhere, if he took enough time and exercised patience, he would find articles of clothing and jewelry that would suffice as a full costume for Zoey, his next project, the character Jenna played in A Silent Snow. Smiling to himself, he imagined showcasing Zoey as well as all the others. He already had found the costume for Faye Tyler of Bystander, and the black dress he'd picked up at the theater that Anne Parks of Resurrection would soon wear.

His grin widened as he thought about what Jenna would say when she saw his tribute to her. No doubt she would be awestruck. Speechless. Forever in his debt.

That would be a time to savor!

He hoped to keep her alive long enough for her to realize how much he loved her, how much he cared for her, how he planned to immortalize her.

Through the gla.s.s door, he peered into the freezing chamber where the alginate was hardening over Faye Tyler.

But soon his work would be complete.

He walked to the window, where he could see his full-length reflection in the gla.s.s, a pale image of a tall, muscular man with a full head of hair, sharp features, intelligent eyes.

He prided himself upon being a near-perfect specimen.

A man any woman would want.

A man who only wanted one woman.

A man who intended to have that one, unique woman.

Soon.

CHAPTER 17.

"So do you and Carter have a truce?" Rinda asked.

She and Jenna were sitting in the theater's office and sorting through the pre-sold tickets.

"We were never at war."

"But you two were sure p.r.i.c.kly around each other."

"p.r.i.c.kly? Oh, give me a break." Jenna shook her head. "Forget the matchmaking, Rinda, okay? And don't try to deny it. I see what you're up to, and it won't work."

"I think you two would-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But forget it." The last thing Jenna needed now was the distraction of a man, any man, in her life.

"He's kind of a hunk."

Jenna had noticed. "So what? Who needs a hunk?"

"I wouldn't mind one."

"Then you date him." She counted all the tickets for section A and placed them in a stack on Rinda's desk. "The man's a pain in the a.s.s."

"So you do like him."

"Give me a break." She started counting out section B and lost track. "He's stubborn, all business, seems to go by his own rules. A cowboy."

"Nothing wrong with that."

"Lots wrong with that," she argued, and hated the fact that Rinda could see right through her. "Let's forget Carter for the moment, okay?"

"Fine...let's see here..." Rinda leaned closer to the computer monitor. The seating chart was computerized, but the old desktop was straining, its capacity stretched to the limit with the new software Wes had added in the past couple of weeks. In his estimation, the new programs would make life at the theater easier; so far, just the opposite had proved true as the old hard drive struggled with even the most simple commands. Biting her lower lip in concentration, Rinda was trying to print out a chart while Jenna, in a folding chair scooted close to her friend's desk, was counting out the preprinted tickets that had not yet been sold.

The furnace roared in the background, blasting out hot air that quickly dissipated in the drafty, old theater, and notes from a piano drifted through the rooms as Blanche was tinkering with the score of the next production. "What is it you have against Carter?" Rinda pestered, still staring at the screen.

"I thought the subject was closed."

"It's a simple question."

"Well, other than the fact that he gave me a citation and then acted like I was some Hollywood prima donna the first time I went to his office, I've got nothing against the man."

Rinda looked over the tops of her computer gla.s.ses.

"Just admit it, Jenna. The man gets under your skin," Rinda said, as Oliver hopped onto the corner of her desk. Absently, she petted the cat's tawny head.

"You mean, he irritates me."

"Whatever you want to call it. But you're getting along with him now, right?"

"Okay, yes, I suppose." She lost count of section B again and swore under her breath. "d.a.m.n, where was I?"

Rinda chuckled.

"Okay, I give up! If you really want to know, Carter was fine when I went in to see him about the note. Interested. Concerned. Professional. Not like the other time, when he acted like he thought I expected some kind of special treatment. I got the feeling that he expected me to show up in a limo, that I'd be wearing sungla.s.ses and tons of lip gloss and Gucci shoes...something straight out of The Idiot's Guide to Hollywood Stereotypes."

Rinda laughed. "You've got him all wrong. He's just busy. I know Shane. He'll be on this stalker thing like a flea on a dog."

"I hope so." She picked up the B tickets again.

"You might consider doing some of the things he suggested."

"Great-you, too. Well, just for the record, I'm not trading in Critter for a newer, sleeker, fiercer model," Jenna said, and the old dog, curled on a mat at the base of the stairs to the belltower, thumped his tail at the sound of his name. "I'm also not hiring a d.a.m.ned bodyguard."

"You've got the alarm system fixed, though. Right?"

"I'm working on it. I've called the company, but they're booked solid."

"I supposed that's a start. How are the girls taking all this?"