To Die: Chosen To Die Part 34

Good.

I'm out of time.

And nature will take care of the rest.

I leave her then, jogging back the way we came, snow already filling the trail that we so recently broke through the snow.

This experience wasn't the best. I like women with some fight in them, a little fire.

Like Padgett.

I wonder about her as I jog, my breath fogging the air, my skin breaking out in a sweat under my insulated clothing. Does she know about her brother? Has she heard? Finally she is free again.

And the demon is dead.

I cut across the creek, cracking the ice, seeing a trickle beneath it, then head up the hill, along the deer trail, almost slipping once, but catching myself.

Though Elyssa's sacrifice has been less than exhilarating, the next will be one of the best. Better than either of the last two. Regan Pescoli is a worthy adversary, and the pain I feel in my muscles, the bites on my neck, are constant reminders that I must not underestimate her.

That would be an irreversible, fatal flaw.

I'm breathing hard as I climb the hillside, following the trail and knowing that even now Elyssa is expiring, the first one probably already dead.

Perfect.

A tiny zing sizzles through my blood at the thought that I ended her life. I had that power. This, the way I kill them, is slow. Slightly impersonal. I never feel that surge of supreme ecstasy I imagine a killer might feel who wields a knife.

But knowing that I controlled another's destiny, a woman, I'm sure, who was put on this earth to ful-fill my needs, suffices.

For now.

Over the final hillock, I spy my truck. Quickly I load up, toss my backpack and kit into the back. Despite my gloves, I feel the cold.

No time to waste!

I climb into my truck, spark the engine, then let off the emergency brake. Snow begins to fall as the tires grip and I work my way down the hill, easing down the steep slope, the snow tires digging deep, transmission whining.

It's slow going, but eventually, around a final corner, I spy the county road in the distance. A few vehicles are traveling at a slow speed through the curtain of snow and I smile.

Once on a level surface, I increase my speed, frown at the clock, and tell myself it'll all work out.

I need to take care of an errand or two, then return to the mine and make sure Pescoli is as broken and needy as she was when I left her last night.

My jaw tightens. It worries me a bit that the marks will be permanent; always a reminder that she almost got the better of me.

Almost.

Setting my jaw, I head home.

I need to clean up before I return to town, where, I antic.i.p.ate, all h.e.l.l is breaking loose.

It's a good feeling and I turn on the radio once more only to hear Burl Ives's voice and that irritating melody again. "Oh, by golly, have a-"

I push the b.u.t.ton to a country-western station. For the love of G.o.d, what's wrong with the DJs, playing that insipid song over and over again? Despite Randy Travis's deep voice, I can't get the whole holly jolly thing out of my mind.

As the windshield slaps at the snow I find myself humming to the catchy little melody.

It's a d.a.m.ned curse.

"All I know is that Mr. Long called and told me that he would be visiting the ranch," Clementine said.

"You mean Brady Long," Alvarez clarified. An easy a.s.sumption; according to all reports, Hubert was on his deathbed.

"Yes." Clementine's lower lip quivered and she wrung her hands nervously. Her son, Ross, a tall, sullen kid, looked like he would rather be anyplace else on earth than standing in the vestibule of the home of a dead man and talking to an officer of the law. His head was shaved, a straggly goatee decorated his chin, and a tattoo peeked out from the neck of his ski jacket. Snow had melted on the jacket's shoulders and Ross's jeans were wet at the top of his boots, as if he'd been walking through deep snowdrifts. His face was a little red. The cold? Exertion? He nearly sneered at Alvarez and carried the air about him that suggested he would have liked the words Bad a.s.s inked across his forehead.

"You didn't talk to Mr. Long?" she asked Ross.

He shook his head vigorously, losing a bit of the disinterested, cool-appearing demeanor he was trying so hard to convey.

"You've been outside this morning?"

"Yeah...I went...I was in town."

All the evidence from the crime had been collected, but the sheriff's department had roped off the den with crime scene tape, and the hallways and dining area were a mess-fingerprint powder blackening the walls and furniture, footprints tracked throughout the house.

"What can you tell me about that conversation?" she asked Clementine.

"As I told the other officers, it was nothing out of the ordinary. Every so often, Mr. Brady, he would call and tell me to stock the kitchen and bar because he was going to come back and spend a few days here to unwind. That's how he usually put it, 'unwind' or 'relax' or 'get away from the grind.'"

"Do you know what he was 'getting away' from?"

"He never confided in me."

Alvarez wasn't certain that was the truth. "You work for him, too?" she asked Ross.

"When I'm not in school. I help out Santana."

"He's like the foreman," Clementine ventured. "Ross is his helper."

"Along with some others?"

Clementine was nodding.

"You've worked for the Longs for quite a while."

"Over twenty years."

"And Ross's father?" Alvarez looked at the boy, who shifted from one foot to the other.

"He left us. Before Ross was born. I wasn't married and he...he didn't want a baby." She licked her lips and looked at the floor.

"His name is Alvin Schwartz and he's a real a.s.shole. He's a cop, too," Ross added.

"Enough!" Clementine said, shushing her son.

"Al? Who works at the jail?" Alvarez pictured the jailor, a part-timer who was in his early forties. A big guy, ex-football-player type, who wore his hair clipped so short as to be nearly bald. Other than the hairstyle, there was little resemblance between father and son.

"Ross takes after my side of the family," Clementine commented, as if reading Alvarez's mind.

Ross snorted, "He's not in the family."

They talked for a little while about the Long family and Alvarez learned little more than she already knew. Then Clementine said, "Mr. Hubert, he's near death, I heard." She sketched a quick sign of the cross over her chest. "And now, Mr. Brady is gone. I'm wondering if I even have a job left. Who will own this place?" She lifted her hands in a sweeping gesture to take in all of the house and surrounding acres.

"I don't know, but I imagine someone will call and let you know." Alvarez turned her attention to Ross. "You go to community college, right? And work around here. Can you tell me what you were doing yesterday morning?"

He stared at her. "You think I popped Brady?"

"Ross!" Clementine hissed and looked like she might faint.

"That's what she's getting at." His eyes glittered, as if he had figured out Alvarez's game. "Isn't it?"

"Just keeping track of everyone he knew," Selena said.

"I was at school. You can check with Jamie."

"Who's she?"

"He's my friend. I pick him up."

She took down Jamie's number, made a note to give him a jingle.

"Either one of you know Regan Pescoli?"

"Another cop," Ross said derisively.

"My partner."

"She's missing, isn't she?" Clementine asked and shook her head. "I saw it on the news."

Ross lifted a shoulder. "I met her a couple of times. I know her kid. He's cool."

"Is he?" She asked a few more questions, but it seemed the connection between Ross DeGrazio and Jeremy Strand was a thin one at best. Acquaintances. Not friends. There were a couple of years between them.

"I heard she was doin' Santana."

"Oh, stop it!" Clementine looked about to die. "I'm so sorry," she apologized.

Alvarez leveled her gaze at the kid. "Seems as if Ross here has a problem with authority."

"I just don't like cops."

"Because of your old man?"

"Because I don't like 'em."

Alvarez asked a few more questions, didn't get any more information, and decided she'd learned all she could. Whether he knew it or not, Ross DeGrazio was still, in her mind, on the suspect list, along with Cort Brewster.

But the kid seemed too green to pull off something so intricate. It just didn't quite fit. Just like Brewster; as much as she disliked the man, and as much as some pieces of the Star-Crossed puzzle fit his profile, she couldn't quite see him as a cold-blooded killer who had spent years planning this series of brutal slayings. She supposed smart-a.s.s Ross could be stupid enough to get caught in some kind of gang killing, but even then she didn't see him as the trigger man. He had a problem with authority, yeah, but Alvarez would bet that Ross DeGrazio would rather run from the police than provoke, taunt, or toy with them. He just didn't have the b.a.l.l.s. As for Brewster, he might kill in the line of duty or as an act of pa.s.sion, as was proven by his attack on Jeremy Strand.

But Alvarez couldn't believe either of them had the time, effort, or dedication to have plotted and carried out these killings. As much as she'd worried about Brewster earlier, it just didn't fit.

Besides, she couldn't prove that either man had means, motive, and opportunity.

And though she was relieved to knock Brewster off the suspect list, it only meant that Star-Crossed was someone else.

Someone who would love to see her chasing her tail or arresting the wrong suspect, someone who thought he was so much smarter than the police.

We'll see about that, b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Don't count me out yet.

Chapter Twenty-Six.

Santana shut the stable door and eyed the sky warily. Another blizzard was bearing down on the Bitterroots. Another night had pa.s.sed with no news of Pescoli.

And he still hadn't heard one d.a.m.ned word from Chilcoate. Not one.

The guy wasn't returning his calls, nor had he bothered to phone and give Santana an update.

It hasn't even been twelve hours and here you are jumping out of your skin. Give the guy some time, he told himself.

But that was the problem.

He felt like he had no time left, not a minute.

And he had to do something.

Couldn't just sit around and wait, for G.o.d's sake!

Turning his collar to the wind, with Nakita leaping and bounding in the fresh snow, he glanced down the lane to the main house where lights were glowing, lights that had been on ever since he'd discovered Brady Long's body.

Was it just yesterday?