To Die: Chosen To Die Part 37

How many of these suckers are there?

Drawing a strengthening breath, she propelled herself forward into the musty-smelling corridor. She'd barely taken two steps when she heard something.

Movement.

Oh, no!

Flicking off the flashlight, shivering in the dark with the closeness of the cold earthen walls surrounding her, she strained to listen.

Heard it again.

A soft little noise...

"Elyssa?" she thought hopefully, then felt something brush across the back of her head.

She nearly screamed.

Dropped the flashlight.

It rolled wildly, illuminating the walls and the thousands of tiny eyes staring at her. A whisper of wings fluttered as she spied the colony of bats nesting in the crevices of the ceiling. "Oh, h.e.l.l," she whispered, nearly undone, her heart thumping erratically. Bats? Frigging bats? That was a good sign, right? They had to find a way out, to hunt, to feed.

Reaching down, she grabbed her flashlight and wiped the detritus, dirt, and bat c.r.a.p from its handle. Her nerves were shot, her body aching and tired, but she kept on as the beam slowly faded.

She didn't take any of the tunnel's spurs, just shined her feeble light down them because she couldn't risk getting lost. If she stayed on this main path, she would be able to return to the hidden room, find a lantern or some other means of illumination, and start over.

The light went out and plunged her into darkness. Regan reached her left hand to the tunnel wall and kept moving forward. One step in front of the other. The tunnel jogged, and jogged again, but she was certain she was still in the main one.

Her foot b.u.mped into something hard and she fell forward onto a set of wooden stairs. And was that fresh air from above? Something different than the stale atmosphere she'd been wandering in?

She climbed on her hands and knees, holding on to the poker and flashlight as she worked her way forward. The bottom step was worn and wooden, the next a bit higher, curving upward.

Regan wanted to weep. This was it! Freedom!

Heart leaping, she ascended slowly. Trying to be patient, not clamber wildly as she sought freedom.

Go slowly.

Be careful.

He could be waiting.

Up, up, up.

More fresh air filtered down and she saw a bit of daylight through a hole in the ceiling high above, no doubt the entrance for the d.a.m.ned bats. It offered some light, enough for her to make out the rough-hewn walls around her.

Around a final bend, she spied the door.

Antic.i.p.ation zipped through her blood. Setting down her flashlight, she climbed the final steps and gripped the door's metal lever.

G.o.d, please, don't let it be locked.

She paused.

Listened.

Mentally geared herself for whatever lay ahead.

Then slowly, teeth clenched, she twisted the handle. The door clicked open and swung inward, revealing a wide, interior room much like the one she'd last seen. There was a work area and fireplace here as well, embers cold and dark, but daylight was streaming in through the windows.

Her knees nearly gave way as she looked outside, the white, dazzling snow nearly blinding. She searched the room quickly for a weapon, anything stronger than the poker and she found some tools, a hammer, screwdriver, and pliers. She stuffed them in her pockets and wished like h.e.l.l for her pistol. Any gun. But there were none in this room. Nor a phone or computer or any means of communication. She found a tiny bathroom and kitchen alcove in this stone and log cabin. There was a bedroom as well. With an old iron-frame bed and sagging mattress.

Where he stayed. She could smell him and it made her sick. She thought of him, how he'd attacked her.

His size.

His voice.

His walk.

All familiar. She knew that she should recognize him and an image teased at the edges of her mind, but never quite developed.

Keep moving. He could return at any second.

She opened another door, one that could be locked with a key.

Her heart dropped as she spied the small bed with its handmade quilt, the table next to it where a plate with remnants of food and a half-full water gla.s.s remained.

Elyssa.

This is where he kept her.

Healed her.

Tended to her.

Gave her hope.

And it's too late.

He's already taken her.

To leave her in the forest to freeze to death.

You failed.

Despair cut a deep swath through Pescoli's soul. She told herself that the girl was doomed from the get-go. Didn't the notes she'd found in his lair prove it? And yet, if she somehow could have saved her...

Don't think of it.

Get out.

Get out now.

Before the b.a.s.t.a.r.d returns.

You can nail him.

Save the others.

Save yourself.

Just get the h.e.l.l out now!

She was already moving to the door that opened to the outside. Whatever the obstacles she had to face in the frozen wilderness, it was a h.e.l.luva lot safer than staying here.

She could get help.

Lead them back here.

And arrest the son of a b.i.t.c.h.

If she didn't kill him first.

Carrying a cup of coffee, Alvarez walked into the task force room, where those on duty were gathering.

The notes that Manny Douglas left with them appeared to be authentic. Alvarez had checked, comparing them to the ones that had been placed with the victims. These new ones, when set directly over their older counterparts, looked as if they'd been traced, each letter perfectly positioned.

Of course, the new evidence would be scrutinized and tested, compared by experts, a.n.a.lyzed by the FBI, but it looked like there were two more Star-Crossed victims. Two more dead or dying in the forest, though not, it seemed, Regan Pescoli.

Yet...

She set her cup of coffee on the table already littered with half-full cups and notepads as others took seats, the sound of chair legs screeching across the floor accompanied by muted conversation.

Cort Brewster and Dan Grayson entered the room together and stood near the desk where Zoller was on phone detail. The meeting was informal, just a means to update as many as possible who were working the Star-Crossed Killer case.

Grayson said, "I'll make this quick as we're all busy. Manny Douglas from the Mountain Reporter showed up today."

The reporter's name elicited a catcall from Pete Watershed. "My favorite."

There were mumbled snorts of disgust, as everyone had read the searing article. Grayson continued, "It seems that Star-Crossed has decided to communicate through him."

"Douglas?" Watershed frowned.

"That guy doesn't know the meaning of the truth," Rebecca O'Day, a corporal deputy, said, shaking her head.

"Well, he's now our conduit," Alvarez said as she pa.s.sed around copies of the notes Douglas had left at the station.

"So now the creep is runnin' to the press?" Brett Gage asked. He was the chief criminal deputy, whose easy smile belied a will of steel. "d.a.m.n."

"Two more," O'Day whispered.

They all examined the message: B E W A R T H E S C I O N ' H "No R or P for Pescoli," Trilby Van Droz said slowly. "But if you add them in, the third word could be scorpion."

"There's an apostrophe," Alvarez pointed out. "A possessive."

"Then, what's this guy saying?" O'Day asked. "'Beware the scorpion's h.e.l.l'? Or 'Beware the scorpion's hate'? Or 'Beware the scorpion's hiss'?"

"Scorpions don't hiss," Watershed pointed out.

Gage added, "It doesn't have to be 'scorpion.' We can't just guess and a.s.sume."

"Maybe." Grayson wasn't convinced.

"Isn't that why we turned this over to the FBI? So they can use their cryptologists?" Brewster said.

"We have a list of missing women. If their initials work into this puzzle, we might figure it out ourselves," Alvarez said.

Brewster looked ready to argue, but Gage intervened, "Let's not just get stuck on the notes. What else do we know about this mutt?"

"That he craves attention," Alvarez said. "He made sure we got this information. He wants to be the hot topic. It probably bothered him no end that the copycat stole his press for a while."

O'Day speculated, "Could be why he stepped up his game-two more, and bragging rights to the press."

"But to Manny Douglas?" Gage scowled and leaned back in his chair. "You informed the FBI?"

Grayson nodded. "They're on their way back from Denver and an interview with Hubert Long that went nowhere. The man's comatose, not expected to live more than a couple of days, if that."

There was a moment of silence as they were all lost in their own thoughts and ideas. Then Alvarez said, "Elyssa O'Leary and Brandy Hooper," reading from the missing persons report she'd printed from her computer. "They're the most likely candidates for Star-Crossed."

"We haven't found any vehicles registered to them," Van Droz remarked.

"We will," Watershed said. "Just a matter of time."

"Well, if it's Hooper and O'Leary, then it looks like Star-Crossed has been cozying up to medical students," Zoller pointed out. "Start with Ms. Hooper. Twenty-seven, a resident at OHSU in Portland, Oregon, reported missing nine days ago when she didn't show up at her parents' home in Missoula. Reports were filed in Oregon, Idaho, and Montana. She's the only girl we have on file with the initials B and H, which, when added to the E and O from Elyssa O'Leary's initials, who, by the way is a nursing student, would give more credence to the BEWARE THE SCORPION'S...something with an H."

"O'Leary has an apostrophe," Alvarez said.

Everyone looked at her. "You think he went that far? To even add in the apostrophe?" Grayson asked.

"He has that much attention to detail," she responded.

"Again. A lot of a.s.sumptions," Gage said. "There's always the chance that other girls with the same initials have been abducted. Someone who hasn't been reported, or, at least not reported in this jurisdiction."

"O'Leary's parents believe her boyfriend, Cesar Pelton, is involved in her disappearance," Zoller reminded them.

"Any confirmation on that?" Grayson asked.

Brewster shook his head. "Chandler was checking on that."