To Die: Chosen To Die Part 44

"There's nowhere to go," I yell, but she doesn't even break stride. I should have known she would be more trouble than I thought. d.a.m.n it, why have I underestimated her?

Fury burns through me.

It's time to end it. Now.

To h.e.l.l with caution. I take off and run as if the hounds of h.e.l.l are at my heels.

Santana drove as close as he dared to the house where Billy Hicks lived. The old cabin, over a hundred years old, had been built near the mine, in a clearing rimmed by trees. He parked behind a stand of pine, then, with an eye on the cabin, crept through the woods in its direction.

Nothing moved around the old house.

And no one showed in the dark windows.

A ruse?

He watched, mindfully aware of the seconds elapsing, spurred by the knowledge that Regan was somewhere nearby. But the house remained dark inside, no smoke curling from the chimney. It looked abandoned.

And there were tracks in the snow. Someone had recently been walking around outside, someone with a smaller shoe size than a six-foot-four man.

Regan?

His heart leaped.

He felt a sizzle of antic.i.p.ation.

Had she escaped?

Nervously, he made his way to the front door, opened it, and stepped inside. But within minutes, he determined that she wasn't inside, though someone had been. The spare bedroom, complete with tiny bed, had recently been occupied.

Had this been where he'd kept her? Locked her inside? Surely she could have escaped this place?

In a further search, he found the other bedroom, a stark room rimmed in plank walls, with hooks for clothes and an ancient cast-iron bed, made with military precision.

Hicks's room.

He wondered if the b.a.s.t.a.r.d had brought Regan here? Stripped her down. Maybe tied her to the iron rails of the headboard while he...

No! He knew from the media reports that as demonic as the Star-Crossed Killer was, he didn't s.e.xually abuse his victims.

Quickly, he returned to the main living area where the fire had grown cold and several doorways led to deep tunnels. Was Regan hidden inside them somewhere?

No-the footprints indicated otherwise.

Unless they were from some other woman, one of the other victims whose initials were part of Hicks's disturbed message to the police.

Still the entire house seemed unoccupied, recently vacated.

No sound emanated from the dark, subterranean hallways and he sensed that they, too, were empty.

And the footsteps outside.

Fresh.

Heart thudding, his mind conjuring up all kinds of horrible scenarios for Regan, he stood for a second in the middle of the house and closed his eyes.

He felt as if the place were dead inside, no living creature drawing a breath.

d.a.m.n. Opening all the doors to the tunnels, he bellowed, "Regan! Regan Pescoli?" He waited, his voice echoing back to him as he listened hard, hoping for some sound of response, the faintest reply.

Nothing.

Not the tiniest sigh.

Nor the c.o.c.k of a gun if Hicks had heard him and were siting on him.

Again he tried. "Regan, it's Nate! Where the h.e.l.l are you?" he yelled at the top of his lungs, his voice booming.

If Hicks was lying in wait somewhere, Santana had certainly blown any element of surprise.

But he felt nothing.

Sensed no stirring.

Just dead air.

For now he had to trust his gut instincts. He hurried back outside and running, followed the trail of small footsteps partially covered in snow.

Alvarez was driving as if the devil himself were chasing her, wheeling around corners, heading into the hills surrounding the Kress Silver Mine and the cabin Billy Hicks called home.

Her cell phone was vibrating like h.e.l.l in her jacket pocket and she grabbed it and flipped it on when they reached a straight stretch.

Grayson, riding shotgun, was already talking to the 911 operator. He hung up and said, "Somehow Nate Santana figured out that Hicks is our boy."

"I just heard." Alvarez hit the redial b.u.t.ton. "Let's find out what he knows." She braked for a corner, but the Jeep held as she headed north and suddenly Mesa Rock was looming over the surrounding hills.

Santana didn't pick up. "He's not answering," she said.

"s.h.i.t." Grayson muttered, "He's too busy playing the Lone Ranger. You'd better step on it."

She did.

Santana read the tracks all too well. At the shed where Billy Hicks's truck was parked there were suddenly two sets of prints, the smaller ones he a.s.sumed to be female, possibly Regan's, and now a larger set. Most likely belonging to Billy Hicks himself.

The killer was hunting her down.

Relentlessly.

Santana felt a deep jab of guilt. He'd known Billy all of his life, should have recognized that he was cold. Brutal. Merciless.

So, go get him.

Find Regan.

Two weapons were lying behind the seat of the truck. A rifle and a pistol.

He grabbed them both.

Taking off at a dead run, feeling that he was already too late, he followed the tracks. His soul was heavy with dread.

What if she was already gone?

What if he reached her just to find her mercilessly lashed to a tree, her body frozen and blue?

Don't think about it. Just find her!

His cell phone jangled and he nearly dropped the d.a.m.ned thing as he tried, and failed, to answer it while wearing gloves. Still jogging, he recognized Alvarez's number and yanked off one glove, only to miss the call.

He kept running, the same long-distance pace he used in the military, his eyes moving from the trail to the area ahead as he hit the REDIAL b.u.t.ton.

She answered after two rings. "Alvarez." Before he could ID himself, she said, "I got your message."

Thank G.o.d!

"We know about Hicks."

"I'm near his cabin now. The house is empty. But his truck was parked in a shed on the property, to the south of the house, beneath a rise. From the tracks at the vehicle, I can tell that two people are heading due north through the trees. My guess is Pescoli escaped, and he's tracking her down. I'm following."

"This is a police matter, Santana. I can't authorize you to-"

"Just get the h.e.l.l out here. Fast! And send helicopters over the ridge, just south of Mesa Rock!" Before she could respond he gave her a quick rundown of what he knew, finishing with, "Get the d.a.m.ned dogs, snowmobiles, and choppers out here. I'm heading north." He clicked off and increased his pace.

He slid a bit, then saw where the tracks separated, where she'd apparently fallen down the steep incline, sliding and twisting in the snow. The hunter had bigger feet, and he skirted the edge of the drop-off. He followed the hunter's trail at a dead run. Tree branches slapped his face, snow dropping onto his shoulders and hair, but he sped through the forest with the agility learned from years of tracking game.

Running faster, he plowed across the clearing at its base, darting after the prints that looked fresher, no longer covered in snow.

He was getting close!

Into the woods he sprinted, still heading north, spying a hawk as it soared upward.

Where were they heading?

What the h.e.l.l was at Cougar Basin besides the lake?

They're heading to her death. He's forcing her to the tree where he'll kill her.

Jaw rock hard, holding tight to both guns, Santana ran steadily through the wintry forest, closer to whatever hideous scenario the psycho had planned. He didn't know how much ground he had to cover, but whatever the expanse, it was too d.a.m.ned much!

Regan was halfway across the lake. Her lungs were on fire, her thighs and calves screaming in pain, her useless arm aching with each jarring step.

Hicks was only a few feet behind.

She hoped, prayed, for the ice to give way under his weight, but so far it held firm.

"Pescoli! It's over," he yelled, but he was breathing hard, struggling, too.

She kept moving.

"I mean it." In his hand was his knife, and he was close enough to her that he could throw it at her.

She kept running, zigzagging, keeping him off guard. Beneath the snow the ice was slick, her feet slipping as the sun shone bright, only a few clouds remaining, the air so crisp it was brittle.

It was as if they were the only two creatures in the universe: a wounded, failing woman and a gasping, looming man who was closing the gap between them. The sh.o.r.eline surrounding the lake was far away, snow-laden trees glistening in the wintry sunlight.

"It's your time, Pescoli."

"Like h.e.l.l." G.o.d, he was close. Her pulse pounded in her ears, her eyes burned with the cold.

"I said, 'It's your time,' now!" He lunged. Thrusting his body through the air, his knife raised, he threw himself at her.

She flinched, shifted quickly to one side. Sliding. Sliding...

Crash! He hit her hard, but she was still on her feet. "s.h.i.t!"

She kept running.

Sliding.

Putting icy distance between them.

She glanced around. Couldn't help herself.

Angry as a wounded bull, he'd pulled himself to his feet. "There's nowhere to run. You may as well give up!"

He was heading in her direction again, his face red, his eyes filled with a burning hatred. But she'd bought a little time.

Try to get him to fall again. And this time, jump on him. Use the d.a.m.ned screwdriver!

He was growing closer again. She heard his tortured breathing.

"Why? Why are you doing this, Billy?" she yelled, trying to catch him off guard, make his mind shift from its deadly purpose.

He was so near he could almost touch her.

Oh, no, no, no!

"Because it's what I do."

He propelled himself forward again, and this time, as she tried to duck away, she slipped, her feet shivering across the ice.