The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa Jackson

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СКАЧАТЬ seemed far-fetched. She and Mason rarely communicated, and though Sherice, Mason’s receptionist, had outwardly despised Jillian when Jillian and Mason were married, now, since she’d become the second much younger Mrs. Mason Rivers, Sherice’s animosity had faded. Sherice had won the great prize of becoming a trophy wife. So why try to stir up trouble now?

      Jillian leaned back in her desk chair and tapped the eraser end of her pencil on the arm of the chair as she stared at the image on the computer. She heard a soft meow and then Marilyn padded through the open door and, spying Jillian’s empty lap, leaped onto it.

      “Hey, sweetcakes,” Jillian said, absently rubbing the calico’s head. “What do you think?”

      The cat responded by curling up in her lap while Jillian tried to figure out if her long-dead husband had suddenly resurrected and why anyone would want her to know.

      “It’s a problem,” she confided to Marilyn and knew in that instant that she couldn’t leave it alone.

      She had to find out the truth.

      If for no other reason than to clear her name.

      No matter what it entailed, how painful it happened to be.

      Chapter Four

      Naked, I stand at the window.

      Alone.

      Waiting.

      While sand slips oh so slowly through the hourglass.

      The coming night is near, shadows playing darkly. A hollow wind, keening and savage, cuts through the canyons with the promise of death upon its breath. I hear its plaintive cry from deep in the cabin.

      It wants me, I think. It wants her.

      It’s as hungry as I am.

      Good!

      Feeling the ache, the low, insistent pulse, I peer through the windowpanes glazed in ice, frosted with blowing snow.

      Naked branches of the lonely trees rattle and dance, like skeletal arms raised in supplication to the heavens.

      As if God were interested.

      I feel the urge to step outside. The tug of the cold tempts me to languish in the caress of frigid gusts upon my bare skin.

      But it is too soon.

      I won’t let myself fall victim to that easy enticement. The timing isn’t right. Not yet.

      I have to be patient.

      Because she is coming.

      Unfailingly and without any inkling as to her fate, she is drawing near. I feel it.

      And everything has to be perfect.

      “Come on,” I whisper quietly and feel that sensual twitch deep inside at the thought of her: lightly tanned skin, dusting of freckles, wide hazel eyes and untamed hair a deep brown that shines red in the firelight. “Come the fuck on.”

      The knowledge that she will soon appear causes my blood to race, my mind to fire with images of what’s to come. I can almost taste her, feel the texture of her skin as she quivers at my touch. In my mind’s eye I watch her pupils dilate until her eyes are nearly black with fear and a dark, unwelcome desire.

      Oh, she will want me.

      She will beg for more of me.

      And I will give her what she wants…what she fears.

      Her last conscious thoughts will be of me.

      Only me.

      But not yet…I have to hold back.

      Tamping down my vibrant, exhilarating fantasies, I decide to savor them later. When the timing is right.

      With one last glance at the window, I walk to the table near the fire, sit in the smooth wooden chair, feel the varnish against my bare skin. When my body is unfettered by clothes, my mind is sharper. Clearer.

      I study my maps carefully. Using a magnifying glass, charting my course. The worn, marked pages spread upon the table near the kerosene lantern glow softly. Scattered upon the scarred planks are the astrological charts, birth certificates and recent clippings of the deaths that no one will ever trace to me. In the articles the beautiful release of souls is described as brutal slayings, the work of a psychopath.

      Reporters, like the police, are idiots.

      I can’t help but smile at all their wasted efforts.

      The authorities are morons.

      Cretins.

      Fools who are so easily toyed with.

      Burning wood crackles in the grate, anxious flames devouring the mossy chunks of oak and pine. The scent of wood smoke is heavy in my nostrils as I reread the stories about the “victims,” tales that have been carefully construed by the stupid cops to ensure that no details they wish to keep from the public have slipped into the articles. They have worked diligently to hold back information, clues that will keep every nutcase around from claiming ownership of my deeds.

      For if that should happen, the short-staffed sheriff’s department would have to sort it all out, spending valuable hours dealing with the fraud. Officers would have to expose him or her as just some whack job trying to get his or her fifteen minutes of fame. The department would lose a lot of time uncovering the false murderer, a lunatic pretender who in no way could understand the divinity, nor the complexity, of the painstakingly executed sacrifices.

      Sorry, imbeciles.

      You’ll have to find some other killer to emulate.

      “Killer.” The word tastes bitter. As do “criminal” and “psycho.” Because what I do isn’t a crime, not just a “killing,” not some psychotic whim, but a necessity…a calling. However, those who are unenlightened can never understand. What I’ve done, what I will do again, is misunderstood.

      So be it.

      A window rattles against a gust of wind and I feel a sudden chill slither down my spine. Glancing up from my work to the icy panes, I see fluttering flakes of snow in the steely day beyond. Feeling the storm seep through the cracks in the walls, the cold air taunting my skin, I envision her again.

      Beautiful bitch.

      Soon you will be mine.

      God and the Fates are on my side.

      I lick my lips as a thrill steals through my bloodstream. Turning back to the table, I see her picture. In black and white, the surroundings out of focus, her features clear and crisp.

      In the glossy photograph, she appears happy, though, of course, her smile is a frail façade. She looks almost flirtatious.

      A lie.

      As I stare deeply into her СКАЧАТЬ