The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa Jackson

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СКАЧАТЬ another blizzard. A big one.”

      Alvarez’s heart sank. The chances of finding the driver of the car weren’t that great to begin with; add a blizzard and they dropped to nearly impossible.

      Grayson glared at the half-buried car and the lines around his mouth etched even deeper. “Looks like he’s at it again.”

      “Looks like,” Pescoli agreed.

      “Shit.” Dan glanced up at the ridge and snowflakes caught on his moustache as he chewed on his lower lip. “Same MO?”

      Watershed nodded. “Yep. Body and ID missing.”

      “Tire shot?”

      “Blown for sure,” Alvarez said. “Haven’t been able to determine if—”

      “It was shot.” Grayson voiced what they all thought was fact, just not yet proven. “This isn’t a coincidence. That bastard’s hunting again.”

      “I’d bet on it,” Watershed agreed.

      Alvarez nodded.

      “Run the license plate,” Grayson said. “Find out who owns the car and we’ll work from there. If the bullet isn’t lodged in the undercarriage or somewhere else in the vehicle, check the ridge. Maybe it fell onto the road or became imbedded in the cliff on the farside. Anyone call a tow truck to haul the car in?”

      “Truck’s on its way,” Alvarez said. She’d put in the call as soon as she arrived.

      “Let’s hope they can get down here. The roads are a mess. Half the staff is dealing with power outages and accidents.” He rubbed his chin and shook his head, his gaze fastening on the crumpled car, which was quickly being buried in snow. “We need to nail this bastard.”

      “I’m all for that,” Pescoli agreed.

      Grayson nodded and met Alvarez’s eyes. “But first let’s find the victim. And this time, let’s find her alive.”

      Chapter Seven

      Scccrratttch!

      The match head scrapes loudly against the stone hearth and the sharp smell of sulfur stings my nostrils. With a sweet hiss, the flame flares before my eyes.

      Perfect little flicker of hot light.

      I’ve always loved fire.

      Always been fascinated at how it so quickly springs to life—a living, breathing thing that requires air to survive. The shifting yellow and orange flames are oh so seductive in their warmth and brilliance and deadly abilities.

      Striking matches—bringing fire to life—is one of my passions, one of many.

      Carefully lifting the glass of the lantern, I light the wick, another spot of illumination in the large, barren room. A fire already crackles and burns in the grate, red embers glowing in a thick bed of ashes, mossy wood licked by passionate flames, smoke rising through the old stone chimney, golden shadows dancing on the watery old windowpanes.

      Outside the storm rages, winds howling, snow blowing furiously, and yet the stone-and-log cabin is a fortress against the elements. Here I don’t have to bother with the burden of clothing that scratches and itches and bothers. No, I can walk comfortably over the smooth flagstones in bare feet, the heat radiating from the fire enough to keep my skin warm.

      I keep a large store of firewood within the cabin, but should I need to walk to the outbuilding to retrieve more, I won’t need the trappings of boots and jacket but can face the elements naked, bracing myself against the bite of the wind and the slap of ice.

      The match burns down, licking at my fingertips, and I shake it out quickly.

      With one ear to the police-band radio that spits and sputters, I sit on the chairs I’ve turned by hand. I spread out my forestry maps, along with the more graphic pictures I’ve printed from satellites, photos available on the Internet, on the long table. I’ve carefully pieced these images together and marked them with colored pins that correspond to the same colored pins on the forestry maps.

      From a room down the hallway, I hear her quiet cough.

      I freeze. Listening.

      She groans, no doubt still unconscious.

      A smile pricks at the corners of my mouth when I think of her. She is rousing and that’s a good sign. Soon she’ll be ready. A little sizzle of anticipation sweeps through my bloodstream and I quickly tamp it down. Not yet. Not until the time is right. Not until she is healthy enough to do her part.

      Oh, it will be unwillingly, but she will partake.

      They all do.

      She groans more loudly and I know I’ll have to attend to her. Soon. I look at the open closet, an armoire I’ve fashioned with my own hands and a few basic tools. I’ve carved it ornately, lovingly, with images of celestial beings cut into the dark wood. Inside are the cubicles where I keep my treasures, little mementos of the reluctant participants. The door is slightly ajar. I scoot back my chair and stand, stretching my muscles before walking to the closet. Opening the doors further, I note how the mirrors lining the inside catch the reflection of the fire and my own sinewy body. Toned muscles. Dark hair. Deep set eyes with 20/10 vision.

      “A specimen,” one foolish woman said of me as she let her gaze wander down my frame.

      As if I would be flattered.

      “A tall drink of water,” another unimaginative would-be lover cooed, licking her lips slightly.

      “Ah…a bad boy with bedroom eyes,” a third whispered, hoping I would fall prey to her uninspired advances.

      In the mirror my lips twist at the memories, my eyes darken a shade.

      They found out, didn’t they?

      But those incidents were just the beginning, before I fully understood my mission.

      Ignoring my reflection, I open some of the drawers in the closet and eye my treasures, little bits of the women who were to become immortal: a tooled leather bag with fringe, a small clutch made out of fake leopard fur, a snakeskin wallet filled with credit cards, driver’s licenses, insurance information cards. Designer cases for eyeglasses, cigarettes and makeup. Nail files, tampons, cell phones, lipsticks in shades from wine to sheer, shimmering pink.

      Treasures.

      From those who were the chosen. I glance at one of the newspaper articles that has been written about the killings, the clippings all stacked neatly on a thin shelf. In this particular article, the reporter quoted some “source within the sheriff’s department” who indicated that the “acts” had been “random,” and that a “maniac” sharpshooter was behind the murders.

      Maniac?

      Random?

      The police are worse imbeciles than I originally thought.

      Idiots playing at detection.

      From СКАЧАТЬ