The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa Jackson
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Название: The Alvarez & Pescoli Series
Автор: Lisa Jackson
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Ужасы и Мистика
Серия: An Alvarez & Pescoli Novel
isbn: 9781420150322
isbn:
“We’ll check it out,” Detective Renfro assured her. “Just give me a couple of hours.”
“You got it. And see if this woman has any outstanding warrants or priors.” But as Alvarez hung up, she knew that Renfro wouldn’t be able to locate the woman.
No way.
Jillian Rivers was probably a model citizen, like the other women left in the forest to die. And as such, well on her way to being the sadist’s next victim.
Thud!
Jillian heard the noise, tried to rouse, but couldn’t.
What was it? A door slamming?
Vaguely she was aware of pain in her leg and ribs. Jesus, they ached.
Trying to think past the pain, she attempted to lift an eyelid. It didn’t budge.
Dear God, where was she? She’d been in a car wreck, yes, that was it…and someone had come to help her…but she couldn’t think, couldn’t piece together her thoughts. In the distance she heard a high-pitched keen that, in her dazed thoughts, she decided might be the wind. As if it were racing through some deep ravine.
Oh God, what had happened?
Time was meaningless.
Her life seemed far away. Distant.
But she was no longer cold, and though she knew she should wake up, the blackness that had been her companion for God only knew how long kept her wrapped in its warm cocoon.
And she succumbed to its gentle lure.
She needed to sleep.
To heal.
She’d deal with the rest later….
She is awake.
I am sure of it.
Something in the air has changed. Her moaning stopped a while ago, and I know she’s awake and frightened.
They always are.
But I will placate her.
Get her to trust me.
For now, though, I need to let her be alone.
In the dark.
To learn to fear the isolation.
When she realizes I am her only human connection, she will have no choice but to depend upon me. It will take only a few days and in those days she will heal.
Resisting the urge to open the door to her room, I pick up the heavy book of astronomy I’ve inadvertently dropped to the floor and return it to my worktable. After squaring it precisely with the other books stacked in one corner of the planks, I stand and stretch, my eye catching sight of the bar in the doorway to my sleeping area. The smooth steel rod is mounted near the top of the frame. Soundlessly I walk to it, reach up, grab the cool, smooth steel and take a deep breath. Then I flex every muscle, drawing my face up to the bar and lifting my legs at a right angle to my body. I hold the pose for several long, slow minutes, waiting until my muscles start to scream, and then even longer, as I tremble and sweat with the effort of maintaining the perfect pose.
Only when I am certain I can’t hang on for a second longer, I count resolutely to sixty and release, dropping to the floor. I wipe my sweaty palms and jump up again, this time doing a hundred chin-ups in quick succession before I again lift my legs in front of me, again hold the position, legs outstretched, toes pointing, my strident muscles visible through taut skin, my body shaking from the effort.
This is part of my regimen.
Discipline.
Mental and physical discipline.
Directly in front of me, in a mirror on the far wall of the bed chamber, I see my reflection and check to make certain the pose is perfect.
It is.
Of course.
I hear her moaning again, more softly, and I smile, for soon I will open the door, “rescue” her all over again, hold her, reassure her, convince her that I will do everything possible to make her safe and bring her back to health. She will ask about her friends, her family, EMTs and hospitals and getting back to civilization, and I will explain about the lack of communication, but will tell her that as soon as the storm blows over, I will get help.
All I have to do is keep her alive for a few days.
And then, once the storm passes and she is able to hobble, the next phase will begin.
She will learn about discipline then.
About pain.
About mind over matter.
I release my pose and land deftly on the floor, barely making a sound. The moaning has stopped again.
Good girl. That’s it. Be brave.
I nearly open the door to her room, but resist again, and walk to the window, where ice has crusted and white snow blows in great flurries. The panes clatter a bit over the rush of the wind, but the fire inside snaps and dances.
Though I am naked, not a stitch of clothing on my body, I am warm, sweating and satisfied.
Everything is going as planned.
“So what do we know about Jillian Rivers?” Pescoli asked the next day as she and Alvarez stopped for coffee at the Java Bean, Grizzly Falls’s answer to Starbucks. While she poured herself a cup of coffee from the self-help pot, then paid for a double-cheese bagel, Alvarez ordered a soy chai latte, a frothy confection sprinkled with cinnamon and served in a mug that could double as a cereal bowl.
They sat at a small table near the window and stared out at the continuing storm. The coffee shop was nearly empty, one barista serving up the hot drinks to the few customers who had braved the bad weather.
“She’s single, but been married twice. The first husband died in a hiking accident in Suriname about ten years ago. Body never found, but yes, the insurance did pay, and she remarried a defense lawyer from Missoula, Mason Rivers, but that didn’t last long. She lives in Seattle, where she makes brochures and pamphlets, kind of a one-woman show. She takes the pictures, does the artwork and layout and writes the copy. No kids. One sister, Dusti Bellamy, who lives with her husband and two kids in one of your favorite towns.”
“Which one is that?”
“San Diego.”
“Oh.” Pescoli grinned. “And I was betting on Phoenix.”
“Jillian Rivers’s mother, Linnette White, is alive and well, though her father is dead. Linnette also lives in Seattle, but not with her daughter. Jillian lived alone. The Seattle PD have sealed her home and checked the scene, but so far there’s no indication of where she was going. I haven’t called СКАЧАТЬ