The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa Jackson

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СКАЧАТЬ everywhere.” She smiled, her thin lips twisting a bit. “They don’t mind the cold.”

      Was Grace for real?

      “Did your dog act strangely? As if he saw anything?”

      “He sniffed around, but no more than usual.”

      There was a soft knock on the door and Alvarez opened it to find Joelle on the other side. She held a Styrofoam cup of hot water, a tea bag steeping within.

      “We only had Earl Gray,” she said. “I think Grace likes those herbal calming ones that they serve over at the Java Bean, but we don’t have anything like that.” Joelle appeared worried, little lines threading between her eyebrows. Her glossed lips, the same exact shade as her jacket and slacks, pulled into a tight knot.

      “It’ll be fine,” Alvarez said. “It’s only one cup. If she doesn’t like it, she’ll get over it.” She took the steaming cup from Joelle’s reluctant fingers and slipped back into the stark room.

      Grace took a small sip and didn’t complain.

      Good thing.

      With a little prodding Grace told Alvarez the same story she had earlier, nearly verbatim. She hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary other than the wrecked car in the creek bed. “We were walking along the ridge road, and I could see it in the ravine.”

      “You were on the road above?”

      “Yes, and I saw the point where the car had gone over the edge, so I hurried back to the house and called. Fortunately the phones were still working. Then I tried to get back to the car myself, to get down the embankment and see if anyone was inside, but the deputy arrived before I did, coming in from the other side. He was in the area, I guess.”

      That was right. So far so good. “So you can’t tell us anything else?”

      “If I could I would,” Grace said simply, though her eyes darkened incredibly, her pupils widening as she stared at the detective.

      Alvarez felt as if a cold, dark wind blew through her soul and it was all she could do to hold Grace’s stare and not look away. “Well…if you think of anything, let us know.” She pushed back her chair to end the interview. Quick as lightning, Grace reached across the table, knocking over Alvarez’s near-empty cup. Strong fingers wrapped around the detective’s wrist. “You’ll find him,” she vowed as the detective instinctively reached for her sidearm.

      Concern etched the ghost whisperer’s face and Alvarez let her hand fall from her pistol. “Of course we will.” She carefully pulled her wrist away from Grace’s cold grasp. “The son of a bitch won’t get away with this.”

      “What? The man the police are looking for? He’s not who I was talking about,” Grace said, her eyebrows elevating a fraction.

      “Then…what?” Alvarez asked, but she knew, deep in her heart, that this woman to whom she’d never before spoken, could see into the darkest reaches of her heart.

      “Don’t despair,” Grace said with a calm that Alvarez found eerie. “You’ll find him.”

      From the other side of the one-way mirror Pescoli nearly dropped her cup of coffee. She’d been on her way to the door when Grace had grabbed Alvarez, but the sheriff had held her back.

      “It’s okay,” he said, and she’d waited, watching the weird scene unfold. “What the hell was that all about?”

      “With Grace,” Grayson said, staring through the one-way mirror, “you never know.”

      “Jesus, Mary and Joseph. First Ivor I’ve-been-abducted-by-aliens Hicks as a critical witness, and now a wolf-woman who speaks with ghosts.” Pescoli crushed her coffee cup in her fist and threw it into an almost-full trash can. “You know, Sheriff, I hate to say it, but I’m thinkin’ the odds are stacked against us.”

      “Sleeping Beauty my ass.” Jillian glared at the man she’d decided was more her captor than savior.

      He must’ve been six feet one or two and, bulked up in his ski gear, he looked all the more massive.

      And strong.

      And formidable.

      At his side stood a black-and-white long-haired dog, some kind of spaniel mix, hackles stiff and raised. Its head was down, dark menacing eyes sparking with distrust.

      “Is that dog going to attack me?”

      “Not unless you come at it with the crutch.”

      She considered putting the metal crutch down, but hearing the dog growl, decided against it.

      “Just control him.”

      “Not an animal lover?” His face was still hidden by the ski mask, but something registered in his movement, the easy manner as he turned to the dog. Amusement? Cruelty?

      “Not if the animal is acting as if it wants to tear out my throat.”

      “Harley? Hear that? Stand down.”

      The dog growled.

      “Great control.”

      “Sit!” he said sharply and the dog placed his back end on the plank floorboards. But he didn’t let Jillian out of his sight.

      “Better?” he asked.

      Was he joking? Really? This whole situation was something out of a bad dream. For all she knew he could be a psycho of the worst kind, a killer. Hadn’t Ted Bundy, a notorious sexual predator and serial killer, been considered charming, good-looking and intelligent? Wasn’t one of the first things neighbors said about some of the worst murderers in history, “But he was such a nice guy”? Oh, there were killers who were outwardly crazy, or secretive or so weird that their psychosis was evident to those close to them from a young age, but the victims, those who didn’t know the killer intimately from childhood, thought only they were “odd” or “loners.” But that didn’t always hold true. And in this case she wasn’t about to trust her “savior,” not yet anyway.

      “So I’m Sleeping Beauty, he or she”—Jillian pointed the rubber tip of her crutch at the spaniel mix—“is Harley.” The dog growled again. “So, that leaves you.”

      “I’m Zane MacGregor, and, for the record, Harley’s a he.”

      “How long have I been here, MacGregor?” she demanded.

      “Three days.”

      “Three days?” she repeated, horrified. She’d known, of course, that time had passed. But three days? She’d lost seventy-two hours of her life?

      “Storms have been rolling in ever since. Roads are impassable. Electricity out. It’s a mess.”

      She was stunned, still trying to piece together what had happened, while MacGregor took off his ski cap and mask and unwound a scarf that covered his neck. His hair, black, glossy and curling slightly, stuck up in weird-looking tufts, and three or maybe four СКАЧАТЬ