The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa Jackson

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СКАЧАТЬ he was petting the dog he glanced up at her.

      “Me?”

      He lifted a shoulder.

      “It’s isolated up here.”

      “Didn’t answer my question.”

      Leaning a shoulder against the door jamb, she said, “Probably about as much as you missed me.”

      One side of his mouth twitched a bit and his eyes gleamed. “That much, huh?”

      “Yeah. That much.” She inched into the room and tried not to notice the angle of his beard-shadowed jaw or how dark his pupils had become or that his hair was long enough to curl at his collar and over his ears. She pretended that the cabin didn’t seem intimate with its glowing fire and kerosene lanterns. She couldn’t even go there. Wouldn’t.

      To think that her situation was the slightest bit romantic was just plain insane. She’d heard of women who took a chance on a man they barely knew, even going home and sleeping with that intriguing stranger. Jillian had never fallen into that trap, never been intrigued enough to tumble into a stranger’s arms or so fascinated by potential danger to throw caution to the wind. She knew she was brave and had more courage than some women, but she wasn’t foolhardy.

      Or hadn’t been until this moment in time.

      The only explanation was that being caught up here alone with a man for so many days had addled her brain, clouded her thinking. That had to be it.

      She could not be attracted to Zane MacGregor.

      Not on a dare.

      “So,” she said and hated that her voice sounded husky. Clearing her throat, she moved to stand behind the couch as MacGregor put his gloves and ski cap on the mantel to warm. “How about an educated guess. When do you think we can get out of here?”

      “If I could predict that, I’d sell myself to the weather service and make a fortune.”

      “Terrific,” she muttered, and hiked her way to her chair, where she sat down. “Well, then, if you can’t predict the future, maybe you can tell me about your past.”

      “Maybe,” he said, but she caught the hesitation in his gaze, the tiny tensing of the corners of his eyes.

      “When you were outside, were you ever in the back of the house or…I don’t know…” She felt more than a little embarrassed. “I had this ‘feeling,’ I guess you’d call it, that someone was outside, watching the house.”

      His expression turned hard and she felt more than a little drip of fear in her blood.

      “Did the dog react?”

      “No…I thought it might be you. Standing outside and staring at the house?”

      “I’ll go check it out.”

      “No, it was probably nothing, I don’t want you to….”

      “To what, Jillian?”

      “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just paranoid.”

      “Well, we’re about to find out.”

      He threw on his outerwear again and reached for his boots.

      “You don’t have to go out and—”

      “Of course I do,” he said, and stepped into his boots. “You were in a car that wrecked because someone shot out your tire. At least, that’s what we think.” His jaw was set. “I’m going to check out what’s going on.” He whistled to the dog. “Harley, come.” Then he thought again, reached into his pocket and tossed her a small key ring. “You know how to use a gun?”

      “Yes.”

      “Good. The ammo’s in the closet. Lock the door behind me.” With that he and the dog were out the door.

      Jillian didn’t waste a second. She threw the deadbolt, then walked directly to the gun closet, pulled out a .22, found the right shells and loaded the chamber. Then she waited in the dark, the barrel of the gun aimed at the main entrance, every muscle stretched tight.

      She listened hard, half-expecting to hear the crack of a rifle, but all she heard was the ever-present rush of the wind, the creak of old timbers and the ticking of the clock.

      On her computer screen, Pescoli placed one map over the other—first the topographical, which she overlaid with the road map that had been marked with the cabins of known winter residents, then a third map of the locations where the victims and their cars had been found. She saved this new map and printed it out, hoping that it would give her new insight into the path of the killer.

      Studying her new map didn’t help. She even marked the homes of Ivor Hicks, Grace Perchant and Bob Simms, the people who had located the crime scenes.

      Still no epiphanies.

      Time to give up for the day. Or night.

      It was late, nearly nine, and she still had the Jeremy issue to deal with.

      As well as the Nate issue. She thought about calling him first, but decided she’d better deal with her son before she made any plans. Grabbing her purse with one hand, she dialed with her free hand and, of course, her call was thrown directly into his voice-mail box, which just happened to be full.

      So she couldn’t leave a message.

      “Clever, Jeremy,” she said, knowing full well her son had somehow filled the damned thing so she couldn’t leave a message. “Real clever.” She settled back into her desk chair and muttered, “Oh, Jer, you are soooo toast.” Switching her phone to text mode, she typed him a quick message that told him in no uncertain terms to meet her at home.

      Then she signed out, barely noticing the gold letters looping along one of the bare green walls. “Merry Christmas” had been swagged in the area near the door and below it, in silver letters, “Happy New Year.” The tape was coming loose and the letters were on the verge of falling, but Pescoli didn’t have time to mess with them. Besides, it looked like this was Joelle Fisher’s attempt to “brighten this old drab place up” or “bring in a little holiday cheer,” as she had said about half a million times in the last month. How she kept her job was beyond Pescoli.

      Walking through the doors to the parking lot she found her Jeep with four new inches of snow on the roof and hood. And more flakes fell by the minute, adding yet another layer to the already-covered ground. Yes, she lived in western Montana, but this winter was like no other she remembered. Using her gloves, she brushed her windshield clear, then climbed inside.

      It was freezing.

      Even in department-issue down jacket and ski pants, she was cold to the bone. She switched on the ignition, the Jeep’s engine fired and she pushed the thermostat control to the highest setting. Wheeling out of the lot, she ignored her sudden craving for a cigarette, more because she didn’t want to try and shake out a Marlboro Light while wearing gloves. Not worth it.

      By the time she turned onto the plowed streets, the heater had kicked on and she flipped on the blower. Wipers battling the falling СКАЧАТЬ