Chosen To Die. Lisa Jackson

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      Boom!

      Grace Perchant’s eyes flew open.

      Although, she thought, they’d never been closed.

      She blinked. Tried to clear her mind when the sound of the blast, like the clap of nearby thunder, ricocheted through her brain again.

      Snow was falling around her and she was standing in the middle of the road, in boots, her flannel nightgown, and a long coat flapping around her legs, her skin ice cold. Her dog, Sheena, was nearby, ever vigilant, ever loyal. With intelligent eyes and a black coat that belied her wolf lineage, Sheena waited patiently.

      As she always did.

      Even when Grace suffered one of her spells.

      “Lord,” Grace whispered, shivering, her fingers and toes nearly numb, her breath a cloud.

      Images from her dream slid through her mind. Visceral. Raw. Real. Like shards of glass that cut through her brain.

      She caught a flash, a quick, horrifying glimpse of a woman in a mangled Jeep, her body racked with pain. And a stalker. The evil one tracking her down.

      Grace’s heart rate accelerated as the image changed to a vision of that same woman now laced in a straitjacket and being hauled out of a wintry canyon. By a man in white, a man with evil intent.

      Quickly the scene changed and the female victim was now naked, lashed to a frozen hemlock tree, her red hair stiff with ice and snow, her gold eyes round with fear, her skin turning blue.

      Regan Pescoli.

      The cop.

      With heart-stopping certainty Grace knew that the monster had found her. Attacked her. Planned to kill her. If he hadn’t already.

      This wasn’t the first time she’d had a vision; once before she’d caught a glimpse of the monster’s innate and relentless evil purpose.

      At that time, only a few days earlier, Grace had tried to warn Pescoli, had told her of her imminent danger, but the detective had dismissed her.

      As they all did.

      So now the visions were more graphic. Closer. She looked up at the dark sky, felt the film of icy flakes melt against her skin. Her teeth were chattering. How long had she been out here? How far had she trudged like a sleepwalker along this winding, lonely road?

      “Come, Sheena,” she said, wrapping her arms around her waist as the wind keened through the hills. “Home.”

      The big dog, nearly 150 pounds, started trotting briskly along the fresh tracks that were beginning to fill with snow, her own footsteps, the wolf dog’s paw prints, leading back the way from which they’d come, the way she couldn’t remember having traveled.

      Had she walked a couple of a hundred miles or one mile? The landscape at night, frozen and white, looked all the same. And her mind, usually clearer than ever after waking from her visions, couldn’t discern any landmarks. But the tracks were fresh and she didn’t think she was suffering from frostbite.

      But she had to be close.

      She half ran to keep up with the dog.

      She hated the visions, for that’s what they were, and wished they would stop, but they wouldn’t. Not until she died, she thought morosely as she held her coat tight around her, the coat she didn’t remember donning, and her boots crunched in the soft snow.

      The visions had started when she was thirteen, at the time of the accident that had taken the lives of her parents and older sister, Cleo. It had been a winter night much like this one. She and Cleo had been arguing in the backseat while their father squinted into the coming blizzard. Their old Volvo was straining uphill, the four-cylinder engine humming loudly, the tires sliding a bit, the radio filled with static.

      “Goddamned snow,” Father muttered. “I swear, next spring we’re moving to Florida!”

      “No!” Cleo overheard this. “We can’t move! All my friends are here.”

      “Doesn’t matter,” he insisted and snapped off the radio. His jaw was set, same as it always was when he’d made up his mind. Headlights from an oncoming vehicle washed his face in stark relief. From the backseat, behind Mother, Grace had thought he’d looked suddenly old, the lines in his face seeming craggy and harsh.

      Cleo pouted and ordered Mother, “Tell him we can’t move!”

      She turned to make eye contact with Cleo and said quietly, “Of course we won’t.”

      “I’m serious.” Father squinted, the headlights looming as they approached the curving bridge that spanned Boxer Creek as it cut through the canyon some fifty feet below.

      “You can’t be!” Cleo unbuckled her seat belt and leaned forward, pleading, touching his tense shoulder gently. “Don’t even joke about it. I won’t move.”

      “Honey, we aren’t moving anywhere. Your father’s a foreman at the mine. Now, come on, let’s not worry about this.”