CHAPTER 31
Calm down.
Pretend nothing’s wrong.
So the bitch went to Gerald? So what?
It was inevitable. As are the police.
And things are only going to get worse when they find the other one….
Glancing down at the screen of his GPS tracking system, he realized that Acacia had driven home from Gerald’s company in Missoula, which was exactly what he’d expected. And yet he couldn’t help but worry, his hands sweating in gloves, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as he thought of everything that could go wrong.
He’d been so diligent….
He was on the move again. There was just so much to do, and time was his enemy.
He’d switched license plates on the truck, just in case, putting on the set of stolen Idaho plates.
His windshield wipers wiped off the snow as he thought about yesterday and how he’d surprised another one. She had been cross-country skiing on a trail that was one of her usual haunts. He’d had to wait several days in the empty parking lot, hoping she would appear.
Finally, yesterday, as he’d pretended to be checking his own equipment, the nose of her Honda had appeared. After she’d parked, she’d geared up and he’d offered a hand in greeting as she’d snapped on her skis and taken off.
He’d waited until she was around the bend and through a copse of pine before he’d taken off after her, his strides strong and swift. She was athletic, and he was surprised how long it had taken to catch up to her, but he’d kept her red jacket in his line of vision until she’d started up the incline that ran along the creek.
He’d accelerated then, pushing himself, feeling the cold wind permeate his ski mask as it rattled the trees.
Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh!
His skis skimmed over the thick powder.
He dug his poles into the soft snow with smooth, sure regularity and gained on her.
She was thirty feet ahead of him and gliding through the sparse stands, her skis smooth near the creek bank, the wires from her iPod now visible.
Twenty feet.
Up another short incline. Perfect.
He dug in, pushing harder.
Sweating.
Closing the distance between them.
Ten feet.
Behind his ski mask, he grinned. She hadn’t heard him, didn’t know he was following. So into her music and the beauty of the fresh snow in the wilderness, or some such crap, she skied innocently.
Unaware.
Closer still.
Now the tips of his skis were nearly touching the backs of hers. They were heading into a thicker grove, where birch and pine quivered with the wind. One gnarly pine, with a thick trunk and several broken branches, caught his eye.
Perfect!
As she curved around the bend in the creek, he pulled up beside her. They were skiing two abreast.
She caught a glimpse of him because, just as the tree with its broken branches loomed, she flinched. She turned her head, eyes round in fear, mouth pulled back to scream, as he shoved her.
Hard.
Into the rotting pine.
Now, as he remembered the horror on her face, the sickening sound of her body slamming into the bark, the thud of her head cracking against that jagged, protruding broken branch, he grinned again.
One less Unknowing walking the earth.
And now, he thought, bringing himself up to the minute, he would take care of the one he should have dealt with years before. His scar seemed to throb as the wipers swatted away the snow and some inane Christmas song rolled through the speakers.
“Three Kings, my ass,” he muttered, and he felt that little zing sizzle through his blood, that spark of anticipation, as he thought of what was to come.
Acacia.
God, he’d like to fuck her. Just to show her what he could do… Then again, he’d settle for killing her. Watching her eyes widen in surprise when she recognized him, seeing her pupils dilate in terror, witnessing her understanding that he would snuff the life from her.
He felt his cock twitch and stiffen. With a moan, he let out his breath slowly, loosening his fingers as they gripped the wheel. He had to park out of sight again and snowshoe in, which was perfect, and the falling snow would make an excellent cover, get rid of his tracks.
Smiling, he drove into the foothills.
He knew just the right spot.
“So that’s it?” Alvarez said into the hands-free device of her cell phone as she drove. “Black paint that you can buy anywhere?”
“Sorry,” Gus said without an ounce of apology in his voice. “It is what it is. And what it is. . is Premium flat black number three-oh-eight. It’s been the same formula for nearly fifteen years.”
They were talking about the paint marks retrieved from Elle Alexander’s van, and instead of the paint that was transferred belonging to a certain make and model of car, it was from a spray paint can, the kind that could be bought all across the country and was used to paint anything from outdoor furniture to model cars or barbecues.
“Great.”
“Hey, I gave you what I had.”
“I know. Thanks, Gus.” She hung up and considered how many stores in the Grizzly Falls area had sold that particular brand in the past fifteen years. Would they get lucky and find someone who had purchased it lately? And what if the paint had been bought in Spokane or Boise or Missoula or who knew where?
At least she had the information on the coffee grounds. Alvarez was alone. Pescoli had received a call from Jeremy just as they were leaving. He’d told her that Chris Schultz was over, so she’d had to head home again. Alvarez had told her not to bother returning, but Pescoli had made it clear she would deal with the matter and show up as soon as she could. It seemed Pescoli had been half annoyed, half glad that Jeremy had decided to rat out his sister’s boyfriend. It was almost a sign of maturity.
Alvarez found Acacia Lambert’s address and turned into the long drive that led to the house, following a couple of sets of fresh tracks. To her unwelcome surprise, Trace O’Halleran was waiting for her as she pulled up beside his truck. The tech crew had already arrived as well, parked to the side of the garage. One of the guys, Rudy, was outside the department-issued van, smoking a cigarette and talking to Trace. Rudy’s partner, Eileen, was inside the vehicle, keeping warm as the van’s engine idled, exhaust fogging in the air.
Alvarez considered Trace. He wasn’t the killer; his alibis had proved that. But he was in this thing up to his sexy eyeballs; she just hadn’t quite figured out how.
Yet.
What was it with him and the women who might just have all been sired by Donor 727?
There was no time like the present to find out.
As she opened the door of her Jeep, she heard another vehicle in the drive and saw the play of headlights in the snow. Seconds later Dr. Acacia Lambert herself had parked her car in the drive, behind Alvarez, and had walked over the mashed snow to the group, just as Eileen climbed out of the van.
They discussed the plan to sweep the house. They were to find the bugs, try to locate the exterior source, but leave everything as it was. Kacey and Trace would talk as if they were the only ones in the house, catch up on the day, while the techs combed each room for listening devices and, perhaps, cameras. Afterward, they would dust for prints.
Clearly Kacey had been hoping the mics would be immediately removed, and Alvarez couldn’t blame her. But she saw the wisdom of keeping them in place, and so they all headed toward the house.