Lisa Jackson - Born To Die

Alvarez slowed to fifteen miles an hour and advised herself never to be so foolish again.

She was still gone.

He knew it by the lack of ruts in her driveway and the fact that the lights glowing in Acacia’s home were the same ones that were wired to timers, set to go off at specific hours. The den’s desk lamp clicked on at 5:00 a.m. every morning, and the downstairs table lamp brightened the rooms at four thirty in the afternoon without fail. Day in, day out.

But no other patches of light were visible through the bare-branched trees. In spring and summer her home was hidden from the road, but this time of year, with no foliage on the cottonwoods, aspens, and chokecherries that rimmed her house, the buildings could be observed. Yes, they were nearly a quarter of a mile off the main road, with fields and the sparse trees separating the house from traffic, but even on a wintry night like this, lamplight was visible.

He had been careful as he didn’t know if she was returning tonight and he feared his footsteps would be visible in the snow. Though he knew that he should be cautious, that attacking her now could bring more attention to him than he wanted, he was also a believer in taking any opportunity that presented itself. The holidays provided cover as there was more traffic, and people were busy and distracted. Currently she had no alarm system, no guard dog, and no roommate, but any of those factors could change in a heartbeat. He had to act swiftly, while he could.

Driving slowly, he had passed by the lane leading to her house once, then once again, and convinced she hadn’t shown up, decided to take the chance.

He’d parked a mile and a half away, behind a pile of boulders at an old rock quarry, then strapped on his cross-country skis for the trek. Fortunately, her family’s farm abutted a national forest, and he had few fences to cross. There were trails that wound through the stands of pine, tamarack, and juniper, and he’d learned the closest routes.

Wearing night-vision goggles, he’d skied carefully through the quiet forest, scaring up a snowshoe hare, which had hopped quickly into a thicket of snowy pines.

His blood had been pumping; his ears were straining to listen; his eyes scanning the frigid landscape. He’d caught sight of a deer, which had stood frozen as he passed, and saw the back of a martin as it had slunk through the underbrush.

Jamming his poles into the snow, he’d pushed through the woods until he’d reached the far side of the Lambert property. He’d hesitated a minute, ears straining, eyes searching the surrounding acres for any sign of life. Now satisfied that he was alone, he slid out of his skis and strapped on his snowshoes before crossing the fence separating private property from government land.

Once inside the fence line, he moved quickly and silently, as he had years before in the desert, when he’d been in the marines. Keeping near to the fence so as not to make his tracks too apparent, he noiselessly made his way to the outbuildings. Despite the freezing temperature, he was sweating, his nerves strung tight as guy wires, his muscles tight. Ready.

At the back of the nearest shed, he paused, drew a deep breath, then keeping close to the walls of the outbuildings, made his way ever closer to the house, where once again he saw a warm patch of light glowing from the den.

He couldn’t help but smile.

Her attempt to make the house appear occupied was amateurish, even naive.

As he entered the back of the main yard, he paused, checking the house again, making sure no one was inside; then he stepped through the bushes to pause near the exterior wall of the garage.

The night was thick with falling snow; the silence broken only by his own breaths and heartbeat. No other sounds disturbed the stillness.

He was safe.

But he didn’t know for how long.

Quickly he unstrapped the snowshoes from his boots, then eased across the rear of the garage and around the back corner. Carefully, he dared flick on his flashlight and peer through the window of the side door.

No vehicle was inside.

She hadn’t returned.

Yet.

Patiently, planting his feet in the footsteps she’d made earlier, he made his way up the back porch to the door. From deep in the pocket of his ski jacket, he retrieved a ring of keys and found the one he’d had made earlier. He smiled as he remembered disabling the furnace, pretending to be a repairman, and “running out for a part” after he’d lifted the keys from the purse he’d found in her desk. He’d had the key made, returned, dropped her keys into the side pocket of her purse, then “fixed” the furnace by replacing the part he’d taken from it. So simple. So easy. And now, just as easily, he unlocked the door.

He took off his boots, hid them behind a stack of outdoor furniture, then, in stocking feet, stepped inside Acacia’s home. Scents enveloped him — cold coffee lying darkly in the glass pot of the coffeemaker, warm spices because of the scented candles placed throughout the interior, and even the tiniest waft of her perfume, still lingering in the air.

He reached into his pocket, opened a vial, and poured the powder into the ground coffee sitting on a shelf near the coffeemaker. Then, as he’d learned during his tour of duty in Afghanistan, he set about placing bugs in her bedroom, living room, kitchen, and den. They were remote, could be accessed from a receiver a long distance away, conversations listened to or recorded.

Perfect.

As he set the last tiny microphone under her bed, he smiled to himself and wondered what he might hear.

Then, checking his watch, he made his way out of the house the same way he came in and felt confident the snowfall would cover his tracks. He locked the door behind him, pulled on his boots, and carefully stepped in the very footsteps she’d originally created. Unless she arrived home in the next half hour, the snow would cover any hint of his tracks. She wouldn’t notice that her own boot prints were smaller than his.

Oh, she was a smart one, but Acacia Lambert had no idea what she was up against.

But then none of them did, and there were others who demanded his attention.

Grinning to himself, he adjusted his night goggles and found his snowshoes where he’d left them.

In his mind’s eye, he saw the bitch making her first cup of coffee in the morning. She didn’t stand a chance against him.

And soon she would realize it.

But by that time, it would be too late.

As Kacey drove home, snow was falling in big, lacy flakes, which, had she been in a better mood, might have filled her with delight. As it was, she was bothered about her mother’s interest in David Spencer. Not that she didn’t want Maribelle to be happy, but for years the woman had been miserable, the dutiful if disinterested wife of a man she barely tolerated. When Kacey’s dad had suffered his stroke and never fully recovered, they’d sold their house and moved here, to Rolling Hills. Maribelle, with the help of the staff, had grudgingly tended to him, and during that time she’d barely been able to scare up a smile.

He’d died within a couple of years, and only then did she show any emotion that she’d loved the man or missed him.

Even then, Kacey had suspected that Maribelle had been more interested in portraying herself as the martyred widow, rather than feeling any true loss at her sick husband’s death.

“Stop it,” she chastised herself while staring at the ribbon of plowed road ahead. Her mother was happy, and that was all that mattered, she told herself, grateful that she was nearly home. Just a few more miles. Kacey should be thankful that Maribelle had found someone.

And yet she felt a gnawing dissatisfaction and wondered why her mother had found a way of skirting the most difficult of subjects.