Lisa Jackson: Born To Die

An oversized map of North America stretched over a bulletin board that filled one long wall. It was a political map, showing state lines, cities, and roads. Scattered across its flat surface were red pushpins. Thirty-seven in all. Each indicating the spot where one of the pretenders lived. Like spatters of blood marring the smooth surface of the map, the pins reminded him of how much work he had to do and soon.

They were a worry, those pins, a serious worry.

There were far too many of them, he thought. There were a few other pins as well, ones with black heads, indicating death. Those pins affixed photographs to the map, though the pictures were turned facedown, showing only white squares of paper with dates of birth and death written in solid black letters. There were six of these in all, scattered across the United States.

But he was making progress — steady progress. It was slow going because he could rely on no one but himself; he’d learned that lesson the hard way.

Smiling to himself, he removed a red pin from the Southern California area, then walked to his printer, where a digital picture had already been printed. Shelly Bonaventure’s frightened face stared back at him, and he grinned again, satisfied by the look of pure terror on her countenance. She’d known at that moment that she was about to die. He’d snapped the shot with his cell phone just before exiting the back door of her apartment, then sent it wirelessly here.

He’d taken too much time with her; he’d heard the sound of sirens fast approaching as he’d let himself out and dashed across the street.

But he’d managed to get away.

Again.

Using the scissors he kept in a drawer, he cut the small picture from the paper, trimming away the excess, then carefully placing her date of birth and death on the back of her picture before pinning it, facedown, with a black pushpin. No longer could he see the small Photoshopped head shot she’d used as her publicity picture.

Perfect.

He surveyed his work, noting the others that had died before Shelly, and the raft of faces of those still alive, those waiting to serve out their sentence. They were in their own ways striking, all between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty-six. Mostly brunettes, though there were a few bottle blondes in the group and a couple of redheads.

The pictures were clustered mainly in the Northwest. Two in British Columbia, both near Vancouver Island, one in Alberta, several in Washington State, a slew in Oregon, and some scattered in California. Three in Nevada, two in Arizona, and a handful in Montana. One lived as far away as Delaware, and there were six in the Midwest. Three in Chicago.

The ones who lived within the same district or state worried him as the deaths could be considered suspicious if he wasn’t careful. Shelly’s “suicide” was a risk. The others, so far, appeared to have died in accidents, no questions asked.

All of which was perfect.

Meticulously orchestrated.

But there were so many more.

He glared at the cluster of pins that swarmed around Missoula and Grizzly Falls. Access to each of those pretenders would be easy as they were nearby.

But when so many people in their late twenties and early thirties ended up dead, the authorities would take note.

Unless there was a huge catastrophe and they all died together, along with others, of course, to throw off suspicion. And he’d have to either distance himself from the tragedy or, more likely, be a part of it and escape, not entirely unharmed.

That would be tricky; but it caused his blood to sizzle a bit as he thought how clever he was. He’d baffle the police and turn out a hero and be revered… but no! He had to blend into the woodwork, couldn’t afford to have any kind of light shined upon him, couldn’t allow some idiot member of the press to start digging….

He walked to a file drawer and pulled it open. Inside were neat folders, information gathered over time on each of the pretenders. Some were thick, others slim, but it didn’t matter.

He opened the first one, and his gut twisted as he glared at the picture tucked within his notes.

Dr. Acacia Lambert.

She was special. A small-town girl from Montana with enough brains to send herself to college and medical school. Married briefly to Jeffrey Lambert, a heart surgeon who still worked and resided in Seattle, Washington.

Until the mistake.

When he’d gotten too bloodthirsty, too hungry, too eager to destroy the one person who could ruin everything.

And the job had been botched.

Kacey had lived.

Her marriage had fallen apart, though, and after the breakup Kacey decided to become a small-town doctor in the same town where her grandparents had resided all their lives.

Touching.

And perfect.

After escaping his original plan, she’d nearly fallen right into his waiting hands.

This time, there wouldn’t be a mistake; this time he’d take care of her for good.

A slow-burning fury ran through his veins as he studied her picture. His jaw tightened as he noticed her thick red-brown hair, high cheekbones, full lips, and green eyes, which seemed to spark with intelligence, even in the small snapshot.

He’d watched her.

Followed her.

Learned her routine.

She lived in her grandparents’ old home just outside of town. The house was hidden from the road, down a long, tree-lined lane, which would make things a lot easier….

But she would have to wait.

Unfortunately, there were others he had to deal with first.

And when he dealt with Kacey, he intended to take his time, to make certain she realized her sins.

He flipped open a few more files and sorted them. None of the people he was surveilling realized that he was watching them, collecting all the ones that were in close proximity to Kacey.

He wondered if any of them had run across each other.

If so, they hadn’t guessed the one thing they had in common.

Each was born to die long before her time.

And it was his mission to make it happen.

“Your son or daughter did not attend one or more classes today. . ”

Detective Regan Pescoli felt her blood boil as she listened to the dreaded prerecorded message from the high school where Bianca was supposed to have attended class. “Well, why the hell not?” she whispered aloud and clicked off her cell. She’d dropped her kid off at school herself, and Bianca was too young to drive.

Dialing Bianca’s cell, Regan was put through to voice mail. Of course. Neither of her kids ever picked up. She texted: Where are you? The school called and said you were a no-show. Call me!

“Great,” she muttered, sliding her chair away from her desk at the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department. She glanced at her watch as she walked to Selena Alvarez’s cubicle, where her partner was huddled over her desk, her telephone cradled between her ear and shoulder as she sorted through neat stacks of paper on the desk. Alvarez’s black hair was scraped into a thick knot at the base of her skull and shining blue under the overhead lights.

Glancing up, she held up a finger as Pescoli approached.

“Yeah, I know, but we’ve been waiting for those test results for a couple of weeks now,” she said, her voice tight, her lips twisted into a frown. If there was one thing Alvarez couldn’t stand, it was incompetence. “Uh-huh. . yeah, well, we’re all shorthanded. I get it. . What? If that’s the best you can do. . okay… Tomorrow’s fine.” She hung up, fuming. “What do you bet that tomorrow comes and I still don’t know what was in Donna McKinley’s bloodstream?” she said, leaned back in her desk chair, and scowled at her computer monitor, where the picture of the woman in question was visible. “I’d just like to get this off my desk, y’know.”