Lisa Jackson - Born To Die

Training his gaze on the windows and the light beyond the panes, he caught glimpses of her walking through the house. Each time he saw her, he felt his blood heat in anticipation, knew he wouldn’t have to wait much longer. Now, Acacia was in the kitchen and looking through the window, straight at him. His heart stopped for just an instant.

Then he realized she couldn’t see him through the shroud of snow, didn’t understand that he was observing her closely while plotting the details of her death. He mentally chastised himself. Do not unravel. Do not fall victim to your own paranoia! You have a mission. Do not be distracted by lust or fear. . Goddamnit, be strong!

Sucking air in through his teeth, feeling the cold burn through his lungs, he forced his thoughts clear. To center. Then he saw her again, peering through the night and a new power overtook him. It was as if he could talk to her through his mind

You asked for this, bitch. You wanted to find me. . . He felt a smile twist the corners of his lips as he eyed the farmhouse with its gabled roof. Most of the windows were darkened, especially those on the second floor. Shifting his rifle from one gloved hand to the other, he realized exactly how he would deal with her.

Another gust of bone-rattling wind cut through him and the lights in the house blinked nervously.

Again, she looked his way, her beautiful face drawn into an expression of worry. Oh, if she only knew. .

Get ready, Acacia, he thought grimly, heading through the snow toward the front of the house, where the porch was dark. I’m coming.

Where the hell was Trace? Just how long did it take to check on horses and cattle that Ed had already fed?

“Come on,” she said and thought about putting on her coat and boots and plowing her way to the outbuildings. But she didn’t want to leave Eli alone. What if he woke up again and called for his mother?

Feeling like an idiot, she decided to call Trace on his cell, and using her own phone, punched out his number and waited.

A phone rang inside the kitchen, and she jumped. Then realized the cell belonged to Trace. He’d left his damned phone on the counter.

He’s fine! He has to be!

The lights shivered once more; and this time Kacey was spurred into action.

Remembering Ed’s advice, she drew water in the tub of the bathroom downstairs, found buckets and a flashlight in the kitchen. The fire was already blazing, wood stacked near the hearth; as she returned to the living room.

Klunk!

A noise overhead. From the floor above.

“Eli?” she called, her heart hammering. She started for the stairs, had taken two steps when the lights failed. Darkness fell in an instant, only the fire offering a flickering red-gold illumination that cast the room in shifting, uneasy shadows.

She hadn’t been aware of the furnace rumbling or the refrigerator humming, but now there was total silence, a frightening quietude broken only by the howl of the wind and that same damned branch beating against the house. Waiting, she hoped to hear a generator switch on, prayed the lights would flicker and hold, the furnace would churn to life.

Nothing.

Now what?

She felt cold as death, as if the wind outside were blowing through the bones of this old house. Her skin crawled as she thought of all the things that could go wrong in the dark, without heat, without light, with a homicidal maniac on the loose….

“Stop,” she told herself sternly.

Fumbling her way to the kitchen, where she’d left the flashlight, she banged her knee once, bit back a curse, then automatically groped for the light switch before stopping herself, then finding the flashlight on the counter. She pushed the button; and a weak yellowish light signaled that the batteries inside were nearly gone.

Eli.

He would know where more batteries were; and besides, she needed to haul him and his blankets downstairs so they could stay close to the fire.

Glancing outside to the darkness, where no exterior lights offered the slightest illumination, she said, “Come on, Trace!” The lights had gone off in the barn and stable, too. . Surely he’d return ASAP.

In the meantime. .

Following the week, thin light from the flashlight, she mounted the stairs. Darkness seemed to sink into her from every corner of this old, unfamiliar house. She rounded the corner of the landing and heard another thud against the house.

What the hell was that?

Eli?

Swallowing back her fear, she thundered up the remaining stairs, swung around the newel post in the hallway, and pushed open the door to Eli’s room.

The bed was empty; sheets and blankets had slithered onto the floor. “Eli!” she cried, searching crazily, swinging the beam of her flashlight through the room. “Eli!” She threw open the closet door and found nothing but clothes, then ran through the bathroom and Trace’s room, the flashlight growing weaker but giving up no trace of the boy. “Eli!” Oh, God, oh, God! Where was he?

Now in a full-blown panic, Kacey was sweating despite the cold, fear clawing at her throat. She looked through the third bedroom, around the draped furniture, under the hems, through the maze of boxes and pictures stacked around the bed and mattress, pushed up against the wall. “Eli!” she called and then, thinking he might be as frightened as she was, said, “It’s Kacey, honey. Where are you?”

Oh, sweet Jesus, she’d lost him!

Pescoli drove.

She didn’t care that Missoula was out of their jurisdiction.

She didn’t give a rat’s ass that the FBI was stepping in.

She wanted answers and she wanted them now.

So, while Alvarez was on the phone with one of their junior detectives who’d been left in charge of turning Gerald Johnson’s life inside out, Pescoli squinted through the windshield where the wipers were having trouble keeping up with the relentless snow falling from the night sky.

It was times like these she craved a cigarette and if Alvarez weren’t such a health nut, Pescoli, who’d learned her glove box stash of Marlboro Lights was totally depleted, might break down and stop at a local convenience store for a pack of smokes and a super-sized cup of Diet Coke. That’s the combo she needed to keep her fired up.

Gerald Johnson lived in a gated community, part of a resort that flanked a private golf club where the buy-in was more than her house was worth and the dues would eat up more than a chunk of her salary. She only hoped the bastard was home.

Armed with Kacey Lambert’s theories and Alvarez’s sketchy proof, she and her partner were going to see the old man, shake him up. Though she’d come to the party late, disbelieving Alvarez’s suspicions that the victims could be related by blood, Pescoli was now on board. She’d finally bought into the wild idea that women were being killed because they were 727’s sperm bank daughters. Why, was another matter. Who, the most critical piece of all.

The weather was a bitch, but then, this was Montana in the winter. What did she expect?

“. . okay, got it,” Alvarez said into her cell as the radio crackled with news of a robbery and fleeing suspect on Main Street. “Keep looking. Anything you can find on Johnson, his kids, and the clinic… call me back.” She clicked off and glanced at Pescoli, her face tense as oncoming headlights flooded the interior with glaring light for a few seconds. “Leona’s on it.” Leona Randolph was a junior detective who had recently joined the department. Highly skilled in all things technical, Leona had the command of the Internet that amazed Pescoli. Though the girl was only a few years older than Jeremy, Leona was light-years ahead of him in maturity, ambition and direction. Her son could take a lesson!