Lisa Jackson - Born To Die

“What’s going on here?” he demanded, his voice low, his eyes narrowing suspiciously as snow melted on the shoulders of his black overcoat. With his mother still clinging to his arm, he strode into the den.

“It’s the police,” she said as if he were the damned cavalry, sent to rescue her. “They’ve come here asking all kinds of questions about those women who died. .” Noreen was talking fast. “The newest accident victim is… is Karalee. . Rierson. From the clinic. Oh. . oh. . no. .” she was shaking her head as she connected the dots. “I, uh, oh God, I tried to set her up on a date with your brother. .” Stricken by her thoughts, she looked as if she might buckle. Licking her lips, one hand at her throat, she whispered, “But it… it can’t be. .”

“Mother,” Judd warned. “Stop talking.” To the police: “I’m an attorney. I don’t want you to speak to my parents without counsel present and it can’t be me. I assume this is something criminal, or you wouldn’t be here. I’ll get in touch with Herman Carlton, a friend of mine and I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

Herman Carlton hailed from Spokane, but practiced in Montana as well. Of course they’d heard of him. In Alvarez’s opinion, Carlton was a prick of a defense attorney and a miserable human being. But he would be trouble in a court battle, big trouble.

“Hold on,” Gerald said. “No one’s accusing anyone of anything.”

Pescoli interrupted and said to Noreen. “The son that you set up with Karalee Rierson? Which one is he?”

“Mother, don’t!” Judd was adamant and Noreen snapped her mouth shut.

“It was Cameron,” Gerald said gently, his gaze on his wife’s stricken face.

And all the pieces of the puzzle started locking into place.

When Judd tried to say something, Gerald held up his hand, as if to stop the barrage of denials. In a softer voice he said to the detectives, “I overheard my wife talking on the phone with Clarissa about a potential date.” As Noreen bristled, her spine stiffening, he added, “It’s over, honey. We can’t bury our heads in the sand any longer.”

“You’re a bastard, Gerald,” she shot back. “You know that, don’t you? A number-one bastard! And I never called him.” Noreen shook her head. “Cam didn’t know that I’d spoken to Karalee.”

“Of course he did, because Clarissa would have told him. They’re tight,” Gerald said. “And if she told him, I’m willing to bet the whole damned family knew!” He stared at Judd. “You?”

Judd’s jaw slid to one side; he didn’t answer. It was admission enough, at least in Alvarez’s mind.

“Come on, son,” his father implored.

“Judd?” Noreen pleaded.

With a shrug, the attorney reluctantly said, “Okay, I’d heard.” His lips twisted into a deep line of disdain. “Clarissa doesn’t know how to keep a secret. Never has.”

Noreen, broken, let out a little gasp.

Gerald’s sigh was deep with despair. As the fire crackled and the snow continued to fall outside the window, where the gaslights glowed, he said to Judd, “You can’t protect him anymore.”

“Where is he?” Pescoli demanded.

“I don’t know.” Gerald shook his head. “He keeps to himself.”

Pescoli ordered. “Call him!”

“I tried on the way over here,” Judd admitted. “He’s not answering.”

“Try him again!” She wouldn’t budge, but Alvarez knew they would get nowhere further. They’d learned more than they’d expected and now they had to act. Fast. To prevent Cameron Johnson from killing again. She said to Pescoli as she pulled out her phone, “We don’t have time for this.”

“You’re right.” Her partner threw the Johnson family one last angry look, but she was already starting for the door. “Let’s find the son of a bitch!”

Click!

Trace heard the distinctive cock of a gun and froze. No one could see him in the dark. Whoever was inside the stable wouldn’t be able to draw a bead on him. He had the advantage. He knew his way inside and out of this old building.

Unless the prick has night-vision goggles. Or a scope.

Damn it!

Sarge growled again, low and throaty.

Trace felt the dog tense. His own grip tightened on the pitchfork. He eased toward a post where, at least, he’d have some protection.

Show yourself, you sick son of a bitch.

Then he saw it. The tiniest movement, a shadow in the deeper umbra of the stable. His eyes narrowed, his gaze searching, trying to make out the person. He drew the pitchfork back, ready to launch it through the air, then stopped.

Eli.

What if somehow his son was in the darkness? Hiding? Or… what if whoever it was had kidnapped his boy and was going to use him as a shield? His insides turned to water. Then he thought of Kacey and that made it worse. She could be inside, held with a gun pointed at her head, watching the horror unfold.

Heart thudding, he tried like hell to make out whoever it was, but the stygian darkness was impossible to pierce.

“What’re you waiting for?” The voice was deep and male. It taunted. “You think that stupid pitchfork can do any real damage?” And then laughter. Deep. Cruel.

So the bastard could see him. Trace’s blood burned.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his weapon still ready to be hurled.

“Does it matter?” A snide, sickly question.

“Eli?” he said.

“No! I’m not Eli. . oh, your kid?” A pause. “What the fuck are you thinking?”

So he didn’t have the boy. Good! “Let Kacey go!”

“Now that wouldn’t make sense, would it? Not after I waited all this time.”

Trace crumbled inside. The madman had her! Intended to kill her, if he hadn’t already! A new fury took hold and he searched for something, anything so he could see. But there was nothing, not so much as a match!

“She’s waiting for you. So that’s why I think it would be better if I kill you up at the house with her. Make it look like she did it! An accident, you know.”

She was still alive? “You crazy son of a bitch.” But not crazy enough to fire a rifle in a closed space where it could ricochet. Maybe.

Sarge growled again from somewhere nearby.

“Tell that mutt to back off!” the voice commanded, “or I’ll blow his mangy hide to kingdom come.”

“Show yourself!” Trace demanded.

“Not on your life.”

“Then go to hell!”

He drew the pitchfork back. Stepping out from behind the post, he threw all his body weight behind his shoulder and let it fly. It hurled through the darkness as he jumped behind the thin post.

“AAAWwwwwooh!” A horrifying scream echoing through the building. “You fucker!”

Crrraaack!

A blaze of light flashed in front of Trace’s eyes. Thunder crashed through the stable, rolling through his brain in harsh, loud waves. Panicked horses screamed! The dogs barked and howled!

A pain as hot as the fires of hell seared Trace’s thigh, the impact of the bullet so powerful he fell backward. Hard. His head hit the floorboards with a thud and he momentarily lost consciousness, a soothing blackness luring him under, away from the horror and the chaos within.

Don’t give in. You’re a dead man if you let the blackness take you! Think of Eli! Of Kacey!

Dust and the acrid smell of burnt gunpowder filled his nostrils as he blinked himself awake. The dogs were going nuts, barking and growling like crazy. Horses still kicked and squealed in fear, scrambling in their stalls while the scent of fear hung heavy, mingling with the thin odor of burning gunpowder wafting from the direction of the killer.

“You fucking son of a bitch!” he growled. Trace heard him writhe and swear somewhere near the grain chutes. The dogs ran in circles while Trace hoped beyond hope that his pitchfork had done serious, tissue-ripping damage.