Lisa Jackson - Born To Die

“Here, doggy, doggy. .” The killer’s singsong voice masked a groan of pain. The bastard was hurt worse than he’d admit.

Good. Suffer, you bastard. And while you’re at it, die!

Trace reached over his head and felt the handle of the shovel. With a wide, sharp blade it was perfect for scooping manure or shoveling snow, and tonight, he hoped, as a weapon to kill a murdering psychopath.

“Come on, boy—” The son of a bitch made twisted, little kissing sounds as he moved closer, still invisible in the darkness.

Trace’s fingers coiled over the smooth wooden handle.

BAM!

The door to the stables banged against the wall.

Horses nickered in terror.

Trace jumped as a rush of cold air swept into the room.

“What the hell?” The gunman turned his attention away from the dog.

No! Trace went into full-blown panic. Kacey, no! She was the only one at the house… or Eli. And the killer knew it!

“Get away!” Trace screamed.

“Sister,” the attacker drawled smoothly, almost gleefully. “About time you showed up!”

Damn it all to hell!

Alvarez listened to her message from Kacey Lambert and mentally kicked herself from here to hell and back. Furious, she punched in the emergency number and talked to dispatch who said there had already been a distress call logged and deputies sent to an address for Trace O’Halleran, that gunshots had been reported. Hanging up, she dialed Kacey’s number but was sent directly to voice mail.

“Too late,” Alvarez said grimly to Pescoli. “Looks like he’s at the O’Halleran place.”

“What? No!” Noreen let out a cry that rose to the coffered ceiling. Alvarez, standing just inside the Johnsons’ front door with Pescoli, threw a look over her shoulder.

“I was afraid of this,” Judd said. “You know he’s never been right, Mother. Even from the start. When he pushed Aggie down the stairs.”

Alvarez held up a hand, stopping her partner from yanking on the door handle.

“It was an accident,” Gerald said, sinking into his chair again as Alvarez stepped back into the den with its cheery fire, fresh-cut flowers, and simmering lies.

“It was,” Judd insisted. “Of course it was an accident. But essentially, that’s what happened.”

“You told me,” Gerald reminded his son, looking up to meet Judd’s narrowed eyes, “that Aggie got tangled in her blanket.”

“I know. That’s right,” Judd said smoothly, almost as if he’d practiced the line. “And then Cam ran by and knocked her down. She got wrapped up in her damned blanket and fell.”

Noreen shuddered.

“To her death.” Gerald glared at his son.

“We’ve got to go,” Pescoli said tersely. Alvarez rejoined her as she opened the door and the breath of winter blew through the room, rattling umbrellas in a nearby stand. To Gerald, his wife, and oldest son, Pescoli added, “You all stay put! Don’t go anywhere.”

“It’s not Cameron,” Noreen wailed, but Judd Johnson’s tense face said it all. His mother, appearing far frailer than she had just half an hour earlier, collapsed in his arms. Tears rolled from her eyes and she sobbed against his expensive coat, her voice muted as her shoulders shook. “It’s. . it’s not Cameron. It can’t be!”

Pescoli was already out the door.

The last look Alvarez caught of Gerald was of the big man seated in his leather recliner near the fire, holding his head in one hand, reaching for his glass of scotch with the other.

“I’ll drive.” Pescoli was already out the door and Alvarez was only a couple of steps behind. As she climbed into the passenger seat, Pescoli engaged the engine and threw the rig into gear. The Jeep lurched forward. Alvarez pulled the door shut as they reached the end of the circular drive and she’d barely gotten her seat belt connected when they were heading onto the slippery road winding down the hillside.

“What the hell happened?” Pescoli asked.

“Something going on at the O’Halleran place,” Alvarez said, thinking of the man whom she was now certain was the killer. “Looks like Cameron Johnson is escalating. And he’s starting with the people there.”

“And killing his sperm bank sisters?”

“Or anyone who’s in his path.” Alvarez repeated what she’d heard on voice mail.

In the dark car, her face pale, Pescoli muttered, “The bastard’s a raving lunatic!” She drove as fast as she dared, past the lodge and gatehouse, then cast Alvarez a glance as they reached the main road. “Don’t suppose you have a cigarette on you?”

Alvarez sent her partner a “dream-on” look, then punched in Kacey Lambert’s cell phone number again and waited.

The call went directly to voice mail once more.

Trace’s fingers tightened on the shovel’s handle.

“I wondered if you’d show up,” the killer said, and there in the doorway, silhouetted against the white drifts, Kacey stood, feet wide, a gun in her hands. But she couldn’t see into the darkness. Couldn’t guess where they could be.

Click. The bastard cocked his gun.

What was Kacey thinking?

“Get back!” Trace screamed. Frantic, he yanked the shovel from the nails that held it to the wall. Twisting the blade of the shovel in front of him, he started scrambling backward to the door to save her, push her away, use his body as a shield, any damned thing to protect her!

“Too late.” A brittle, hollow laugh echoed behind him.

“Watch out!” Dragging his useless leg, sensing the streak of blood he was leaving on the floorboards, he forced himself to the doorway. “He’s got a gun!”

“So do I,” she said calmly. Too calmly. “Stay down!”

Blam!

Her gun’s nose sprayed fire, her silhouette slipping away, behind the exterior wall.

Trace had flattened to the floor even before she pulled the trigger, the room spinning around him, his neck twisted as he stared at the doorway.

Craaack! Click! Craaack! Click! Craaack!

The killer fired in rapid succession, sending the timbers of the stable shaking and the horses squealing and snorting, rearing in sheer terror. Steel-shot hooves pounded the walls of the stalls.

The dogs, too, were barking madly.

Over it all, he heard a single heart-stopping cry.

Kacey!

He rolled over and tried to get to his feet, to stumble forward, but his leg wouldn’t work. The best he could do was drag himself through the smoke and fear that rose to the rafters.

Another horrifying moan. As if her soul was being ripped from her body.

“NO!” He screamed. “NO!”

A satisfied chuckle crackled from behind him; the killer’s sick pleasure oozing through the aftermath.

You sick cocksucker, I’m going to get you.

“Trace!”

What?

“Trace!” Kacey’s terrified voice reached him, a distant weak cry diluted by the rush of the wind. As if she were truly exiting this world and he was truly losing her.

But she’s alive! There’s still time!

“Hang on!” he ordered brokenly. “Hang the hell on!”

Using the shovel to drag himself forward, he pulled himself closer toward the doorway, to the frigid air blowing snow into the stable. Somewhere behind him, he heard the uneven footsteps of the killer, but he kept moving, didn’t care that the rifle might be trained on the back of his head.

Through the doorway he crawled into the night, the cold a welcome slap to his swirling senses.

He saw her then. Unmoving. A crumpled form lying in the snow just outside the building, strands of her hair being lifted by the wind.

NO! NO! NO!