Free Left To Die by Lisa Jackson Page B

herself a cup and letting it cool untouched on her desk.
    “Thanks.” She took the cup and sipped without looking up.
    “Anything new?”
    “Nah. Not yet.”
    “Still haven’t located Wendy Ito’s vehicle?”
    Alvarez glanced her way. Her dark hair was pulled back neat and tight while Regan’s reddish curls were waiting to spring free of their clip. “I’ve been working on the notes,” she said, pulling a spiral notebook to the front of the desk. On the lined pages were the initials of the victims’ names, laid out in the order in which they had been printed in dark block letters, and between those letters Alvarez had filled in the blanks:
     
    W      T      SC   I N
     
    “Come up with anything?”
    “Nothing that makes any sense. If it’s a message, the first word could be ‘what’ or maybe ‘wait,’ or the T might be the start of the next word. It looks like the S and C are supposed to be linked. For a word like ‘scene,’ or ‘school,’ or ‘scent’ or who knows? The N might go with it or not. Or it could be one long word, a warning, or—”
    “Or he could be screwing with us. Maybe he’s laughing his ass off as he comes up with his whacko note.”
    Alvarez’s eyebrows drew together and she shook her head. “No. He’s too organized. He finds his victims, tracks them down, blows out the tires of their vehicles, goes down and retrieves them and their personal effects, all without leaving any trace evidence. Then he keeps them somewhere while they partially heal and finally takes them to a spot I’m sure he’s picked out ahead of time and ties them up and leaves them and the damned notes.”
    “Why do you think the spot is chosen earlier?”
    “From the few tracks we’ve found in the snow, there’s no hesitation. They go in a straight line.”
    “Someone very familiar with the area. Geography. Access roads. Someone confident he’ll get in and get out without anyone seeing him.”
    “Umm.” Alvarez was nodding, tracing the letters of the note with the index finger of her right hand. “Hiker? Skier? Hunting or fishing guide? Someone who works in the woods?”
    “Forestry service?”
    Alvarez glanced up, her dark eyes intense. Pescoli felt a chill as cold as death and her heart nearly stopped beating. She lowered her voice. “You’re thinking about someone in the department?”
    “I don’t know what I’m thinking,” Alvarez said. “But whoever’s behind this, he’s smart, he’s organized, he knows the area like the back of his hand and he’s one step ahead of us. Worse yet, he’s about to strike again. If he hasn’t already.”
    Pescoli felt unnerved. Whoever was behind these atrocities, whatever sick mind had become compelled to prey upon the women he hunted, surely he wasn’t someone they worked with! In a half-second, all the faces of the deputies of the department flashed in quicksilver images through her mind. “No way,” she whispered but realized her fingers were wrapped tightly over the handle of her cup, her knuckles showing white.
    Alvarez muttered tersely, “I’m just saying we can’t rule anyone out. Not yet.”
    Regan nodded. She was right. That was the hell of it. Once again, Alvarez was spot-on. Everyone was a suspect. Even the men within the department that both of them trusted with their lives.
     
    “Damn. Damn,” Jillian said aloud, her teeth chattering wildly, some of her skin feeling numb. She’d fallen asleep for a few minutes, or had it been longer? It was a little darker now, the moon rising as the sun started to set. Her headlights were dim and yellow.
    So this was it? She was going to freeze to death in a ten-year-old Subaru in the bottom of a frozen ravine?
    What kind of ignoble end was that?
    Dear God, Jillian, you’re in deep trouble this time.
    And you can count only on yourself.
    She tried to think, to remember the crash, or the events leading up to it, but nothing but a yawning black hole filled her mind. Shivering,