LITMIR.BIZ

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about to be coddled. “Tell me.”

      “Grace Perchant. Walking her dog.”

      “Walking her dog? When it’s ten degrees below freezing? Down here? Why the hell was she doing that?”

      “Why does Grace do anything?” Watershed asked with a lift of one shoulder.

      Good question. Grace Perchant was another one of the town’s oddities. Alvarez reminded her partner, “Grace claims to see ghosts, too, and talk with the friggin’ dead, for crying out loud. And that dog of hers is half-wolf.”

      “Three quarters,” Mikhail cut in, looking up with a knowing smile.

      “You know this how?” Alvarez wasn’t certain she really wanted to hear the answer.

      “I’m interested in a pup.”

      “Oh, for the love of God! You know that Grace’s dog is practically a wild animal! She probably wasn’t walking it; the damned thing was walking her.”

      “She’s right,” Pescoli said. “We’ve had complaints about the wolf-dog more than once.”

      “It bit someone?”

      “Nah. Howled. Kept the neighbors awake.” Pescoli tucked a stray strand of hair beneath her cap.

      “That’s ridiculous,” Alvarez cut in. “I mean, if the dog needs to relieve himself, why not just let him go outside? Why walk during a damned blizzard?”

      “It’s Grace,” Watershed said, as if that explained it all.

      Frustrated, her cheeks red with the cold, Pescoli looked around the scene, her gaze inching over the snowy terrain. “Damn it, where did he take her?”

      Selena Alvarez shook her head. Deep inside, she experienced a chill, a frigid drip of dread sliding through her gut. She knew the woman inside the car was already doomed and eventually they would find her, just as they’d found the others. As the wind keened and the blizzard started ripping through this ridge of mountains, she and Pescoli walked back to the spot where Slatkin was taking samples of the frozen blood. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and the son of a bitch cut himself. It could be his blood.”

      “Let’s not count on luck.” Another male voice broke in and Alvarez looked over her shoulder to spy the sheriff walking toward them from the direction of the forest service road. His big boots crunched in the snow and his expression said it all: repressed anger, and maybe even a touch of defeat. The wind had been so damned fierce, she hadn’t even heard his rig arrive.

      Alvarez nodded. “You’re right, we won’t.”

      “A little luck wouldn’t hurt,” Pescoli observed. “Personally, I’ll take all we can get.”

      A bit of a smile cracked across Grayson’s face. “Fair enough.” A tall, strapping man with a thick, graying moustache and dark, deep-set eyes, Grayson was recently elected and recently divorced—the two, it seemed, had gone hand in hand. At least it seemed that way to Alvarez. “Tell me that Ivor Hicks didn’t call this in.”

      “Not this time,” Alvarez assured him.

      “Nope.” Pescoli shoved her hands deep into her coat pockets. “This time our witness is Grace Perchant.”

      “Oh for the love of God. Another nutcase.” Grayson scowled. “First Ivor, now Grace. The next thing you know, we’ll be getting tips from Henry Johansen.”

      Though Henry, a local farmer, hadn’t claimed to have been abducted by aliens like Ivor, nor did he commune with the dead, which was Grace’s specialty, he had fallen off his tractor twenty years earlier and suffered an injury that had caused him to claim he could read people’s minds. There had been no proof of this phenomenon, and yet Henry was convinced that the voices he heard were the random thoughts of people he’d met. He was a regular visitor at the sheriff’s department, always insisting he had the inside track on some local crime.

      “God help us,” Watershed said.

      As Grayson observed the scene, his expression only grew more grim. “We’d better wrap this up soon. The weather service is advising that we’re in for another blizzard. A big one.”

      Alvarez’s heart sank. The chances of finding the driver of the car weren’t that great to begin with; add a blizzard and they dropped to nearly impossible.

      Grayson glared at the half-buried car and the lines around his mouth etched even deeper. “Looks like he’s at it again.”

      “Looks like,” Pescoli agreed.

      “Shit.” Dan glanced up at the ridge and snowflakes caught on his moustache as he chewed on his lower lip. “Same MO?”

      Watershed nodded. “Yep. Body and ID missing.”

      “Tire shot?”

      “Blown for sure,” Alvarez said. “Haven’t been able to determine if—”

      “It was shot.” Grayson voiced what they all thought was fact, just not yet proven. “This isn’t a coincidence. That bastard’s hunting again.”

      “I’d bet on it,” Watershed agreed.

      Alvarez nodded.

      “Run the license plate,” Grayson said. “Find out who owns the car and we’ll work from there. If the bullet isn’t lodged in the undercarriage or somewhere else in the vehicle, check the ridge. Maybe it fell onto the road or became imbedded in the cliff on the farside. Anyone call a tow truck to haul the car in?”

      “Truck’s on its way,” Alvarez said. She’d put in the call as soon as she arrived.

      “Let’s hope they can get down here. The roads are a mess. Half the staff is dealing with power outages and accidents.” He rubbed his chin and shook his head, his gaze fastening on the crumpled car, which was quickly being buried in snow. “We need to nail this bastard.”

      “I’m all for that,” Pescoli agreed.

      Grayson nodded and met Alvarez’s eyes. “But first let’s find the victim. And this time, let’s find her alive.”

      Chapter Seven

      Scccrratttch!

      The match head scrapes loudly against the stone hearth and the sharp smell of sulfur stings my nostrils. With a sweet hiss, the flame flares before my eyes.

      Perfect little flicker of hot light.

      I’ve always loved fire.

      Always been fascinated at how it so quickly springs to life—a living, breathing thing that requires air to survive. The shifting yellow and orange flames are oh so seductive in their warmth and brilliance and deadly abilities.

      Striking matches—bringing fire to life—is one of my passions, one of many.

      Carefully lifting the glass of the lantern, I light the wick, another spot of illumination in the large, barren room. A fire already crackles and burns in the grate, red embers glowing in a thick bed of ashes, mossy wood licked by passionate flames, smoke rising through the old stone chimney, golden shadows dancing on the watery old windowpanes.

      Outside the storm rages, winds howling, snow blowing furiously, and yet the stone-and-log cabin is a fortress against the elements. Here I don’t have to bother with the burden of clothing that scratches and itches and bothers. No, I can walk comfortably over the smooth flagstones in bare feet, the heat radiating from the fire enough to keep my skin warm.

      I keep a large store of firewood within the cabin, but should I need to walk to the outbuilding to retrieve more, I won’t need the trappings of boots and jacket but can face the elements naked, bracing myself against the bite of the wind and the slap of ice.

      The match burns down, licking at my fingertips, and I shake it out quickly.

      With one ear to the police-band radio

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