Give him his day in court.

Let justice prevail.

"Bulls.h.i.t," she muttered as she threw her weight against the handcuff again and felt the cold metal bite into her wrist, her arm feeling as if it would be pulled from its socket. Was this justice? Was what he was doing to her, to the others, in any way fair and equitable?

Squeezing her eyes shut, she dug in and was sure, oh, G.o.d, please, that the weld was starting to give way. "Come on, come on," she whispered through gritted teeth.

Yes! There was a shift. A little one.

Oh, Jesus, there had to be.

All this effort couldn't be in vain.

She leaned forward for a second, took in three long breaths, felt her muscles screaming, her ribs aching, but she ignored the seductive urge to give up, to roll back onto the cot and pull the blanket to her chin to shiver alone in the dark. Readying herself, making certain the cuff was over the weld, she threw herself backward onto the cot again.

She couldn't let the b.a.s.t.a.r.d win.

Not without a d.a.m.ned good fight.

In her mind's eye, she saw her children. Bianca, just starting to develop into a woman, a smart girl who'd recently discovered boys. Jeremy. Oh, G.o.d. He was headed down the wrong path. Smoking marijuana, dabbling in who knew what, drinking and getting into serious trouble with Heidi Brewster.

What would happen if they didn't have her?

Would Lucky and Mich.e.l.le raise them?

What a disaster that would be.

Oh, Lord, give me strength.

She was gasping now, drawing in ragged breaths, still working at the weakening joint of welded metal. She had too much to live for to end up the victim of some sicko.

In a flash, she thought of Nate and her heart twisted. She'd never believed she loved him, hadn't admitted it for a second, but oh, G.o.d, she might have been wrong. His quick wit, His s.e.xy smile. The way he could turn her inside out...

Stop it!

She had to concentrate.

Because of the kids.

Because of Nate.

Because there was no way she was going to let this twisted nutcase win!

Tyler McAllister was high.

And it wasn't even noon yet.

Not that it really mattered, but today, with his mom missing, Jeremy had no time for McAllister's c.r.a.p. He sat on his side of the Blazer, tapping his fingers nervously on the window ledge of the door while Tyler lit a cigarette, then with the smoke dangling from his lips, gunned the engine on the empty road, hit the brakes, and sent the SUV skidding sideways. He laughed then, thinking it was hilarious.

Jeremy didn't.

"Cool it!" Jeremy yelled over the ba.s.s of some heavy-metal song he didn't recognize.

"What?" McAllister yelled back as the Blazer straightened and Tyler adjusted the wipers. Snow was falling again. Not big, heavy flakes, but tiny icy crystals that indicated the weather was gonna get worse. The fir trees were already heavy with snow and ice, their branches drooping. Traffic was light, thank G.o.d, because McAllister wasn't driving all that great.

McAllister gunned it up the hill that started the long straightaway to the crest of Horsebrier Ridge. On the other side of the mountain the road twisted, followed the creek, and turned like a sidewinder, but here, on the near side, at a higher elevation, the road cut like a knife through the surrounding hills.

"Check it out!" Tyler, grinning like a goon, hit the gas again and laughed as the Blazer fishtailed and the music blared. The windows were beginning to fog, but he didn't seem to notice. "Ha!" Another tromp on the accelerator.

It p.i.s.sed Jeremy off. "Just...just..." Jeremy snapped off the iPod. The interior of the SUV was suddenly silent.

"What the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing?"

"I don't have time for this s.h.i.t! Just drive to my house, d.i.c.khead, and quit f.u.c.kin' around."

"It looks like somebody got up on the wrong side of bed this morning," Tyler mocked in a falsetto voice, as if he were someone's mother.

Which only bugged Jeremy all the more. "Don't! Okay? Just...don't! I asked you for a ride home. Nothing else."

"What the f.u.c.k's got into you?"

"My mom's missing."

"Lucky you." Tyler shrugged. "I'd pay to have my mom disappear. She is such a b.i.t.c.h."

Jeremy's fist balled and he nearly slammed it into McAllister's jaw. "Stop, would ya?"

Tyler pulled a face, like a little kid with an exaggerated frown, his Winston still dangling from his lips. He looked like an idiot. h.e.l.l, he was an idiot!

For the briefest of seconds Jeremy wondered if maybe his mother was right, that he should try to find some other friends. But that thought was gone in a flash, disappearing as quickly as it had come. "Just f.u.c.kin' drive."

Tyler snorted a stream of smoke and switched on his iPod again, cranking it up until the ba.s.s was booming and the lead singer screeched at the top of his lungs. Maybe that's what Jeremy needed: to get lost and forget about all this. A sweet buzz that would dull his anxiety, lift him out of the funk into which he was quickly sinking.

"Hey...what's this?" Tyler said when he saw the detour sign a quarter of a mile from the crest of the ridge. The icy lanes were blocked, cones and a cruiser for the Highway Patrol blocking access. A tall policewoman was pointing to the side road, indicating that they should turn down the secondary road or turn around and go back the way they came. Tyler snorted again. "What the h.e.l.l do we do now?"

Jeremy's stomach hit the floor. "Stop."

"What?"

"No, I mean it. Stop. Stop the car."

"But that's a cop!" Tyler said as if he were imparting some vast unknown knowledge.

"I know."

"Look, man, this is a bad idea-"

"My mom's a cop, too."

"I'm tellin' ya, stopping is a mistake."

"Just do it!"

"s.h.i.t!" As Tyler braked, Jeremy flung open the door and slid a bit as his boots landed on the icy road. He grabbed the handle of the door, righted himself, then used the idling Blazer for support as he walked around the rear through the falling snow. A cloud of exhaust followed him, as the SUV really needed a ring job.

"Hey!" he called to the policewoman.

She was watching his every move. "You can't go through here. Road's closed," she said, shaking her head and frowning. Along with what appeared to be a sour disposition, she wore the big-brimmed hat and dark uniform of the Montana Highway Patrol. Sungla.s.ses covered her eyes.

"Why?"

"Accident." Her expression was stern, her mirrored gla.s.ses shielding her eyes as snow caught in the wide brim of her hat and collected on Jeremy's shoulders. The wind was kicking up, too, whistling softly through the canyon. "Now, move along."

He looked farther up the hill and stared at the tow truck, its engine almost pressed into the bank on the high side of the pa.s.s, its rear end poised near the ravine on the other. "I can't," he whispered, his voice failing, his guts twisting. "I think my mom was in that accident."

Her lips compressed. "What's your name?"

"Jeremy Strand," he said, shaking inside. "My mother's Regan Pescoli. She's a detective with the sheriff's department."

"Pinewood County?"

"Yeah." He swallowed hard. It was one thing to learn about the accident, another to come face-to-face with it. And for the first time he wondered if she could already be dead. If he'd been lied to. He felt sick inside. "Was she in the car?" When he noticed the stonewalling expression of the trooper, he added, "They said she wasn't. My stepdad got a call this morning. And they said that when they found the car, she wasn't in it."

"You should go home," the officer was saying. "To your stepdad. Can I call him for you?"

But Jeremy barely heard what she was saying as he looked past her shoulder and saw, through the thick-ening snow, the outline of a tow truck parked sideways across the road at the summit of the mountain. People in snow gear were standing nearby while the whine of a straining winch filled the canyon.

Jeremy stood transfixed, his eyes focused on the crest.

He was vaguely aware of Tyler revving the engine, hinting that they should leave, and the stern-faced trooper's disapproval, but he couldn't budge and as his mother's mutilated, wrecked vehicle slowly appeared, the metal wrenched, the windshield and tires blown, Jeremy thought he would throw up.

No one, not even his tough-as-nails mother, could have survived that wreck.

She had to be dead.

This will be an easy one, I think, parking my truck upstream from the property. A simple kill.

Different from the others.

Special.

One for which I've waited years.

One I will definitely savor.

What's the old saying? Revenge is always best served up cold? Something like that. Well, it couldn't get much colder than this with temperatures sliding below freezing and fifteen years of waiting.

But now the time is right.

I've checked.

Brady Long is alone.

I take my rifle from the back of the truck, then begin the long trek to the main house where, no doubt, he's already settled in. The prince in his castle.

The snow is beginning to fall again. Tiny flakes that swirl and dance, quietly changing the landscape, distorting the view, muting the sounds of the day.

I follow the path of the stream easily, from memory, having run this course dozens of times in the past.

Quickly.

Moving through the thick pines and hemlock, I spy the house, a hundred yards away, the roof thick with snow, dormers protruding, windows dark. But on the main level there are lights, glowing warmly in the gray morning, inviting me inside.

It's all I can do not to smile, but I warn myself not to savor the kill until it has happened, until Brady Long has taken his last, rattling breath. Only then will I be able to relish my success, as justice will finally prevail.

Through a thicket of naked aspens, I move along a deer path and spy the helicopter sitting still as death, long rotors unmoving, the windows of the c.o.c.kpit already showing a thin layer of snow.

Closer to the house, I turn and head toward the garage at the far end of the building, away from the windows in the den and living area. Though I'm dressed in white, I'm certain I blend with the landscape, I must be careful. The element of surprise is necessary.

At the door I listen.

Sure enough, music is emanating from the speakers inside the house. If nothing else, Brady Long is a creature of habit. Which makes my job so much easier.

The back door is unlocked, so I don't have to bother with a key. I walk softly and quickly through the kitchen to the main hallway. In the foyer, I peer into the living room.

Empty.

My heart is beating a little more quickly now. I'm sweating inside the house in my ski suit and I flip my goggles onto the top of my head as the amber lenses are starting to fog. I have to have complete visibility. It's necessary that I be accurate and deadly.

I make my way to the open door of the den.

Sure enough, Brady is there. Sitting in a big leather recliner, feet up, cigar in one hand, drink resting on the desk. Bourbon, I'm guessing. A fire is burning in the grate, and there are papers strewn over the desk. Of course. Hubert's will. Brady Long is so d.a.m.ned predictable.

His eyes are closed and he's singing along to some rock tune from the eighties, mouthing the words like he's some famous hard-rock band front-man.

Idiot.

My rifle is already at my shoulder. I take aim. But I want him to have a moment of fear, to see me and realize that justice, long overdue, is being served.

"Long!" I yell and his eyes fly open.

In a split second he recognizes me and forgets all about the song. "What the h.e.l.l?"

But he knows.

His startled face says it all.

He starts to move, to leap from the chair.