Now, the television set in his office was turned low to the news. Again, the weather was the topic, the report nearly finished.

"And I've got good news for all the boys and girls," the perky blond weather girl at KBTR television noon edition predicted after showing a satellite view of the area. "It looks like Santa is going to get through after all! So put out a plate of cookies and a big cup of hot chocolate tonight. It's going to be a cold one." She grinned into the camera, the white ball of her Santa's hat bouncing near her cheek. "Back to you, Kelly and Darren."

"Thanks, Rhonda!" Kelly, the smiling anchor-woman, said as she stared straight into the studio camera. Her smile was wide, her hair streaked blond, her personality usually bright. Today, her grin slid from her face and her expression mirrored that of her more serious co-anchor, Darren Faust, a square-jawed newsman with thick dark hair and an easy, if fleeting, smile.

"On a more somber note," she said, glancing down at her notes, "last night Sheriff Dan Grayson of Pinewood County held a press conference on the steps of the sheriff's office to discuss the latest information on the serial killer known as the Star-Crossed Killer who has been terrorizing the greater area around Grizzly Falls for the past few months. Ever since the body of Theresa Charleton was discovered by hikers-"

Grayson aimed his remote like a gun and shot the television. He knew what he'd said in the press conference, the questions he'd answered about the killer. He didn't need another run-through.

Stretching, he walked into the hallway where a janitor was busily mopping down the floor where dozens of boots had left a trail of melting snow. The janitor was a big man who worked part-time, but lately, with the bad weather, the department had added hours to his shift.

"Never ends, does it, Seymore?" the sheriff said.

"You got that right!" Chuckling, he worked his way backward from the orange cone he'd placed near the reception area warning that the floor was wet.

Alvarez was at her desk; he'd seen her return a few minutes earlier. Now she was frowning thoughtfully at her monitor and the image of a forest service map of the rugged, mountainous terrain where the killer had shot out the tires of the vehicles of his victims.

"Learn anything from the DeGrazios?" he asked, stopping in the doorway.

She glanced up. "You mean other than that her kid needs to be taken down a peg or two or twenty?"

"That bad?"

"Overindulged only child raised by a single mother who-"

"Loves him too much."

"I was going to say 'makes excuses for him.' And no, I didn't find out anything useful. I did run into Santana, though, and he asked what Ivor Hicks was doing at the Lazy L, and since Ivor was already released, I couldn't ask him."

"I thought Crytor had sent him."

"Yeah, so he says..."

"Manny Douglas is on his way down."

"Really?"

"Says he has something I need to see, which is probably just bull, but I thought you might join me."

"To referee?"

"To make sure I don't kill him."

"Yeah, don't do that. It might ruin your chances for reelection. Has the undersheriff come in?"

"Brewster called. Got hung up in a meeting downtown. He'll be in shortly. Why?"

"Just wondering."

"Yeah, right, Alvarez. You never wonder about anything without a purpose."

"Okay, you caught me. I have a crush on him," she said and he almost laughed. He noticed the spark in her dark eyes, something he hadn't seen in a long while, not since the first victim had been discovered.

"Does Brewster know?"

"Sure, but it's a problem, him being married and all." She gave him a steady glance. "You do know that was a joke, right?"

"Uh, yeah."

"Good." She scooted her chair back and followed him to his office just as Joelle called Grayson to say Manny had arrived.

"Show him in," Grayson said and hung up. With a glance at Alvarez, who was leaning against the window casing, he said under his breath, "Showtime."

Seconds later Joelle clipped in, Manny at her side. Grayson forced a smile he didn't feel. "Manny." The sheriff stood and waved the smaller man into a side chair. "You know Detective Alvarez?"

"Detective." Manny nodded toward Alvarez as he took his seat. Dressed in his usual outfit, khaki pants, a plaid shirt, and sweater vest, straight out of Eddie Bauer, he could have been a spokesperson for the store. Even his all-weather jacket seemed a part of a planned outfit.

Grayson figured he should clear the air and let the jerk of a reporter know where he stood. "I talked to your editor this morning. Lodged a complaint about that headline piece you wrote this morning. There are laws against libel, you know."

Manny didn't so much as flinch. "I stand by everything I wrote, Sheriff, and that's why it galls me that I'm here. If it weren't for my editor-"

"What is it you think is so all-fired important?" Grayson cut in, still seething about the scathing article attacking him and his people.

"It's about Star-Crossed."

"And?" Alvarez said, leaning forward slightly.

"Seems he's decided to make me his pen pal."

Grayson thought he hadn't heard right. "What?"

Manny was already reaching into his jacket. He withdrew a large manila envelope, the front of which was addressed to him in the same block letters that were used in all of the notes left at the crime scene.

Manny tipped up the envelope and the contents spilled out-pages of white paper. Each page was slightly different, the notes shorter or longer. With the notes were pictures, colored photographs of all of the victims bound to the trees where they had died.

"Jesus," Alvarez whispered.

Grayson felt his throat tighten. "Where did you get this?"

"Compliments of the U.S. mail."

"Is Pescoli-?" Alvarez whispered.

"No." Manny was firm. "These are the originals I received, but I've kept copies of the notes and the pictures. Most of the women I've identified, and I've figured out their initials are part of the killer's note. But the last ones must be still out in the woods somewhere."

Grayson stared down at the longest note and felt only a little relief that the letters R and P for Regan Pescoli weren't a part of the message-at least, not yet.

"Last ones?" Alvarez repeated. Then, "Brandy Hooper," as, looking pale, she stared at the new message: BEWAR THE SCION'H "We're going to press with a special edition," Manny said.

"You can't print this!" Grayson declared.

The reporter shot back with, "The public has a right to know!"

"I'll decide what the public is allowed to know. First we need to locate these women, try to save them, if possible, notify next of kin, and we can't let out all the details of these notes." Grayson wanted to throttle the little weasel.

"This is my story, Grayson, and I'm going to run with it."

"Not without my say-so. I'll get a court order to see that this is kept under wraps until the appropriate time." Grayson was beyond angry now. He felt a tic throbbing at his temples and it was all he could do not to throw the smug little b.a.s.t.a.r.d into jail for the rest of his rotten life.

But Douglas wasn't intimidated. "Then, Sheriff, I want an exclusive."

"You can't have it."

"The killer contacted me. Chose me." Douglas hooked a thumb at his chest. "These photos and notes are my property. I'm just showing you as a good citizen who-"

"Who just wants to profit from all this tragedy!"

"I'm the people's voice! And your conscience!"

"Oh, Christ, Douglas, don't even try that bulls.h.i.t with me." Grayson was on his feet now, leaning across the desk where the d.a.m.ning evidence was strewn.

"Don't you get it, Sheriff? You have to play ball with me. Star-Crossed, he's going to send me more information, maybe even call me. So I'm on the field whether you want me to be or not!"

"Give it to him," Alvarez said.

"What?"

"Who cares who breaks the story first? Give him the exclusive, with guidelines...rules that he has to play by. He's right. Star-Crossed might contact him again, use him as a conduit."

Douglas was nodding and some of his smugness evaporated, if only sightly. "Trust me, I want this guy put away as much as you do."

Grayson doubted it.

Alvarez placed a hand on his arm, a reminder to keep his cool when all he wanted was to throw Douglas's skinny little a.s.s in jail and throw away the key. G.o.d, he was frustrated. But even sitting around and talking about it, they were running out of time. There was a chance, albeit a slim one, that they could still find the women in the notes alive.

She was right.

Grayson knew it.

But he hated to give in to blackmail.

"Don't f.u.c.k with me, Douglas," he warned, pointing a finger in the reporter's face. "Don't you G.o.dd.a.m.ned mess with me, you got that? You play by my rules."

"Let's go!" Alvarez said.

"Just so you know, I have copies of these," the reporter reminded him, leaving the scattered letters strewn across Grayson's desk. "And don't you f.u.c.k with me, either, Grayson. It wouldn't be smart."

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

Keep going.

Don't stop.

You'll find your way out of here!

Regan was exhausted. She'd followed the length of two tunnels and found nothing, no exit, no other secret chamber where the b.a.s.t.a.r.d locked his victims away. Her legs threatened to give out and she could barely hold the handle of the poker as she made her way along the length of what appeared to be a main tunnel and each of the offshoots she'd explored until she was certain they would go nowhere.

Her task seemed impossible and she was certain she'd been at it for hours. The flashlight's beam was turning yellow, dying slowly. She couldn't get lost in these tunnels without any source of light.

Reviewing the marks she'd made on the floor, she inched her way backward to the room where the creep did his work, the one with the big table and armoire, the place where he kept his treasures, pictures of his kills, and the notes he planned to leave with his next victims. She couldn't be here, but she didn't know how to leave!

Ears straining, she made her way back to the doorway she'd entered into the tunnel and listened, barely letting out her breath, trying to determine if someone was on the other side. Unlike the door to her room, the one in which she'd been held captive, this door was snug in its frame, no shaft of light pierced the tunnel gloom.

She waited.

Heard nothing.

No footsteps of a big man walking across stone.

No crackle or hiss of a fire.

Biting her lip, flashlight tucked under one arm, poker raised to defend herself, knife tucked in her waistband, Pescoli slowly opened the door...to find the room where he worked cold and dark, only a few tiny embers giving off any light. Relieved, she surveyed her surroundings and listened hard, hoping to hear the other woman, the sobs that had whispered through this old mine, the m.u.f.fled cries of a woman distraught and frightened.

Again she was met with silence.

She looked through the drawers of the armoire, searching for batteries, and as she did she saw the notes again, the horrible pictures of terrified women as they froze to death. Daughters, sisters, mothers. Her throat thickened. It had been her job to find them, to save them, to protect them. To protect and serve. And she'd done neither.

She rifled through the notes again. A whole stack of them, one atop the other, his message growing clearer with each new page, with each new set of initials.

Hers were there, she realized.

B E W A R T H E S C R P I O N ' H Halden had been right about the whole "Beware the Scorpion" thing and when she looked at the final page, the entire note read: BEWARE THE SCORPION'S WRATH Yes, she was an intended victim, and certainly Elyssa O'Leary, but there were others as well. Were they all captured already, hidden in the tunnels of this old mine?

But where?

Or was he still planning to hunt them down?

She didn't have time to try and reason it out. She had to keep moving. Discovering one more battery in a drawer, she rummaged for another, needing two. Unable to find another, she switched the flashlight off, hoping, even with just one new battery, that it would offer enough light to lead her out of this crypt.

There was another door, she realized. Another exit to the tunnels? She tried it and looked down several steps to another dark pa.s.sageway.