Her heart sank.

Surely they belonged to Elyssa O'Leary.

True to the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's word, he'd already marched her away from the cabin and into the forest to spend her last few waking minutes or hours freezing to death. In her mind's eye, Regan pictured the other victims, all without a st.i.tch of clothing on, their own footprints left in the snow leading to the trees where they had expired.

"You son of a b.i.t.c.h," she bit out, forcing her teeth not to chatter as she staggered toward the trees, keeping the tracks in view as she started down the steep slope. The snow was a curtain falling endlessly from the sky-a curtain she was afraid her pursuer would soon part.

There were no landmarks to give her some indication of where she was.

But you were in a mine, Regan. A gold or silver mine.

The hills were riddled with mines left over from a bygone era, but most of them were small and boarded over. Forgotten.

Not this one.

It was large.

Those tunnels weren't the work of one man. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d might have reinforced some; it had been obvious he'd spent hours there. But the original mine shafts were extensive.

She knew the history of the area, the names of those who had first laid claim to the land, become rich, but most of them had moved on, even Hubert Long, whose family's wealth came from copper...

But gold and silver...

She kept her eyes on the trail of footsteps, staying close, careful not to step over a drop off as the terrain was rough, rocks and boulders hidden beneath the snow.

A cold wind scuttled through the barren trees, cutting through her, slapping her face. She was shivering so badly, she had trouble thinking, and in the near whiteout the going was slow, treacherous, the path tracks becoming more and more obscured.

She had to keep moving, ignore the numbness in her fingers, the cold that bit at the back of her neck.

Her heart drummed.

What if he was coming back?

Somehow you've got to nail this guy.

She started down the hill again, rounding a corner and spying a lean-to of some sort.

Her heart nearly skipped a beat.

The tracks were leading directly to the open building and a road, obscured by snow, was visible. This was it! A way to civilization!

She half ran to the shelter.

There was an empty s.p.a.ce where, judging from the tracks and some oil that had spilled, a car or truck had been parked.

The pickup with the canopy that brought you up here.

Better yet, parked close to the side, was a snowmobile.

"Oh, Jesus, please let there be keys," she whispered. "Please."

But before she could look, she heard a faint noise...a rumble that broke through the stillness of the forest. She stopped dead in her tracks.

The little hairs on the back of her arms lifted as the noise, the sound of an engine coupled with the whine of a four-wheel-drive, reached her ears.

"Oh, G.o.d," she whispered as the ghostly image of a truck appeared through the veil of snow. She had nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.

The killer was back.

Chapter Twenty-Nine.

Pescoli blinked snowflakes from her eyes.

Billy Hicks?

The man behind the wheel of the truck was Ivor's son, Billy?

She recognized his image as the big truck groaned up the hill, wipers tossing aside the diminishing snow, the driver staring straight at her through the gla.s.s.

Now he knows you can ID him.

Regan had been forced to drop the poker because it would impede her escape but her hand tightened over the hilt of her knife as their gazes locked. He was swearing. Angry. His eyes burning h.e.l.lfire.

Well, she felt the same way!

She sprang from her useless hiding spot near the snowmobile. Before Billy's truck's engine died she started sprinting away from the lean-to, racing through the snow. She couldn't let him catch her! She had to find a way to save herself! To thwart him!

Knowing she didn't have a prayer of outrunning him, couldn't expect to elude him, she concentrated on outsmarting him. It was her only chance.

Keep moving.

She was halfway to the tree line when she heard the Jeep's engine die and the creak of a door opening. "You stupid b.i.t.c.h!" he screamed. Thud! The crunch of metal hinges. As if he'd pounded a fist into the side of his truck. She didn't look over her shoulder. Just ran. Putting distance between them.

Go, go! Faster, faster!

Her mind was whirling, her body protesting, but she kept running.

Billy Hicks?

A diabolical and well-organized killer?

She couldn't wrap her mind around it, but as she ran, hoping the snowfall dropping from the sky would become her cover, she remembered that his mother had been a descendent of a silver miner in the area, his grandfather a man who had owned the largest mine near Grizzly Falls. And Billy worked at his own carpentry shop; made his own hours by himself. There was no one keeping tabs on him and he would have the skills to make the mines safe and liveable. The large table, the hand-carved armoire, Billy had built them with his own hands.

Strong hands.

Brutal hands.

She heard the door of the truck slam and hazarded a quick glance back.

Oh, he was coming now. Moving to a jog behind her, but he'd taken time to grab some tools. A thick coil of rope was wrapped over his shoulder, a hunting knife, much larger than the one she'd pocketed, gripped in his strong fingers.

Terror cut to her core. He intended to lash her to a tree as soon as he caught her. He was upping his game! She nearly stumbled, saw a deer flash through the icy underbrush from the corner of her eye.

Don't do it, don't let him freak you out. Think, Regan, you can outplay this psycho.

If only she had a phone.

Or a d.a.m.ned gun!

Her mother's admonition, If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride, tore through her mind as she cut between the pine trees, darting behind them and over fallen logs, scrambling through the snow. Keep running. For G.o.d's sake, keep running! She was breathing hard, cold air blistering her lungs. Both legs ached and her right arm was a dead weight, still useless after her battle with him while still in handcuffs.

Don't think about the pain. Work through it! Run downhill! Eventually you'll reach a road or farmhouse...

But how long would it take? It could be miles. The Kress mine was in a remote area near Mesa Rock on a large tract of land. Her stamina was in short supply and- Don't think about it! Keep the h.e.l.l going!

Gripping the knife in her good hand, she angled around a tall spruce, between two bare aspens. Cutting around a rock, she twisted her ankle. Pain ricocheted along her shin. "Oh, G.o.d!" She landed wrong, her foot hitting a tree limb buried in the snow, throwing her forward. Her knees began to buckle. "h.e.l.l," she bit out, trying to catch herself. No! Stay on your feet!

But it was too late.

She fell, her feet giving out. Down she went, over a steep embankment, into a wide gully, tumbling faster and faster, free-falling along the steep hillside, out of control, the world spinning, snow everywhere.

Using her hands as best she could, she tried to break her fall, digging her fingers into the snow, creating drag, trying to slow her speed so she would avoid the trees and rocks that loomed near the bottom of the draw.

On her back, head first, the sky shifting overhead, her arms out, hand grabbing.

Bam!

Her left hand smashed against something sharp.

The knife flew from her grasp.

Oh, no!

Dig in!

She tried to catch herself, to grab onto a root or rock or limb-anything!-as she careened down the wash. Then she saw him staring after her, running along the top of the ridge, keeping her in his sites.

b.a.s.t.a.r.d! she thought, G.o.dd.a.m.ned sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d!

She gave up trying to stop the free-fall. Whatever lay below was infinitely safer than dealing with the killer who now realized she knew his face and could ID him.

Grayson turned off the wipers and guided his Jeep into his reserved spot in the lot at the sheriff's office. A few other vehicles were parked in the heavy snow and two news vans had taken up residence on a side street.

If he could, he wanted to avoid the reporters.

Dealing with Manny Douglas earlier this morning was all Grayson figured he could handle. For the past four hours, he'd been on the road, coordinating with the rest of the search party, looking for any sign of the missing girls, driving the most desolate canyons and ridges in this sub-freezing weather, staying within the perimeters previously established. Checking and rechecking the areas where the two missing women were last seen, as well as the routes they most likely would have taken to get to their intended destinations.

But the search had been fruitless.

And even, he suspected, pointless.

So far, none of the search party had found anything. No bodies, dead or alive, had been located tied to stark trees in the lonely hills. Nor had either of the missing girls' vehicles been discovered in one of the myriad of canyons and ridges that rimmed the town.

But maybe a wild-goose chase, too.

Maybe someone close to the investigation was getting his rocks off by sending Manny Douglas the notes.

A stupid thought.

Desperate.

The notes were real. He could only hold out hope that the notes were premature-before the killings-or an attempt by the killer to throw them off track and embarra.s.s the sheriff's department.

Except Brandy Hooper and Elyssa O'Leary are missing.

It all came back to that. G.o.d help them.

"Come on, boy," he said, shrugging off the weight of his job and whistling to Sturgis. The black Lab bounded out of the Jeep and, tail wagging, followed Grayson past a cl.u.s.ter of die-hard smokers battling the wind and cold on the department's front entryway.

He tore off his gloves, hat, and jacket as the inside of the office was sweltering, the thermostat hovering near eighty. "It's hotter'n h.e.l.l in here."

"Don't look at me," Joelle said, her face red, beads of sweat dotting her forehead. "I called the repairman, but Rod isn't sure he can get anyone on Christmas Eve." She fanned herself with her hand. "I don't know what else to do."

"Don't worry about it." He had bigger fish to fry. The d.a.m.ned heat was nothing. He tossed his jacket onto a side chair as Sturgis settled onto his bed, but before he could round the desk, Grayson's cell phone rang.

Stephanie Chandler's number popped onto the screen. Grayson was surprised, as they'd talked earlier in the day when he'd called and explained about Manny Douglas's visit and the notes the reporter had received from Star-Crossed.

"Grayson," he said into his cell.

"Halden and I are on our way back to Montana, but I thought I'd give you a heads-up," the FBI agent said, though the connection was faint, as if she were outside and the wind was blowing. "Hubert Long died this morning."

"Natural causes?" He guessed as much, but who knew? Maybe someone couldn't wait and hurried him along. The same person who had killed his only son.

"Yes. He went into a coma early this morning just after midnight and his organs just started shutting down. Nothing suspicious. But we'd already dispatched a field agent in the Seattle office to contact Padgett because of her brother's homicide."

"Alvarez already talked to her doctor about Brady," Grayson confirmed.

"Well, if Padgett got that information, it's all she's going to get from us, because she checked herself out of the care facility and is catching a flight to San Francisco."

"What?"