Alvarez pictured him waiting. Patiently. Silently. Finger on the trigger.

She felt a chill deeper than the coming night.

How had the killer learned that Pescoli would be driving h.e.l.l-bent for leather over this pa.s.s? From Pescoli's ex-husband? Her kids? Or had Pescoli's a.s.sailant somehow tapped into her cell phone and was monitoring her calls?

Or had the sick son of a b.i.t.c.h just gotten lucky?

What were the odds of that?

And there was that word again. Lucky. Just like the nickname that Luke Pescoli wore so proudly. An odd, unsettling connection.

You're grasping at straws.

She sniffed hard but still continued to look up to the top of the ridge, though the crest of the hill was obscured by darkness. She tried to imagine him waiting in the near blizzard. Somehow he had to have known that she'd be driving on this road. No one, not even a real nut-job, would wait out here in sub-freezing temperatures for hours, maybe days, on end.

Remember: this one's a real wacko. He's got a purpose; he's driven. He's had to have spent months, maybe years finding the right women for his victims. Lying in wait outside in these conditions might just turn him on.

In her mind's eye, she saw the killer stretched out on the snow, or on something to protect him from the cold, as he propped his rifle on a fallen log, or a stump or boulder, maybe a tripod, something to steady the barrel while he trained it with steely composure on the road below.

He was a hunter, an a.s.sa.s.sin with an ace marksman's deadly aim.

Jaw sliding to one side, eyes narrowing, she wondered how the h.e.l.l Star-Crossed had managed to pull off such a perfect shot as to disable a car and send it careening off the roads and into the canyons.

She blew on her hands, watched her breath fog.

How intimately had he known his victims before the attack?

And what was his game? Not s.e.xual gratification. At least not to the point of penetration. Not one body had shown signs of recent s.e.xual abuse or intercourse. No s.e.m.e.n was found in or on their bodies, nor had there been any wounds to their b.r.e.a.s.t.s or v.a.g.i.n.al areas. Contrarily, autopsies proved that the victims' initial wounds had actually started to heal before he'd apparently had enough of the game and brutally, without conscience, had lashed the women to trees in remote areas and callously left them to die.

The Pinewood County Sheriff's Department had searched every database imaginable for skilled marksmen who could pull off such a feat, from ex-military aces and mercenaries, to the antigovernment extremists, hunters, cops, and winners of shooting compet.i.tions. Anyone with a history of incredible skills with a rifle. So far, no one suspect had come to the fore.

Until the woman in Spokane.

But there was just no d.a.m.ned way she could have been responsible for Pescoli's disappearance, because she couldn't be in two places at once. Pescoli had been seen and on the phone here in Grizzly Falls while the suspect was nearly two hundred miles away in Spokane, Washington. The panhandle of Idaho and mountainous terrain separated the cities.

So, who was the killer with the dead-eye aim?

Surely someone who lived around here, who knew the terrain well enough to pick just the right spots, someone who seemed to have a thing against women. Her jaw hardened as she thought of the men who had given her-a woman detective, no, make that a Hispanic woman detective-a rough time, as if she were an oddity, someone to be teased. Whoever was behind the a.s.saults, though, had a deep-seated hatred for women. All women, apparently, as he certainly didn't discriminate by race. And he could shoot straight as an arrow under horrible conditions, then "rescue" a woman from the wreckage of her car and haul her to some unknown destination.

A big man, from the size of one footprint they'd taken.

A local who had knowledge and felt comfortable in this rugged, frigid terrain.

A marksman.

A smart individual who was organized enough to locate these women, track them, wound them, and eventually kill them.

A hater.

Several names came quickly to mind: Dell Blight, a big man with a belly as large as his disdain of the sheriff's department. He'd been hauled in several times, drunk, once waving a weapon around, but then, he wasn't exactly a candidate for a national think tank.

Rod Larimer, owner of the Bull and Bear, or B&B Bed and Breakfast, as it was locally known, was currently enjoying a brisk trade, all because of the sudden notoriety of the town. And Rod was a man who despised Sheriff Grayson. He'd been married a few times and his wives had always left him. But could he shoot?

Then there was Otis Kruger, a mean drunk who owned an a.r.s.enal of weaponry and who had bragged about killing a doe out of season from an incredible distance-shot her dead center. He'd been hauled in for poaching, but again, wasn't the brightest color in the crayon box. A crack shot with a low I.Q. Dangerous combination, but could he really be Star-Crossed?

Selena expelled a breath. The best and brightest marksmen in the county were some of the very men she worked with: hunters and lawmen. But she wouldn't go there, couldn't believe someone who'd sworn to uphold the law would get off on making a mockery of it.

The wind kicked up, bitter cold, and some of the firemen were gathering their gear and packing up.

There was nothing more to be done tonight.

A headache had formed at the base of Alvarez's skull, her eyes were scratchy, and her nose was now running like a faucet. She logged out of the scene and headed back to her apartment determined to get some rest, have a fresh view of the case in the morning. But as she drove along the eerily quiet mountain road, her headlights reflecting brightly off the packed snow and ice, huge trees laden with snow surrounding her, she felt the winter cold seep into her bones. Shivering, she experienced a deep-seated fear that she'd never see Pescoli alive again.

"How're you feeling?" a deep male voice whispered.

Pescoli's eyes flew open but the room was in total darkness aside from a single pinpoint of light. A penlight? Her heart thundered and adrenaline shot through her system.

For a second she didn't know where she was and then she remembered driving over the icy ridge, the reverberant crack of a rifle, her Jeep spinning out of control down a steep mountainside.

And her rescuer.

She remembered the man in shadowy goggles who had pried her from the wreckage to bring her here as his d.a.m.ned prisoner.

She tried to move, to roll away, but her muscles were sluggish, wouldn't respond. Pain jolted down her shoulder and her gaze was fastened on the bright spot of light.

"I asked you a question."

He sounded irritated. Good. So was she. "How do you think I feel?"

"Not your best."

"Like I was in a d.a.m.ned accident that could have been prevented if some jerk-wad hadn't shot out my tire." She was glaring up at him, trying to focus, unable to make out his features, the small light ruining her ability to focus. "Who the h.e.l.l are you?"

"Don't you know?"

"Let me guess. Not St. Peter, right? We're not at the pearly gates. And where are my clothes?"

He snorted, but she caught a glimpse of white, a glint from his teeth as if he found her amusing. "Definitely not St. Peter. And no, I wouldn't think this was the way to salvation." There was a smile in his voice. "You'll get your clothes back."

"When?"

"When I decide."

His way of keeping her humble and vulnerable, to make her lie naked and alone in the dark, but she wasn't going to buckle to that kind of psychological blackmail. "Why did you bring me here?"

"To help you."

"You fired the d.a.m.ned shot! I wouldn't call that help." She was agitated, fear juicing up her aggression. He ran the penlight down the length of her body, again humiliating her, stopping at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s where her d.a.m.ned nipples were rock hard from the cold. She heard him suck in his breath and she thought she might be sick.

"You're a beautiful woman, Regan." He said it as if he meant it.

"And you're a d.a.m.ned freak!"

As if he didn't hear her, he said, "Well-sculpted face, high cheekbones, and a strong chin. And long legs...nice b.r.e.a.s.t.s with dark nipples...flat stomach despite bearing two babies."

He knew about her kids? Terror swept through her. She wanted to snap at him to leave her children out of it, but she didn't dare show her Achilles' heel, couldn't let him know that her entire life centered around her kids. Instinctively she knew that if she gave him even the tiniest bit of insight as to how to really terrorize her, Jeremy and Bianca would end up here, imprisoned by him. Fear turned her throat to dust.

"And that boyfriend of yours, the drifter."

What?

"Does Santana appreciate you? Treat you well?"

Her stomach dropped. How much about her did this animal know?

"Or is he just around for a quick roll in the hay, a hot f.u.c.k?" He said it all in a harsh, unrecognizable whisper. As if he thought she might be able to make out his ident.i.ty. "I bet you're a hot one, aren't you? That you like it when some good-looking loser tries to get into your pants. Is that right? You enjoy the ride?"

"You're sick."

"Sick?" That seemed to bother him. "You won't think so for long."

What she wouldn't do for a weapon of some kind, a gun or knife or even a baseball bat or night-stick, anything. Weak as she was, she'd haul off and whack him and send his black soul straight to h.e.l.l. But there was no weapon and she was in no shape to attack anyone, and the beam of his light slid lower on her body, like a laser, trailing a path to the juncture of her legs where the beam paused, illuminating the reddish hair that curled there and feeling as if it burned a hole through her skin.

She tried not to think of the embarra.s.sment, for then he'd win. He was doing this on purpose. Nor would she rise to the bait of bringing up Santana or her s.e.x life. "You get your rocks off by torturing women? Humiliating them? Holding them against their will?"

He didn't answer, just trailed the tiny beam of light down her legs.

"Why go to all this trouble? Why stage accidents and then pretend to help the victims? Why not just kill them and get it over with?"

"You just don't get it, do you?"

"Enlighten me," she challenged, keeping her eyes trained on his shadowy features.

"You're a cop, Regan. A detective. You figure it out." He stepped close enough so that were she not riddled with pain, one arm chained to the cot, she would have jumped up and rammed his arm backward until he was on his knees, or thrown a well-aimed punch at his throat to render him spitting and speechless, or shoved his nose into his cerebrum.

"Try me." If she could just keep him talking, she might learn something, figure out his ident.i.ty.

"It would take much too long."

"What else do you have to do?"

He stepped closer and the penlight offered enough illumination that she noticed a glint, a slim little line of silver in his other hand.

What the h.e.l.l?

What was it?

And then she knew with dead certainty that he held a hypodermic needle in his right hand. Oh, G.o.d, no!

Pescoli freaked. She had no idea what drug might be held in the syringe, but she couldn't let him inject her with it.

"Wait!" she said, trying to scoot away. Her legs were free. If she could kick him. Land a blow square in his crotch, or on his face.

"Don't even think about it," he whispered, his voice ragged, and rough, yet nearly seductive.

Pescoli's skin crawled. Fear sizzled through her bones. She had to find a way to- He sprang!

Like a cougar onto the back of an unsuspecting deer, he leaped onto the cot. She tried to move, but couldn't get away. Pinning her with his knees, his legs straddling her torso, his weight pressing onto her bruised ribs, he held her fast.

Pain shrieked through her body and she cried out. Her chest felt as if it had been crushed, her lungs on fire, her ribs shattering. She tried to kick and squirm but pain crippled her and his well over two hundred pounds didn't budge.

"No!" she forced out, her breath a panicked hiss. "Don't!" She bucked upward, but to no avail.

It was too late. With his spread legs only inches from her nose, the scent of his sweat in the air, he shifted slightly. Dropped the penlight. Grabbed her tethered arm.

Though she pummeled him with her free hand, he fended off her blows with his shoulder and body, and his legs, his thick thighs covered in denim so close to her face wouldn't budge. If she could bite him...

She moved, but he antic.i.p.ated the lift of her head, the baring of her teeth.

"Careful," he warned, staying away from her teeth, "or I'll give you something you can really work on, fill that hot little mouth of yours right up. And you'll love it."

She shuddered inside. Thought she might be sick and throw up all over him.

From astride her he laughed, a brittle sound as hollow as all the caverns of h.e.l.l.

"We're going to get you," she warned. "If not me, then someone else. They'll never give up. They'll run you to the ground like a rabid dog."

He struck quickly. Plunged the needle into her arm.

She felt a sharp, cold sting against her skin, then the horrifying pressure of some unknown drug being forced into her flesh.

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" she hissed and he laughed again, that low, sick growl, and he crawled slightly upward, forcing his crotch even closer to her head.

Her stomach roiled and still she swiped at him, her legs kicking upward.

Her attempts were futile, all her struggling in vain.

The penlight rolled noisily across the stone floor, stopping against the door, its tiny beam offering faint, narrow illumination. There wasn't enough light to see his features clearly, just a glimmer of thin luminance that threw his face into a shadowy, macabre relief. His eyes were shielded by dark gla.s.ses, a baseball cap covered his head, and a beard darkened his jaw, yet she caught a chilling glimpse of his features. Rugged. Rough. Scratches down one cheek where she'd sc.r.a.ped his skin with her fingernails.

I know you, she thought, her arm suddenly heavy, the pain in her chest easing as she started to drift away. I know you, you miserable whack job, and d.a.m.n it, somehow, someway, I'm going to get out of here and when I do, I swear to G.o.d, I'm going to nail your sorry a.s.s...

Chapter Six.