Deserves to Die (30 page)

“Are you kidding me?”

“Nope. The call is being traced, emergency vehicles dispatched.”

“What’s the emergency?” It didn’t sound good. People on the run didn’t tend to call the police unless something unexpected and dire, usually life-threatening, had gone down.

“Don’t know for certain. He said something about a possible suicide attempt.”

“By whom?”

“A woman.”

“Shit. It’s Anne-Marie Calderone. Suicide attempt, my ass.”

“He claims he’s at a cabin in the Bitterroots off the county road. The triangulation confirms the location. A cabin owned by someone who lives out of state.”

“He’s there? With her? You mean, they’re there?”

“It’s sketchy. He’s not responding to the operator though he hasn’t hung up.”

“Ominous,” Pescoli thought aloud as she scrabbled into the side pocket of her purse for her key ring. Sidestepping around Pete Watershed, who was heading in the opposite direction, Pescoli tried to piece it all together. “Maybe he tracked her down and they got into some kind of lover’s quarrel. She did do the bogus marriage thing with him. That’s gotta sting. Big rodeo rider. Probably a macho guy. Maybe he tried to kill her and has remorse.”

“Who knows?”

“It’s just unbelievable that after all this time of chasing shadows, we get a goddamn call for help from one of the suspects.”

“Person of interest,” Alvarez pointed out. “Not a suspect.”

“There you go again, semantics.” Pushing open the back door, Pescoli caught a blast as the arctic air slapped her full in the face. “You know, just once, just damn once, it would be nice if one of our local serial killers decided to do his business in the summer.” She hit the button on the remote lock, and the Jeep’s lights flickered, its horn giving a soft beep. “Yeah, wouldn’t that be the ticket.”

“Careful what you wish for,” Alvarez said. “Summer brings heat, rotting flesh, maggots, flies, stench, you name it.”

“Still—” Pescoli’s breath formed clouds as she talked.

Alvarez turned the conversation back to the case. “Even though emergency vehicles have been dispatched, Ryder’s claiming he’s taking the victim to a hospital in Missoula. Northwest General.”

Where Dan Grayson had died.
Pescoli didn’t like the reminder.

At the county vehicle, Alvarez opened the door to the passenger seat. “Oh. I’ve already advised Blackwater.”

Perfect.
Pescoli slid behind the wheel and remembered the new sheriff showing up at the O’Halleran ranch where the first victim had been discovered. The two doors closed simultaneously. “Isn’t Blackwater already driving to the location? Trying to grab a little glory?”

“You’re awful.”

“So I’ve heard.” Pescoli started the Jeep, flipped on the wipers, and backed out of the parking spot.

Alvarez actually grinned. “I don’t know if the sheriff will show up. He was still eyeball deep in a conversation with Nia Del Ray. I had to text him the info. Didn’t want to break up his moment to shine with the press.”

“Then, no,” Pescoli said, answering her own question. Ramming the Jeep into gear, she nosed out of the lot. ”He wouldn’t pass up the opportunity for a sound bite.”

“Even for capturing a serial killer?”

“Eh.” Pescoli tipped a gloved hand up and down. “Maybe. Maybe not.” She checked the street, then gunned the engine and cut in front of a slow-moving van of some kind.

Alvarez hung on. “Slow down, Detective. Remember, we don’t know that we’re going to find Calderone and even if we do and she survives, we still don’t have proof other than one lousy fingerprint that she’s the killer.”

Pescoli flipped on the overhead lights and siren. No time to waste.

Ryder didn’t bother gathering his things. He had to get Anne-Marie to the hospital. Nothing else mattered. Though she was a dead weight in his arms, he kicked open the door and carried her to the truck, trying like hell not to jar her, but feeling the clock ticking. Once at the pickup, he set her on the worn cushions then laid the passenger seat back as far into a reclining position as it would go. “Anne,” he called to her. “Anne-Marie? Darlin’, come on, now. Stay with me.”

Her eyes fluttered and he felt hope swell in his heart.

“We’re goin’ now,” he told her but her eyes didn’t track. “Hang on.” He closed the side door, then rounded the truck and climbed in, his keys already out of his pocket. Double-checking that the rig was in four-wheel drive, he flipped on the starter. The old engine fired. He found reverse and started to back up past the trees that had flanked the lane. The snow was deep, but his Dodge moved easily, cutting tracks through the powder to the wide spot in the lane a little farther back, an open space where he could turn his vehicle around and head to the main road. Hopefully, it had been plowed.

If so, within twenty minutes or so, he would be able to get Anne-Marie to the hospital. “Hang in there,” he said again, squinting through the snow. His back window was fogged and it was hard to see. He used his mirrors, trying to keep his truck on track. Almost at the place he hoped to swing the back end around, he caught a glimpse of something that appeared through the veil, a huge shadow looming behind him.

“What the hell?” He looked in the rearview mirror, and God Almighty, if there wasn’t another vehicle behind him, blocking his path. A grayish Ford Explorer. Older model.

Like the one he’d seen at the River View.

His heart nearly stopped. He thought of the shadow he’d seen earlier. Squinting, he didn’t see anyone inside the Explorer, but the interior was impossible to clearly discern through the snowfall. He glanced around the area. Was the vehicle there because of them or had it been parked by someone going cross-country skiing or snowshoeing or even poaching?

The hairs on the back of his neck rose and he thought about his pistol, hidden deep in the pocket of his jacket, just behind the passenger seat.

It didn’t matter. He just had to get around the thing.

He didn’t like it, but he had to deal with it.

He thought he could squeeze around one side, but he’d have to back around the Ford; there just wasn’t enough room between the trees to rotate his truck. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, his attention on the Explorer.

He didn’t notice her move.

Didn’t see it coming.

All of a sudden, quick as a rattler striking, Anne-Marie sat bolt upright, reached forward, and grabbed the handcuffs from his pocket. As he jerked, she managed to click one over his wrist. With a snap, the other was locked over the steering wheel.

“What the hell?” he said, pulling back, trying to release the lock.

As if she’d done it a thousand times, she slid his Glock from his jacket pocket, cut the engine, then opened the side door.

“Hey!”

“I told you I wasn’t going back, Ryder.”

“Wait! No! Anne-Marie! For the love of God! I was taking you to the frickin’ hospital!”

“Sure. Give me a break!” She slammed the door shut and took off running, racing along the tracks he’d just cut, hurrying back to the cabin.

Furious with himself, with his damn gullibility where she was concerned, he pounded the wheel.
Damn.

He’d been a fool. Not just once, but again! He swore and pulled at the cuffs, but they were locked solid. “Shit!” he yelled. “Shit, shit. Shit! Anne!”

But she was gone. Through the windshield and falling snow, he watched her leap over the step, not slowing an inch, her self-inflicted injuries all part of her disguise. In the blink of an eye, she disappeared into the cabin.

God. Damn. It.

With a sickening sense of what was happening, he realized that he’d been duped. She was never in any real danger of dying. Her whole suicide attempt had been a ruse. And he’d fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker.

A
nne-Marie worked fast. There wasn’t much time. She found Ryder’s phone in the bathroom where the stupid 9-1-1 operator was still bleating out instructions. She turned the phone off, severing the connection, then disabled it completely, ignoring the smeared blood on the bathroom floor—her blood.

Heart thumping, hating herself for her deception, she changed quickly, but didn’t remove the damn bandages. She was still bleeding a little bit but wasn’t worried. She hadn’t cut an artery or even a major vein, just sliced the surface over and over again, a trick, considering the restrictions of those damn handcuffs, but one she’d researched on the Internet long ago. She had become a master of disguise and deception, two traits of which she wasn’t all that proud, but sure as hell came in handy.

She thought of Ryder trapped in the truck.

It wouldn’t be for long.

The damn cops were on their way.

So she couldn’t waste a second. She changed quickly, tucked Ryder’s Glock into the back of her jeans, the waistband holding it snug against her back. “Here we go,” she said and started loading her SUV.

“Anne!” Ryder yelled. “Anne-Marie!”
Shit! Fuck! Damn!
“Anne! Oh, for the love of . . .” Pissed beyond pissed, he yanked at the handcuffs holding him fast to the steering wheel.

Wait a second!

The key!

“Where the hell is the key for the cuffs?” He’d put it on the ring . . . then he saw the tiny notched piece of metal dangling from the key ring still in the truck’s ignition.

He couldn’t believe his good luck. Tantalizingly close, he reached for it, but it hung just out of his reach. No matter how he strained, leaned, and twisted, he just couldn’t get it.

His mind started spinning with options, none of them possible. As cold as it was, he started to sweat with his efforts. He’d been such a fool to let her, a known criminal, a major liar, and a master of deception, get the drop on him. Letting his breath out in frustration, he glanced in the rearview again to that damn SUV blocking his escape. No doubt it was part of Anne-Marie’s plan.

How had I been so stupid?

How had I let her lie to me?

He took another swipe at the keys and swore when his fingertip brushed the bottom of the ring. But that was it. Not good enough. Too far away by less than an inch. If he could just reach the key ring, if he could slide the handcuffs up the steering wheel to give him just a bit more leeway, then maybe he could . . .
Crap.
The steering wheel wasn’t an unbroken circle, of course. The braces holding the wheel to the column prevented him from sliding around it completely. He stretched, trying to reach the keys with his free hand, but the most he could do was tick the key with the tip of his middle finger.

“Son of a bitch.” He strained, the cords of his neck distending, his muscles stretching to their limits, but no go. Through the fogging windshield, he watched as she loaded her SUV with essentials and her bag. Even a wig was tossed into the back seat. Swiftly. Efficiently. Something black and bulky was tucked into the belt of her jeans at her back and he realized it was a gun—his damn Glock. She never once looked in his direction, just packed her truck with singular efficiency and climbed behind the wheel.

Damn her.

Where did she think she could go? How could she drive around his truck and that damn vehicle parked behind him? And where was the driver of the truck? The bad feeling that had been with Ryder when he first saw the Explorer blocking the lane burrowed a little deeper in his soul. Though he told himself he was imagining things, that the truck was just a coincidence, he didn’t quite believe it.

He felt the weight of her tiny pistol in his pocket, a practically useless weapon, but a weapon nonetheless. Of course, it was lodged deep on the opposite side of his body as his free hand but, just to be on the safe side, he decided it was worth the effort to retrieve it and her damn switchblade. But of course, he was thwarted. The weapons in that pocket, like the keys dangling in the ignition, were just out of reach. No matter how he twisted and contorted his body, he couldn’t slide his free hand near the pocket. However, he could, just maybe, shrug out of the coat, at least on the side of his body that wasn’t clamped to the wheel. If he got his shoulder free and slid the jacket down his back, partially off his cuffed arm, he might be able to twist the fabric enough to be able to reach the gun. Then, at least, he’d be armed. Trapped, but armed.

But it wasn’t going to happen.

Try as he might, all he could do was free up his left arm, the padded sleeve of his jacket no longer binding, which gave him a little more wiggle room. Not much. But he didn’t need more than another half an inch. He reached for the keys again, finally able to touch part of his house key.

Maybe he wasn’t trapped after all.

Maybe he could—

Through the snow collecting over the windshield, he saw the very same kind of shadow he’d viewed from the porch only minutes earlier. He squinted and his heart stopped.

The shadow was a man. A tall man.

And in his hand, he held a gun.

“We’ve got a little more info,” Alvarez told her partner as Pescoli hit the gas and sped around a dawdling minivan that thankfully pulled to the side of the road. With the Jeep’s light bar lit menacingly and the siren screaming a warning for the slow-moving traffic to get out of her way, she was able to push the speed limit despite the storm.

As she drove into the hills, she slid around a flatbed truck that was inching up an incline, her red and blue lights reflecting off the snow.

Alvarez was staring at the small screen of her phone.

“What?” Pescoli asked.

“It’s on Ryder’s phone. Apparently, he didn’t think he was doing anything worrisome, because his last call, the one before the hospital, was to an unlisted number in Louisiana. Private cell. Zoller called Montoya, who’s in the loop, and he was able to come up with the owner of the phone.”

“Let me guess. Bruce Calderone.”

“Not even close.” Alvarez slid a glance at her partner. “The phone is listed to Favier Industries. Specifically Talbert Favier.”

“Anne-Marie’s father?” Pescoli asked. “He’s in cahoots with the illegal second husband?”

“Seems so.”

“I wonder what the hell that’s all about.”

“We should find out soon,” Alvarez said, checking her GPS. “We’ll be there within ten. Deputies and an ambulance are probably arriving.”

“If anyone’s still there. By now, Ryder was supposed to be taking her to the hospital, isn’t that what you said?”

“Yeah.” Alvarez was still staring at the screen. “We’ve got officers waiting at Northern General?”

“And the other hospitals in the area in case that was a ruse to throw us off.”

“Good.”

Pescoli smiled as she took a corner a little too fast and the Jeep slid a second before the wheels caught. “This is all going down. Finally.”

Anne-Marie stepped onto the porch.

Ryder witnessed the assassin raise his gun and aim. “No!”

Shit!
With a supreme effort, Ryder reached for the keys again, his fingers touching the end of his dangling house key. No longer did he care about the handcuffs. No, he had another plan in mind . . . if the bastard would just stay put.

And he had enough time.

God, help him. He felt the cold metal brush against his fingers.

Once.

Twice.

And then he grabbed the truck key, still engaged. All he had to do was throw his weight into it and then . . .

Anne-Marie stopped dead in her tracks.

Her heart hit the ground as she recognized her husband, her first and only legal husband standing behind her SUV, a huge pistol aimed straight at her heart.

“Bruce,” she said, going cold inside, her worst fears crystalizing.

“Going somewhere?” he asked in that voice she found so hateful.

“What’re you doing here?” she said, trying to stay cool when she was beyond freaked. She needed to buy time. She had a weapon, too, a large pistol, but it would take a second or two to reach behind her.

“You’ve been hard to find.”

She moved to one side, and the muzzle of his huge gun followed her. Sick inside, she realized that once again, she was at his mercy, the little wife of the outwardly handsome, inwardly insidious monster of a husband. Only this time, she knew she was doomed. If he’d gone through all the trouble of tracking her down, he wouldn’t just let her be.

“I-I thought you’d disappeared,” she said, thinking hard, looking for some means of escape. If she could just buy some time . . .

“Like you.”

“You left me for dead.”

“I did,” he admitted with a mock-disgusted smile. “And damn it, I made a mistake, thinking the alligators would finish you off.” All humor faded from his voice. “Trust me, this time I won’t.”

She didn’t doubt it. But the gun. If she could just get to the gun. “How did you find me?” she asked, though it didn’t matter. She was just putting off the inevitable.

“Simple. I didn’t have to look for you.” Again, he was pleased with himself, thought he was so damn clever, was glad to rub her nose in it. “I just followed Ryder.”

She felt sick inside at the thought that she, even inadvertently, had dragged Ryder into this.

“He was pretty dogged, you know. Seems as if he had as much of a bone to pick with you as I do.” Calderone chuckled humorlessly. “Husbands. They can be such a problem. Especially when you have more than one at a time.”

“That was a mistake. I know it now,” she said, wondering if there was a chance that she could reason with him and desperate enough to try. It wasn’t just her skin she had to worry about, but Ryder’s as well. Handcuffed as he was, Ryder was a sitting duck.

“Look,” she said, inching up slightly to the open door of the cabin but splaying her hands to keep his attention off her feet. She saw him stare at his handiwork. Her stump—the finger he’d cut off as a reminder of how she’d abused her wedding vows. “It’s over. You and me. We both know it and we knew it a long time ago. So, don’t do anything foolish. You’re a doctor for God’s sake, you’re young. Go and live your life. Leave me alone.”

She was rambling, she knew, but still, he hadn’t shot her. Not yet. Though she was panicking inside, still intending to shoot him if she had the chance, she forced her voice to remain calm. “Go away, Bruce. So far, you’re not a killer and you could leave me . . .” Her voice faded away as reality hit her and she thought of the two women who had been killed recently.

“Too late for that. Sacrifices had to be made.”

“Sacrifices? I don’t under—” But she did. Her stomach turned over. She thought she might throw up. God, how she hated this man. How, how, how had she ever remotely thought she loved him? Why in the world did she marry him? Because her own home life hadn’t been the picture-perfect postcard everyone had believed. And she’d been duped by him. If given the chance, she’d blow him away and not think twice about it.

“They needed to die, so that you would be blamed.”

“Me? But how? I had nothing to do with them.”

“Didn’t you?”

“Of course not.” She inched backward, still trying to figure out how to save Ryder, save herself. “I didn’t even know them.”

“Oh, but Anne-Marie, there’s the problem.” Calderone wagged the gun a little and her eyes were fixed on the muzzle. Was it her imagination or over the whistle of the wind did she hear the faint shriek of sirens?

The police!

Ryder had called 9-1-1!

Had they come up with the right location?

Hurry, hurry, hurry!

“You can’t prove it though, can you? That you’d not met those women,” Calderone was saying, so caught up in his own story, in his bragging, that he hadn’t heard the sirens as he stood confidently behind her SUV.

He couldn’t prove it—yet. But he would. He wouldn’t be so outwardly cocky if he hadn’t made certain of that fact. Oh, how her fingers itched to grab Ryder’s Glock.

“You know, it looks very suspicious that those women happened to die just about the time you arrived in town, don’t you think? And then, oh dear, evidence points to you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your fingerprint, Anne-Marie. Your fucking telltale print showed up on the victims’ personal effects.”

“But I never—”

“I guess you just got careless.”

“What? No! You’re bluffing,” she accused. But she knew him too well to believe her own words.

The glint of satisfaction in his eyes, and his cold, cold smile convinced her he wasn’t lying. To prove his point, he kept the gun trained on her with one hand, while with the other, he unzipped his jacket to expose a chain that he lifted and she saw something withered and dark and . . .

Her stomach dropped and she retched, fighting the urge to throw up. “Oh, God.”

“That’s right. A little keepsake from my dear whore of a wife.”

“You shit!”

His eyes flared. “So let’s end this,” he said harshly.

The sirens were getting closer, but Calderone didn’t seem to notice the noise over the wind, so intent was he on killing her. “Go ahead and try for the gun,” he said smoothly. Confidently. Always the supercilious egomaniac. “I know you’ve got one, but, trust me, Annie-girl, you’ll never reach it, aim it, and fire before you’re dead.”

So much for the element of surprise. She saw him level the gun straight at her heart and threw herself backward into the open doorway.

Blam!
Calderone fired.

Wood splintered.

She hit the floor, rolled over, reached around her back.

A big engine roared to life.

What the hell?

Blam!
Another shot, the bullet whizzing into the cabin.