Born To Die

  “And say what?”

  “I haven’t completely figured that out yet,” Kacey admitted.

  “Huh. Yeah. How do you tell someone you think she’s next on the list of some psychopath, especially when there’s no real link established yet?”

  “I’m working on that, along with finding out if Elle gave me false information or really didn’t know where she was born.”

  “I don’t know about this,” Trace said after a long, silent moment.

  “You came here,” she reminded him. “With pictures of Jocelyn and Leanna. Don’t you think it’s damned odd that so many women who look so much alike, who are in their early thirties, are dying?”

  “Yes . . . I do . . . but what are you really saying? You think a serial killer is searching for a type? And that the victims aren’t random targets? That he stalks them? That maybe he knew these people while they were in Helena?”

  “That’s probably unlikely,” she admitted, as frustrated as ever. “Shelly left Helena when she was really young, and if Elle was there, she didn’t know it. Her birth certificate’s from Idaho.”

  He slid the picture away from the others that were clustered together. “So she’s different.”

  “In that respect. But she’s in the region. I don’t know.” Again she looked at the picture of the woman to whom Trace had once been married. “What about Leanna?”

  He made a face. “She said she’d once lived around Helena, but she didn’t remember any of it, either. I think her parents split, but the truth is, I don’t know much about her. She liked it that way. Didn’t want to talk about her childhood.”

  “You don’t know where she went to school? Or her friends?”

  He shifted in the chair. “I met her in a bar, it went down hot and heavy, and she ended up pregnant. We got married a few weeks later. Then she lost the baby and split.”

  “Leaving Eli?”

  “That’s the kind of woman she is. Not that I want it any other way. If she tried to take Eli from me, I’d fight her till the end. The marriage was one of those six-week wonders.” Another swig from his bottle. Kacey watched his Adam’s apple move, then turned her attention to the images.

  Another woman near her age, who looked like her, who’d lived around Montana’s state capital, possibly born there, and who was now missing.

  “Here’s something else,” she added. “I just found out that the man who I thought was my father wasn’t. My mother had an affair with a doctor in Helena, and even when my dad found out, he kept raising me as his own.”

  “So?”

  “These women don’t just look alike. Some of us are dead ringers for the other. For a while the staff at St. Bart’s thought I was the woman in ICU when Jocelyn was brought in.”

  “You think you’re related to these victims, these women? That this one guy fathered all of you, and now he’s . . . what? Knocking you off?” He looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.

  “I know it sounds crazy, but there’s a connection there. I’m not making it up. Come into the den. . . .” She scraped her chair back and led him to her computer, where she pulled up the information she’d gotten from Riza and printed it out.

  He read the reports, looked through the pages, checked pictures on driver’s licenses, scanned obituaries, and scowled thoughtfully. “Where’d you get these?”

  “A friend. It’s mostly public record.”

  He examined the pages a second time. “If you’re right ... and I don’t think you are . . . but this is pretty sick. It could all still be coincidence. These deaths . . .” He held up a stack of death certificates. “They were all ruled accidents.”

  “A lot of ’em. A librarian in Detroit, a ski instructor in Vail, a single mother and stay-at-home mom in San Francisco. Two others in Seattle and three . . . in Boise.”

  “All women.”

  “That we know of. But ... I think we’ve just tapped the surface.”

  “We don’t know anything yet. Some of these people died over ten years ago.” He shook his head, denying the evidence, even while his eyes kept coming back to the pages. “Let me get this straight. You think one person is behind these deaths and is just incredibly patient. Taking time, over a long period of years. And now a rash of murders?”

  “He’s escalating,” she said. “It happens.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “We don’t know a lot, like you said, but something’s really off here, and now the deaths, the ‘accidents,’ are happening closer together.”

  When he didn’t seem convinced, she reminded him, “You came over here. You recognized that the women you were involved with are a type. I’m just taking it one step further. I think we might all be genetically linked. In fact, I’m running some DNA tests to prove it, but unfortunately, that takes time.”

  “Seriously?” He appeared skeptical.

  “Yes. Elle Alexander was a patient of mine.” She pointed to the picture of the woman. “I’m having tests run comparing her DNA to mine. I know already that we both have B-negative blood, and that’s not common, so it’s a start. Not real proof, but a start.”

  His eyes searched hers. “And if you find out something concrete?”

  “Then I, or we, go to the police. Right now it’s too early. They would blow me off as a nutcase. Kinda like you want to do.”

  “I’m keeping an open mind here,” he said, though he didn’t seem convinced as he finished his beer while going over again every scrap of information that Kacey, with Riza’s help, had amassed.

  As he did, he turned on the news, and they both learned that another car might have been involved in Elle Alexander’s accident. The sheriff’s department had issued a statement, then had asked for the public’s help in letting the department know if anyone had witnessed the minivan going into the river.

  “They think it’s a hit-and-run,” Kacey said as the news segued into the weather.

  “It still could be an accident.”

  “Could be,” she allowed.

  “I’m just saying that her car could have been hit, her tires spun out on the ice, and the driver of the other vehicle freaked and left the scene.”

  “That makes him a criminal.”

  “But not necessarily tied to the other deaths.”

  “So you believe this is all coincidence?”

  “Just playing devil’s advocate here.”

  “Don’t you think I’ve done the same thing?” she demanded. “Tried to talk myself out of this ... bizarre situation. I wish I were wrong, I really do, but I don’t think I am.”

  They turned off the news; then Trace, declining another beer, went to work setting up a security code for her computer and Wi-Fi. “The least I can do,” he told her when she protested that she was taking up too much of his time. “For everything you’ve done for Eli.”

  She didn’t argue, and if she admitted it to herself, she was grateful for his help. During school Riza and some other techie-type friends had helped her, and during her marriage JC, who considered himself brilliant in all aspects of his life, had set up all their computer equipment. But since moving to Grizzly Falls and dealing with a house that was ill equipped with outlets, much less anything remotely electronic, she’d had to do the work herself or once in a while hire it out, which was what she’d done with the broken furnace, plumbing leak she’d had in the bathroom upstairs, and the new exterior lights she’d had installed on the garage.

  As Trace pulled out the desk and began examining her wiring, she watched him work and gave herself a swift mental shake for noting how his jeans stretched over his hips and butt as he reached over the desk. His sweater rode up a bit, showing off a quick glimpse of his back, skin stretched taut over smooth muscles.

  Dragging her gaze away, she told herself she was acting like a teen.

  “That should do it,” he said as he straightened. “All set. I’ll show you how to use the security code.” Then he took hold of her wrist and, to her shock, pulled her tight against him. His
hand found the back of her neck, and he whispered into her ear. “I think you’ve been bugged.”

  “Wha—,” she started to say, but he held her fast, her body crushed against his.

  “It’s not that hard,” he said loudly. “Just a matter of making a few changes!” But he didn’t release her. In a voice barely audible, added, “We need to talk as if we have no idea about what’s going on, okay? Just follow my lead.” Pulling his head back, he stared into her eyes, and she nodded slowly.

  “What should I use for the code?” she asked as he released her.

  “Something that you’ll remember. Here. But only you, just to keep it secure. Let me show you where the password needs to be entered. . . .”

  CHAPTER 25

  “ Son of a bitch!” He ripped the listening device from his head and nearly threw it against the wall. He had been recording any noise in the house for hours and had determined that she was working fast. Somehow in the few hours since that withered hag Maribelle had spilled her guts, Acacia had found an ally, one in whom she’d confided that she’d connected the deaths of the women . . . but what was the remark about the man being “involved” with the women?

  Whom had she meant? Jocelyn Wallis?

  Someone else?

  The conversation had been hard to hear, but he’d pieced two and two together. The male on the tape, the one providing her with security precautions, was Trace O’Halleran, Leanna’s ex and the father of a kid who was her patient.

  But he didn’t understand why the guy was at her house so late at night and fucking up her computer! Why had she confided in him, told him about what that old hag Maribelle had told her, showed him whatever documentation she had?

  He silently cursed himself for fucking up. He should have killed her back in the parking garage years ago! What a mistake to allow Acacia to live. And that bitch of a mother of hers.

  He should have bugged Acacia’s entire house, not just a few key rooms. He’d not been able to decipher the first part of her conversation with O’Halleran due to the radio playing too loudly, distorting his clarity.

  Everything was unraveling.

  Far too fast.

  She was ruining things, would tell others, including the police, and everything he’d worked so hard to accomplish would be destroyed.

  He couldn’t let it happen. Not after his years of patient, hard work; he’d have to up his game even further. Who was she to force him to take more risks, to abandon his sense of caution?

  Despite all his planning and his own desire to make her the last, to drag it out for her, to let her feel the terror, as payback for all her sins, he had to change things up. She had to be next.

  He was quivering inside, rage storming through his body. He opened a drawer in his desk, then pulled out a narrow locked case with a combination lock. Turning the dial, he snapped open the lid and withdrew the knife. Holding the blade upward so that it glinted in the night, he remembered seeing her face-to-face as she turned, felt again the surge of power as he leapt at her, heard her surprised shout as their bodies collided.

  God, what a rush!

  He twisted the knife in his hand. Thin. Razor sharp. Perfect for skinning or boning or killing. One jab to her heart or lungs, or a quick slice across her throat, and she would die while she looked into his eyes, knowing he had drained the life from her.

  But it hadn’t happened seven years earlier.

  She’d been stronger than he’d expected, and they’d been interrupted.

  So she’d escaped. And he’d decided to wait. A mistake, it seemed now. He felt his blood pressure rising, his fury burning through his veins, images in his head turning red.

  “Calm yourself,” he ordered quietly. He paced to the door, grabbed the handle, then let it go. Closing his eyes for a second, he recaptured some of his fleeing composure. Finally he walked back to his desk. This wouldn’t do. He prided himself on being in control. Somehow he had to regain his equilibrium.

  This was a situation that had to be dealt with, that was all. A problem that needed fixing, and fast. His mind spun ideas for an “accident,” not just for one, but two. The rancher would have to be killed, too.... Together, they had to die together.

  Lovers in a passionate but deadly quarrel?

  Murder/suicide?

  A robbery gone bad?

  Another car wreck, where neither one survived? The winter weather and coming storms would provide believability. He balled his fists and held them tight over his eyes.

  Think!

  You’ve worked too hard to give up now!

  Again he wondered if the Fates were against him.

  Of course not!

  But he couldn’t shake that same old feeling that something or someone was watching him. Like a deadly snake deceptively wound around a twisted branch, an unseen enemy lying in wait, ready to strike. His skin crawled, and he slowly let out his breath. This was insane; he couldn’t let his fears undermine him.

  He was in charge.

  He was the protector.

  And none of the Unknowings were going to outwit him.

  With a glance at his inversion boots, he dismissed thoughts of sweating out his frustrations. For the moment. He had too much to think about, too much to plan. Grimacing, he slid the headphones over his ears and listened with the sole intent of righting a very old wrong.

  Trace turned up the radio in the kitchen and the television in the living room. With the Christmas carols filtering from the back of the house and the news blaring from the front, he felt that he and Kacey could talk. He showed her the tiny microphones he’d located, including the ones in her bathroom and bedroom, which, when he pointed them out, drained the color from her face.

  “Who?” she said in a low voice. “Why?”

  “Someone who wants to know what you’re doing.”

  “I should go to the police.”

  He nodded.

  She started to shake. “He’s been in my house!”

  He drew her near and whispered in her ear, “You asked who.... Can you answer that question?”

  “No . . . I don’t think so. I’m usually here alone, and until Bonzi moved in, I didn’t talk to anyone except on the phone, but those are pretty one-sided conversations.”

  They were practically in an embrace, and now Trace made it official, talking to her like a lover to keep their voices from being overheard. “What about disgruntled boyfriends or your ex-husband?”

  “Not JC. He’s over me and he wouldn’t stoop to this. The divorce is long over. And there hasn’t been an ex-boyfriend since my freshman year in college, maybe.”

  “An unhappy business partner, or someone who didn’t like the medical treatment, or a girlfriend that thinks you put her down?”

  “I’m telling you I don’t have any enemies.”

  “Maybe someone you’re making nervous.”

  “I just got this information. I haven’t . . . done anything.” She was shaking her head, but the images of the women who looked like her, some alive and some dead, slid through her brain. “But it has to be him. It has to do with this whole dopplegänger thing,” she said, reluctantly releasing him to sink onto the couch.

  “Has anyone ever tried to harm you?”

  Her inner eye flashed on the attacker, a man in black, ski mask covering his face, leaping from the shadowy staircase of the parking structure. Terror sizzled through her, as it had that night.

  “Kacey?” Trace prodded.

  She let out her breath, and sensing she had a story to tell, he took her out to the front porch, where she whispered, “There was one time. But it was around seven years ago, when I lived in Seattle, still going to medical school.” She shuddered, remembering that day. She had been fighting a cold and was dead on her feet. It was late, and she’d spent hours in the library, on the computer, as hers had been ravaged by the latest virus.

  Just before the library closed, she’d left, crossed to the parking garage where she’d parked her car, and taken the elevator to the si
xth floor.

  She hadn’t seen him hiding near the stairwell, had been too busy fumbling with her keys and wishing she were already in bed with the covers pulled up to her chin and a cup of hot lemon water with a teaspoon of clover honey, her grandmother’s cure-all for everything, at her bedside.

  As she walked to her car, she noticed that the lights in the garage seemed dim. Then she’d seen that two bulbs were smashed, the glass having rained onto the concrete floor.

  All she’d been concerned with at that moment was that shards of glass might become embedded in her tires.

  And then she’d heard something out of place—a quiet cough? Or the scrape of shoe leather? She’d started to turn. A glimpse out of the corner of her eye. A man leaping from the shadows near the stairwell. Dressed in black, some kind of body-fitting suit, a ski mask pulled over his head, he raised a hand as he jumped at her.

  In his gloved fingers, a knife blade glinted.

  She screamed, hit him with her purse, and tried to run. Too late. His weight came down on her. Bam, her forehead cracked against the concrete. Blood poured from her face as they wrestled. Adrenaline fired her blood, and she fought wildly, yelling and swearing, grabbing his wrist, forcing the blade away from her throat.

  “Bitch!” he snarled, but there was another sound, that of a car’s engine starting a floor or two above.

  His attention wavered, and she shifted beneath him, twisting his wrist, turning the knife upward, so that when he looked down, she sliced open the mask near his eye, a thin line of blood showing near his temple.

  “Help! Help me!” she screamed and heard the car above heading down.

  He heard it, too. Swearing viciously, he threw her away from him, leapt to his feet, and ran off just as the car, a white Volkswagen, turned the far corner and headed directly toward her.

  She lifted an arm, and the driver, a woman about her age, stood on the brakes, then flew out of her car, leaving it idling as she cried, “Are you okay? What happened?” She recoiled at seeing Kacey’s bloody face but was already dialing 9-1-1.