Deep Freeze

  His blood was pumping. Thrumming through his veins. Snowflakes melted against his flesh, drizzling cold trails of water down his face and along his bare skin. He wore only gloves, no other article of clothing. His muscles quivered as he pulled himself up on the bar he used for chin-ups, a cold metal rod lodged deep into the rough bark of giant firs.

  Pull up…slowly…let down even more slowly. Body rigid. Feet together. Up. Down. Up. Down. One hundred times.

  Exercise was part of his daily regimen. Day in, day out. Regardless of the weather.

  “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night…yeah, that was it, just as regular as the U.S. Postal Service.

  Dependable

  But deadly.

  Invincible in winter.

  Made strong by the very cold he abhorred. Mentally clicking off the reps, feeling the ache in his muscles as he strained, he felt the need to kill again, the pulsing need begin to throb through him. Gritting his teeth, he finished his regimen, then dropped lithely to the ground, his bare feet sinking into the drifting snow.

  The sheen of sweat on his skin mingled with the icy drops of snow. Hot and cold. Freezing air rushing over his nakedness. Steam rising from his flesh.

  The wickedness of the night crept under his skin.

  He closed his eyes for a second.

  Imagined the hunt.

  It was the killing time.

  And he knew where to find her…

  CHAPTER 27

  If Mohammed wouldn’t come to the mountain, then the damned mountain was going to haul ass to him.

  Roxie Olmstead was tired of getting the “no comment” routine from the Lewis County Sheriff’s Department, and she was pissed that she couldn’t get through to Carter. The guy was stonewalling her, no doubt about it.

  She’d left voice messages and e-mail messages and even hung out around the courthouse, hoping to flag Carter down and get some kind of information about Mavis Gette, the woman found in pieces up on Catwalk Point. Even after the corpse had been identified, Carter had refused her calls—well, actually, that bitch of a receptionist, Jerri Morales, had coolly informed Roxie that Carter was “out” or “in a meeting” or “unavailable.” She’d only found out about Mavis Gette from a statement issued by the Oregon State Police.

  “Hell,” she muttered, walking out of the offices of the Lewis County Banner. The wind blasted her, pushing her hood off her head and running icy fingers through her hair. Clutching her laptop, thermos, and purse, she hurried through the blowing snow to her car and unlocked the little four-door. Her stomach was acting up again and she popped a couple of antacids after she scraped a vision hole in the ice covering the windshield, then flicked on the ignition and the Toyota’s defroster started warming the glass in front of her. Her Corolla had over two hundred thousand miles on it and was beat to hell, the interior shot, but with an engine that wouldn’t quit. With a standard “three-on-the-tree” transmission and studded snow tires, the old car could get Roxie just about anywhere. Including Sheriff Carter’s house.

  She smiled to herself as she considered the lawman. Tall and good-looking, Carter appeared more like Hollywood’s vision of a cowboy than a real sheriff. It bugged the hell out of Roxie that he wouldn’t give her the time of day. Well, tonight things were going to change.

  She turned on the wipers to help scrape off the ice, and switched on her favorite radio station, one of the few that came in here, and listened to ’80s pop as the ice slowly melted and the car’s interior warmed. Before she could really see much, she swiped a spot clear on the inside of the windshield and picked her way through the few cars in the lot, then gunned it onto the street. Her car slid a bit and she grinned. God, she loved the snow, watched as it swirled and danced in front of her headlights. At a stoplight, she braked, found a tube of lip gloss in her purse, and swiped a little pinkish stain over her lips. She was admiring her work in the rearview mirror when the light changed; she stepped on it before the guy on her bumper got impatient and laid on the horn.

  Driving out of town, she mentally sketched out what she would say to Carter when he answered his door.

  If he wasn’t home, she’d wait. She had a thermos of coffee, a blanket, and a book that was interesting enough to hold her attention, but not so consuming that she’d lose track of time or her quarry. If he didn’t show up in an hour, she’d bag it and try again tomorrow. As much as she wanted to corner him, there was only so much time she could spend in this cold, and she wasn’t going to use up all the power in her little battery.

  But, by God, he was going to talk to her.

  Face-to-face.

  She had questions to ask him, and, in her mind, was plotting what she intended to say to him, how to approach him, how to avoid getting his door slammed in her face. She even thought of using a ploy—“Sorry, Sheriff, I ran out of gas, right up the road”—but knew he’d see right through it. What to do? How could she get past his formidable facade and into the real man beneath his tough veneer? Just what was it that made Carter tick? She knew all the standard facts about him: age, education, that he’d lived in Falls Crossing most of his life; he’d been married, and his wife had died in a deadly cold snap not unlike this one, but she’d like to pierce through that invisible armor of his. What was the man behind the badge like?

  She’d hate to think how many times she’d fantasized about him. There was something about a brooding, quiet, secretive man in a uniform that turned her on. Oh God, she’d hate to think what some shrink would make of that, especially since her father had been a cop.

  So intent was she on her inner thoughts that she braked and signaled by rote, driving into the snowstorm and heading toward his home. Humming along to an old Billy Idol tune, she barely noticed the thin traffic, the few cars she met on the snowy roads, nor anyone following her.

  Engine humming, her Toyota skimmed along the road, snow tires holding onto the icy pavement, headlights sending thin beams that cut through the night and glistened against the dirty, sandy, packed snow. The song ended and she glanced in the rearview mirror, noticing for the first time how close a car was behind her. Right on her ass. “Jesus,” she growled, as if he could hear her. “Hey, buddy, this isn’t L.A.” She sped up, her tires sliding a bit, and he was right with her. An idiot. One of oh, so many. Man, if she could get his license plate. That was it. She slowed, but he didn’t pass, just hugged her bumper, probably afraid to try and make it around her on these twisting, icy roads.

  Fortunately, the turn-off to the road leading past Carter’s house was just a mile ahead. No doubt she’d lose this bastard then.

  She shifted down for the corner, put in the clutch and felt it give. Oh, hell, it had been temperamental lately. The car behind her didn’t slow. “Watch out,” she said, managing to ram her Corolla into second gear, then tried for first just as she reached the turn-off. The prick was still on her butt! Not backing off an inch. What the hell was he thinking? Carefully, she eased her foot onto the brake and started into her turn.

  Bam!

  Her head snapped.

  What the hell? The idiot behind her had clipped her bumper!

  Her Toyota began to spin crazily.

  Instinctively she stood on the brakes.

  Wrong! The car slid out of control, still cutting 360s and reeling wildly toward the trees. “Shit!”

  She tried to remember to turn into the spin, not to lock her brakes, but the side of the road and the trees were whirling ever closer. Too close. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!” she yelled, trying not to freak out, praying the car would slow. She was at the edge of the road now. A huge Douglas fir with thick, twisted bark loomed into view.

  Closer. “No!”

  Closer, the NO TRESPASSING sign right in front of her. “Jesus, no!”

  Thud!

  Metal groaned.

  She covered her face.

  The car jolted to a stop.

  She started to fly forward, her head hit the steering wheel, but the seat belt snapped her bod
y against the seat.

  Glass shattered, raining down on her as ice and snow spewed into the Toyota.

  She tasted blood where her teeth had cut into her lip.

  Dazed, she reached for the seat belt clasp and in the cracked side-view mirror saw someone approach. The idiot who had hit her! Woozy, she undid the seat belt and fumbled for the door. She felt like she was going to puke.

  “Are you all right?” a male voice asked.

  No, you fucking moron, she thought groggily. I’m not, thanks to you.

  “Let me help you.”

  Good. Fine. Before I give you a piece of my mind and then sue the hell out of you.

  The car door opened and she retched, throwing up all over the snow and door frame. Her mouth tasted sour and she managed to swipe at it with the back of her gloved hand. God, she was shaky, and she couldn’t afford to be. “Why the hell were you driving up my ass?” she demanded as a big hand clasped around her arm. She looked up through her hair and the glass that had sprayed her. Didn’t she recognize this guy? Hadn’t she seen him around town?

  “I just wanted to get your attention, Marnie.”

  “What?” She tried to think. “Marnie? I’m not Marnie! What kind of idiot are you?”

  “One who’s here to help.” He smiled then, and she saw something sinister in his grin, something that touched on cruel.

  “Then get your hands off me. I’ll be fine,” she said, her head clearing. She had mace in her purse, an ice scraper in the side pocket of the Toyota’s door.

  “I don’t think so.” He was pulling her out of the car and she started resisting when she saw his weapon, a gun of some sort, and her heart stood still.

  “What is this?” she whispered, staring into eyes as cold as ice.

  “Salvation.”

  “But you’ve got the wrong woman.” She was fighting, trying to reach for the ice scraper, for her purse, for anything.

  “I know,” he said, and then he aimed the gun at her and a jolt of electricity shot through her system. She jerked and he shot her again with the stun gun before she went limp. “Of course you’re the wrong woman, Marnie. But you’ll just have to do.”

  Randall checked his watch. He hated to end the session, as they were becoming less frequent. His client had cancelled the last one that was to have been so early in the morning, then called back a day later and set up this appointment. Unfortunately, it was time to end their talk for the evening. Another client, his last of this god-awful night, would be arriving by the front staircase within fifteen minutes. He was surprised she hadn’t cancelled, considering the weather, but she was a die-hard, a lifer. She’d been in counseling fifteen years and probably would be for the rest of her life. As this one should be. He tapped his pen, the one he swore not to use, on the edge of the desk, then caught himself and stopped.

  The action didn’t go unnoticed. “So you’re telling me I have to face my fears.”

  “Essentially.” Randall nodded, set his pen in a cup on the desk.

  “I do that every day.”

  “Do you?” Randall nodded his agreement, though his client remained suspicious and tense. Sitting on a corner of the couch, he clenched both hands into fists, thumbs rubbing anxiously along the top of his index finger.

  Steely eyes stared him down. “You know, I’m beginning to suspect this is all bullshit.”

  “You came to me.”

  “It was ‘suggested’ by one of the people I work for.”

  “And you took the suggestion.”

  A beard-stubbled jaw slid to one side. “I thought it might help.”

  “Has it?”

  “You tell me—you’re the professional.”

  “I can’t read your mind.”

  A hint of a smile. “No? Then why the hell am I wasting my money?”

  “Because you wanted to get over your feelings of guilt.”

  The fists opened and closed again. “I don’t think that’s possible.” Thick eyebrows slammed together.

  “I think we’re making progress.”

  “Do you?”

  “Mmm. But these sessions are not only confidential, they’re optional. No one is forcing you to come here.” He stared over the tops of his glasses and waited for a confirmation of his statement.

  “That’s right.”

  “You do know that you weren’t responsible for David’s death.”

  A muscle worked in that hard jaw.

  “Nor Carolyn’s.”

  His client looked out the window and plucked at a seam in the smooth leather of the couch.

  Randall stared at the sheriff’s disbelieving profile as Carter attempted to wrest his demons from the cold winter night. “You don’t believe me,” Randall said.

  “You weren’t there. You only heard my side of it. If either David or Carolyn were here now, they might tell a different tale.” He faced the psychologist and his face was set. “They each depended on me. I let them down.”

  “As they let you down.”

  Carter snorted. “I didn’t die because my best friend was a fool and my wife cheated on me.”

  “You didn’t kill them. You couldn’t climb the ice fast enough to catch David, and Carolyn was off to meet her lover and hit black ice—her car slid off the road and down a ravine. You couldn’t have stopped that.”

  “We’d had a fight.”

  “Nonetheless.”

  “I should have stopped her from getting into her car.”

  “Could you have?” he asked, and the seconds ticked loudly from the clock on the fireplace.

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head. “Probably not.” Carter shifted on the couch, reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet with his badge. “Protect and Serve—isn’t that what it says?” His eyes were dark and thunderous. “And I couldn’t save my best friend or my wife.”

  “You weren’t an officer when David died.”

  “But I was when I demanded a divorce and Carolyn left the house crying.”

  “Didn’t you try to follow her?”

  “Only until the edge of town,” Carter said, and his eyes narrowed. Randall knew the lawman’s gaze had turned inward and he wasn’t seeing the night outside the window, but was revisiting the scene of the accident that had taken his wife’s life.

  “And why was that?”

  “Because she was going to his house,” Carter said, turning to look at the psychologist again. “Look, I don’t think we’re getting anywhere.” He grabbed his coat and jacket from the hall tree, then reached for the door. “If I think I need another session, I’ll call.”

  Randall just smiled. “Whatever you want. But I think there are issues you need to explore.”

  “You know what, Doc? There always will be.” With that he exited, taking the back stairs to the first level. Randall waited, then walked to the very window Carter had stared out of just moments before. The sheriff brushed snow from the windshield, then climbed into his Blazer. As he pulled out of his parking spot in the alley, another client was driving into the small lot.

  Randall walked back to his desk and reached into the drawer. With only a quick pang of guilt, he clicked off the small recorder that had taped the entire session.

  Sheriff Carter probably didn’t know it, but he had a death wish, one that came with the snowfall. Not only had the lawman lost those dear to him in winter, Carter had experienced more than his share of life-threatening incidents, all in the deep winter months. His own vehicle had slid off the road more than once, and when rescuing a child from a cabin where her parents were having a violent argument, the father, despondent, drunk, out of work and mad at the world, had accidently shot Carter in the leg. Carter had evacuated an elderly shut-in during a winter storm like this one, and as he arrived, the gas heater, set ridiculously high, had exploded. Both he and the woman had survived, surprisingly. Then there was the fishing incident, when his boat had hit a snag and capsized in the turbulent, frigid waters of the Columbia. Another boat had seen the accident and, mi
raculously, had gotten to him in time.

  Sooner or later, though, Carter’s luck would run out and his recklessness would catch up with him.

  It always did.

  Finally the cameras were working again…He stared at his screen and watched through the hidden lens, seeing Jenna Hughes walk through her bedroom, stripping off her sweater, bending as she wiggled out of her jeans, her perfectly round buttocks covered only by lacy bikini panties…black panties cut high on the sides that barely covered her most private of places.

  His cock jerked a bit, starting to harden as she stepped into the bathroom, reached in and turned on the shower, then unhooked her bra and tossed the flimsy black scrap of cloth onto a hook near the glass door.

  “That’s it,” he whispered, staring at the screen, his mouth suddenly devoid of spit. He heard a moan from the outer room and was irritated. Marnie was waking up. The slut! A schoolteacher who chased after the wrong men in bars…risking everything to get laid. He refused to listen to her while he was watching Jenna. Perfect Jenna. She pulled off her panties, exposing all of her beautiful body, kicking the tiny briefs out of the way, then stopped in front of the mirror to quickly pin her hair up on her head. In the mirror he saw her breasts—large, firm, with pointed little nipples.

  Steam was rising from the shower as she stepped inside and closed the glass door.

  He was suddenly rock-hard and he let his hand wander down to his own nakedness, to stroke the smooth, cool skin of his erection. Light fingers. He imagined Jenna’s hands upon him, the sensual wonder of her fingers…and then her tongue. Touching. Stroking.

  “Ooooh.”

  Jenna?

  No, Marnie.

  From the other room. Waking up.

  His erection withered.

  It was time to deal with her.

  CHAPTER 28

  Carter hadn’t been kidding when he’d called the last session with Dr. Randall “bullshit.” They were getting nowhere, slogging through the same old emotional territory time and time again. He’d initially contacted the psychologist because of his grief, upon the advice of the District Attorney, but his sessions had been spotty at best—and uncomfortable.