Deep Freeze

  He didn’t respond, but his eyes narrowed.

  She shoved her hair from her eyes with one hand, and from the corner of her eye glimpsed the daybed, the pillows tossed carelessly onto the floor, a quilt and sheets torn from the mattress. Again she thought of their hard, hot coupling, the fact that she’d never used any protection, and the cold realization that Shane Carter could have done what he’d done with her with dozens of women.

  “There are things you don’t know,” he said, and winced as if it sounded lame, like something out of an ancient soap opera.

  “Obviously.”

  “The pictures mean nothing.”

  She snorted. “Yeah, I run around with photographs of things that I really don’t care about all the time.” Before he could come up with another useless, see-through excuse, she began straightening the daybed, tearing off the sex-scented sheets and rearranging the pillows. “Listen, you don’t owe me any explanations or apologies or anything.” Gathering the sheets in her arms, she turned to him. “Just catch the damned stalker, okay? That’s your job. That’s why you’re here.”

  She carried the sheets to the laundry room as the back door opened and Turnquist appeared. Carter stopped and talked with him for a few minutes as she stuffed the sheets into the washer, turned on the water and added soap. She didn’t watch him leave, heard the back door open and close, and collapsed against the dryer.

  Don’t do this, Jenna. It was just sex. It happens all the time.

  But not to her. She’d never let this kind of thing happen to her. Because she’d been guarded. Wary. Careful of her heart.

  Until now.

  Until she’d met that damned lawman.

  Carter’s back teeth ground so hard that his jaw ached. He’d blown everything. Now that someone had seen the pictures of Carolyn taken from Wes Allen’s house, he’d jeopardized the investigation. “Damn, damn, damn!” he growled, pounding on the steering column as he drove home. The roads were still dicey, some plowed and graveled, others still covered with last night’s snowfall. What had he been thinking, making love to Jenna Hughes?

  He hadn’t been. That was the problem. Blame his stupidity on too many months without a woman, too many hours without sleep, too many worries about the investigation, but it all boiled down to the sorry fact that he’d been horny as hell, half in love with the Hollywood princess anyway, and the opportunity had presented itself. What red-blooded American male would have done differently?

  “Shit,” he muttered as he pulled into his lane and the four wheels whined against the accumulation of snow. He made it home and burned the damned photographs, making sure, as he added more firewood, that every scrap of evidence had literally gone up in smoke. He checked his e-mail, searched the Web again for Leo Ruskin, and found several scant, old entries. More searching online for White Out did little to help him except to come up with the name of the company that did the makeup work on the unfinished movie. Why the hell did he think the movie was connected to the killings? Because of Jenna? Because of the damned cold weather? Or because he was sick to death of the snow? He couldn’t find the makeup people listed anywhere in his first search and he didn’t have any time to waste. In a dark mood, his tired brain still running over the information and trying to insert Wes Allen into everything he knew about the case, Carter fried bacon, eggs and frozen potatoes, ate the meal with one eye on the news before he dumped his plate into the sink and climbed the stairs to his loft.

  Wes Allen never had anything to do with makeup. He wasn’t directly or indirectly involved with any of Jenna’s movies. It could be the lowlife is innocent.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered and stripped off his clothes. Nothing about this case was easy. None of it made sense. But someone, some bastard who had access to her house, was linked to her films. Her husband? No—they’d checked and he was still in L.A. An old boyfriend? As far as the police could determine, Jenna had none. Few dates and nothing serious. Not so much as a one-night stand.

  Except for you.

  What the hell did that mean?

  While showering, he thought of Jenna and couldn’t stop the erection that sprouted at the memory of making love to her. She’d been as beautiful as she’d been in all of her movies, maybe even more so. Eager. Supple. Hot.

  “Jesus.”

  So you nailed a Hollywood actress, literally star-fucked, so what? You gonna brag about it? The fact that she chose you, over all the men drooling after her, to sleep with? And you messed that up, too, didn’t you? Just like Dr. Randall predicted. Anything you really want, you screw up, don’t you?

  Ignoring the damning questions, he washed, rinsed, stepped out of the shower, and wrapped a towel around his hips. He scraped the stubble from his face with a razor and stared angrily at his image in the fogged-over mirror. He looked as tired and frustrated as he felt, but knew it was another day of powering up on caffeine and maybe some nicotine.

  Because today was the day that Wes Allen was going down.

  He felt another sharp niggle of doubt about the bust, but didn’t examine it too closely.

  Innocent until proven guilty, Carter—remember, innocent until proven guilty.

  “Allen’s alibi checks out,” Sparks said from his end of the cell phone connection.

  Driving through town, Carter passed by the theater and noticed there were no cars in the lot. Ice and snow had piled over the parking spaces, and no illumination streamed through the stained-glass windows. “The night Sonja Hatchell was abducted, Wes was at the Lucky Seven, sipping suds until well after midnight. The waitress remembers him because she has a thing for the guy.”

  “Jesus. Tell her to be careful.” Carter cruised down the main street, saw a few familiar faces and vehicles collecting near the diner. Hans Dvorak, Charley Perry, Seth Whitaker, Harrison Brennan, and Blanche Johnson were migrating toward the door of the Canyon Café, as they did each and every morning. He spotted Dr. Dean Randall, paper coffee cup in hand, heading toward the library, and Travis Settler walked into the hardware store. But Wes Allen wasn’t among those who were looking for a cup of coffee or pastry this morning. “What about the other women? Where was he when Roxie Olmstead and Lynnetta were abducted?”

  “We’re still working on it.”

  “Maybe he has an accomplice.”

  “And maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  No way, Carter thought as he hung up. But the doubt was still there, and a voice inside his head accused him of going after the man who had stolen his wife from him. Stolen? Or did you hand her to Wes Allen on a silver platter?

  He pulled into the courthouse parking lot and locked his Blazer.

  Inside, the heat was sweltering, rising three stories to settle in the sheriff’s department. He cracked a window and the cold air crackled inside, blowing on the wilting fronds of his Christmas cactus.

  “Hey, are you out of your mind? What do you think you’re doing?” BJ asked as she settled into a desk chair. “Jesus, Carter, what happened to you last night?”

  “I look that good, huh?”

  “Better,” she said sarcastically.

  “That’s what a night without sleep will do. Did you find anything else? What about Ruskin? And the makeup people. Especially whoever did the makeup for White Out. That’s the movie that connects everything. It’s the one that ended Jenna Hughes’s career, the one where the Ruskin phrase was supposed to be used for the promo, and the one with the musical score that she heard in the background of the crank call.”

  “I’ll double-check. As far as the paper that the notes were written on, it’s standard stock, could be bought anywhere from wholesale office-supply outlets to smaller stores. Same with the ink and printer. Dead end.”

  “So far.”

  “What about the alginate?”

  “Most of the stuff ships to California. The particular type found on Mavis Gette comes from a firm in Canada, and I’ve got a list of their clients for the last five years.”

  His cell phone chir
ped and he reached into his pocket, tried to stop his galloping heart when he recognized Jenna’s number on the digital display. “Carter.”

  “Hi, it’s Jenna.” Her voice was flat. Obviously she was still stung from her discovery of Carolyn’s pictures. Damn. “I thought I’d let you know that I just called Robert and wonder of wonders, he was in. I asked him about Ruskin. He never met the man, but someone had left a leaflet with Ruskin’s work on the set up at the ski resort.”

  “Someone who worked on the film?” He swung a legal pad around on the desk and grabbed a pen.

  “Most likely,” she said, and adrenaline rushed through Carter’s bloodstream. “Robert had seen the poem and liked the wording.”

  “Did he get any legal releases to use the work?”

  “It never got that far,” she said, her words clipped and impersonal. “Because of the accident and the movie being scrapped. He did say that the company he hired for makeup and special effects was a firm named Hazzard Brothers, the same company Robert used in a lot of his horror films. It’s a Burbank company owned by Del and Mack Hazzard and nearly went out of business after White Out because of the insurance claims. The families of the people who were killed and some of the workers who were injured sued the production company.”

  “And they paid?”

  “The insurance company for Hazzard Brothers did.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Does this help?”

  “Of course it does.”

  “Good.”

  “Jenna—”

  Click. She hung up.

  Carter sighed through his nose and looked up to find BJ observing him.

  “So now it’s ‘Jenna,’ is it?”

  “No big deal.”

  BJ’s lips pulled down at the corners. “If you say so.”

  He wasn’t going to be lured into some woman-conversation about relationships. Especially since there was no relationship. “I want to find out everything we can on Hazzard Brothers, which is a company that does makeup and special effects, located in Burbank, California. See if they have any ex-employees who moved up here after working on White Out.”

  His cell phone rang again and he answered. “Carter.”

  “Christ, Shane, what kind of witch hunt have you got going?” Wes Allen demanded. “Someone’s got a tail on me and I want to fucking know why!”

  “Maybe you should come in and we’ll talk about it.”

  “Talk about what?” Wes demanded. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to pin the murders on me.”

  Carter tensed. “You mean abductions, right?”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, you know we all think those women are dead. I hope to hell not, but come on…does it seem likely that the creep who’s got ’em is keeping them all prisoners?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Oh, fuck this! I’m calling my lawyer, Shane. I’ve got rights. I haven’t done anything wrong and you’ve got someone watching me! This is a vendetta and I’m going to sue your ass from here until hell’s gates if you don’t let up.”

  “Sue to your heart’s content.”

  “You sanctimonious, hypocritical bastard! I’ll have your job.”

  “Go for it,” he said, but Allen had already slammed down the phone.

  “Your fan club?” BJ asked.

  “Just the president of it.”

  “Why do I get the feeling that you’re about to get yourself in real trouble?” BJ wasn’t smiling. It wasn’t a joke.

  “Because you’re a perceptive woman, BJ. Very perceptive.”

  “What’s going on, Shane?”

  “I think we’re going to nail the son of a bitch who’s behind all this, that’s what. Call Hazzard Brothers and see how much alginate they use, if they’re missing any, who their supplier is. Then ask them about their recent employees. Let’s see if we can come up with a name that matches one of the names on this.” He thumped two fingers on top of the printout of people who had rented or bought Jenna Hughes’s movies. “I’ll bet you a hundred to one, there’s a match.”

  CHAPTER 42

  “I’ll be there,” Jenna said, leaning a shoulder against the cupboard door as Rinda sniffled on the other end of the phone.

  “I hate to ask. I know you’re going through your own thing, but I really think I should attend the vigil. I could go with Scott, but he’s kept to himself lately, always out, never around…” She sighed heavily. “Sometimes I don’t think I know him anymore.”

  “I think that’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

  “When they’re sixteen. Not when they’re twenty-four. When I was his age, I was already married and a mother…okay, strike that thought. I’d hate for him to go through what I did.”

  “He’ll find his way,” Jenna said, cringing at the sound of her own platitudes. She didn’t believe it for a minute, but right now, when Rinda was still feeling guilty about Lynnetta’s disappearance, wasn’t the time to remark that Jenna found Rinda’s son a little offbeat, if not an out-and-out weirdo. No mother wants to hear that.

  “I hope so…God, with all that’s going on, I just wish he’d stay home. Close.” That much Jenna did understand as she thought of her own two girls. “So anyway, where do you want to meet me?”

  “I think I still owe you a cup of coffee, so let’s hook up at the Java Bean at six-thirty. We can go to the vigil together. It’s at seven, right?”

  “I think so. I’ll call back if I hear differently. Thanks, Jenna.”

  “No problem.” And it wasn’t. Not only did Jenna want to be a part of the candlelight vigil planned for the three women, she had to get out. She’d been cooped up in the house with the kids all day. Allie, coming down with a cold again, had been crabby, and Cassie had reverted to her normal brooding self. They were out of nearly everything grocery-wise, and Jenna, after the roller coaster of last night, was climbing the walls. One minute she was thinking about the horror of finding the damned fake finger, the next she remembered Shane’s passionate lovemaking, then she would remember the pictures of Carolyn Carter fluttering onto her carpet. On top of all that, somehow, probably through a leak in one of the police departments or from Reverend Swaggert’s camp, word had spread that she’d received a macabre gift in her home, a replica of a finger. She’d hung up on the reporter who’d called and was screening her messages. But she couldn’t stay caged up another night. She needed to get out, even if Turnquist objected. Which he did.

  “I don’t think it’s safe,” he protested as they sat around the dinner table eating spaghetti.

  “At a candlelight vigil in the church? It’ll be fine. We’ll all be together.”

  Allie’s ears perked up. She’d been stirring her pasta listlessly with her fork. “I don’t want to go.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” She sighed loudly. “I don’t know.”

  “Because it’s morbid,” Cassie said. “I don’t want to go, either.”

  “Wait a minute. I promised Rinda.”

  “So go,” Cassie said.

  “And leave you guys here alone? After what happened last night?”

  “You don’t know that the finger was left last night,” Cassie said. “That’s when you found it. It could have been there for days.”

  “I would have noticed.”

  “Would you have?” Cassie rolled her eyes. “Memo to Mom—you haven’t been yourself lately.” She twined some spaghetti on her fork and took a bite.

  “I promised Rinda I’d go. I’m meeting her at six-thirty.”

  “So go. I can’t,” Cassie said.

  “Why not?”

  She glanced at Turnquist, then whispered, “It’s not a good time for me. I don’t feel all that great.”

  “You, too?” What kind of conspiracy was this?

  “No, I don’t have a sore throat, but, you know, I feel…” Her face turned red. “…crampy.”

  “Oh.” Jenna got it and felt like a fool for not understanding that her daughter was t
rying to tell her that she was on her period, and since Jenna kept track of this monthly event, she did a quick calculation and realized it wasn’t a lie. This was definitely Cassie’s “time of the month,” which, considering her infatuation with Josh, was always a relief.

  Cassie said, “Yeah, ‘oh.’”

  Jenna tossed her napkin onto the table. “Look, girls, I have to go in to town, but I’ll be with Rinda, so I’ll be all right.”

  “You’re not going alone,” Turnquist cut in.

  “Someone has to stay with the girls.”

  He didn’t so much as argue, just pulled out his phone, dialed quickly, and to Jenna’s mortification, spoke to none other than the sheriff himself.

  “Wait a minute!”

  But it was too late. Turnquist snapped his phone shut. “Carter will pick you up. Six o’clock.”

  “No way.” Not after last night and this morning. She wasn’t ready to face Carter again, much less spend the night two inches from him.

  “Absolutely. You hired me to do a job, Ms. Hughes, and now you seem determined to thwart me. I can’t let that happen. Your life and my reputation are on the line. I’ll stay with the girls. You go with the sheriff.”

  “I’m supposed to be the boss.”

  “You are. But we either do this my way or I walk. No compromises.” His blue eyes were cold with determination, his lantern jaw set.

  Jenna’s blood was boiling, but she managed to hold her tongue. “All right. Tonight we’ll do it this way, but in the future, we’ll discuss any plans for outings until this thing is over.”

  “Fine with me.”

  The phone rang and Allie ran for it. “Wait. Don’t answer,” Jenna reminded her, and the message machine clicked on. There was giggling and then a naughty little voice saying, “Hey, Allie, I heard your mom got the finger!” Click!

  Allie was stunned. “Who would do that?”

  “Some little prick. Don’t worry about it,” Cassie said and scraped her chair back. “Whoever called has a brain the size of a pea and a dick that’s even smaller. The only thing he’s got that’s big is his mouth!”