Читать книгу Chosen To Die - Lisa Jackson - Страница 14

That bitch needs to be taught a lesson!

I rake my fingers through my hair and try to calm down, but my hands are shaking, my muscles tight as bowstrings as I pace before the fire.

All because of her.

Don’t let her get to you. You’re in control here, remember? You’re the one who’s calling the shots. She’s wounded. Handcuffed. Under lock and key. You’re in charge. You. Not that miserable joke of a cop who doesn’t know her place. Do not lose it now, not when you’ve come so far, not when you’re so close.

Not when you have so much to do.

Not just here, with these women, with him. He’ll be here soon. You must calm down. You have to be ready. Your aim can’t be off even in the slightest. The shot has to be spot on.

I close my eyes. Count to ten. Then twenty. I feel the stiffness in my shoulders relax a bit and I listen for the sound of the storm, the shriek of the wind, the pounding of sleet, but there is nothing. Only silence over the crackle of the fire.

Peace.

And yet, despite my pep talk and the quietude of the winter day, it’s all I can do to hang on to my temper, to focus on the bigger picture, the greater good.

My work is too important to allow myself the luxury of becoming overwhelmed. I must be rock steady. And yet I’m rattled. Deep down. The bitch got to me and I have trouble repressing my anger.

Me.

Who is usually so calm.

It’s that bitch of a woman.

Detective.

Regan Pescoli is rattling me and I can’t let that happen. Not now. Not until it’s over.

To find some relief I pick up her pistol, feel the smooth steel in my palm. There’s just something about a weapon that brings a feeling of calm. I run the barrel over my cheek and down my neck, closing my eyes and reveling in the feel of it. I can’t let a pain in the ass like Pescoli unnerve or derail me; not now when I need all my concentration.

Slowly I breathe more easily and I walk to my bar and pour a cool glass of vodka. It steadies my nerves, takes the edge off. I have to forget about Pescoli for a while.

It seems I have bigger fish to fry.

I put down the pistol and grab the rifle.

It’s time.

I know him.

The thought hit Pescoli hard as she lay on the cot, her arm still handcuffed to its leg.

I know him, and the whack job is smart enough to realize that I might recognize him.

Groggy and weak, she forced herself up on one elbow and noticed a bit of light coming through a high window. Morning? Dawn?

For a second she thought of Santana. His image seemed to be with her each time she awoke in this cold, dark room. Her dreams had been rife with images of him, and each time she’d awoken to find herself here, alone and trapped, she’d blinked hard to call him back. Did he miss her? Suspect that something had happened to her? That was the trouble with their damned no-strings relationship; neither knew what the other was doing. She’d told herself that was the way she’d wanted it. Now she knew it was all a lie.

The grim thought that she’d never see him again hit her viscerally.

Don’t go there. You will. You have to. You’re a mother, for God’s sake, you can’t just give up and lie here in a pool of self-pity. For God’s sake, Pescoli, do something to save yourself!

Gritting her teeth, she ignored the throbbing in her head, the dull ache that was her shoulder, and the hurt of her ribs and tried to move. Pain seized her chest but it was bearable. She’d been certain her ribs were broken in the accident, then cracked further when the psycho who had abducted her had sat on her while injecting her with God only knew what. Some kind of sedative, she figured, something to keep her dull and lifeless and maybe even to deaden the pain as she somehow had slept, and now she hoped that her ribs were bruised, not broken. They still hurt like hell, but she could move a bit and each breath no longer killed her.

As near as she could remember, he’d been back once since the time he’d straddled her, to check on her, offering her water and soup, not feeding her, but leaving a spoon and a tin cup of something that smelled like chicken bouillon, and a hospital bedpan—the ultimate humiliation.

The bastard had poked and prodded her as she’d lain motionless, unable to lift herself up, her brain mush.

That’s why he keeps the place dark, she thought now as her mind began to clear, her brain coming into sharper focus. It’s why he rarely enters, why when he does he wears dark glasses, a baseball cap, and a beard—probably a fake one at that. A disguise.

The trouble was, she didn’t have any real clue to his identity. At least not yet. She eyed the doorway and the crack of light coming from beneath it. Once in a while a shadow passed, then paused, as if he were on the other side, peering through a peephole she couldn’t see, or pressing his ear against the wooden panels to listen to her.

It made her skin crawl to imagine that he could observe her. Don’t think about it. Concentrate on getting out of here. If he’s afraid you’ll recognize him, then he must fear that you’ll expose him somehow.

If that were the case, then he had to think she might escape. She didn’t kid herself for a minute into believing that he planned to keep her alive indefinitely or release her, not after all the effort he’d spent in capturing her, not after the way he’d treated his other victims.

Still, he was uncertain.

Otherwise he wouldn’t be afraid of letting her see his face.

Somehow, she decided, as the first splinters of dawn cracked through the small window high overhead, she had to unmask him and make good her escape.

And she had to do it soon.

Before it was too late.

Finally! A damned break in the weather!

Brady Long eyed the clearing skies with satisfaction. After a week of this damn bleak, sub-zero forecast, he was finally able to climb into his JetRanger and make the trip between Denver and Grizzly Falls. The ride was a little rough, but Brady had always been up for a challenge, whether it was on the back of a particularly mean-tempered Brahma bull, or climbing the sheer face of a cliff thousands of miles above the valley floor, or helicopter and extreme skiing or skydiving or whatever it was that brought him the next big rush of adrenaline.

He lived for it. A daredevil by nature, he never had understood placidity or fear. Life was to be lived on the edge, and those who took the safe road in life, who kept to their boring, secure ruts, were just plain wusses or sissies or pussies. Take your pick.

Maybe he’d been born with too much testosterone running through his bloodstream, but he liked it that way. And so did most women; at least the ones who interested him had said so.

Or, he thought now, as he flew his chopper over an ice-encrusted river that ran through the ranch, the women who were attracted to him were really interested in the size of his wallet. The name Long had been associated with copper, then silver, and even gold mines for generations.

A woman could show interest because he was good-looking, or because he was a challenge, or because he was fearless or because he was “richer than God,” as one particularly buxom young blonde had whispered into his ear early one hot summer night. He didn’t care what turned them on, just as long as they got there.

Yeah, the Long wealth made some flock to him, like vultures on the trail of a dying lamb.

And he was the sole heir…well, not technically. There was Padgett, but she was in no condition to contest his claim to their father’s fortune, a wealth that was legendary in this part of Montana. And, he knew, his father had sown more than his share of wild oats, so there was always the chance one of Hubert’s bastards, or his and Padgett’s mother’s, might get wise and make a pitiful claim. But if that were the case, he, and a team of lawyers that he would hand-pick, would fight any and all would-be Longs either by exposing them for the frauds they were, or for whatever other demons they were hiding in their pasts, or by settling out of court. It was amazing what a few hundred thousand would do in an effort to make an uncomfortable situation disappear.

Flying low, the chopper’s rotors whomping in the crisp morning air, he examined the barns, stable, and old homestead house, covered in snow and clustered apart from the main living quarters.

Eyeing the terrain surrounding the house, he eased the big bird over the tops of the spruce and fir trees before spying the landing pad, a wide, flat circle not a hundred yards from the main house. Yeah, there was plenty of snow, but his chopper had been built to handle winter conditions and he had no trouble putting her down in the thick, icy powder, the JetRanger’s skids holding steady.

Perfect.

He loved flying.

Should have been in the military. A pilot.

But then he would have had to take orders, and being obedient, or a team player, just wasn’t in Brady’s nature.

He cut the engine and let the rotors slow before grabbing his computer and bag from the back.

He’d left Denver on the down-low, not letting anyone there, even Maya, know of his plans. Well, especially not Maya. Pushing open the helicopter door, he hopped to the ground and slogged his way toward the house. He didn’t want to think too much about his fiancée, a beautiful model who refused to sign a prenup and not just any prenup, but a fair one.

Not that he was in any hurry to get married, he reminded himself as he followed a snow-covered path through a thicket of spruce and the house appeared.

Brady couldn’t help but smile. He loved this old, creaky lodge, had spent some of the happiest times of his youth here in Montana. He’d bagged his first buck not five hundred yards from the barn, learned to ride horses on this ranch long before he made a name for himself on the rodeo circuit, and lost his virginity up in the old man’s bedroom, to the younger sister of his second stepmother.

Yeah, he had some great memories in Montana, and though he’d been all over the globe, whenever he needed to think, he came back. “Home” was what he thought of the stone and cedar house that stood so close to the creek, now frozen, not so much as a bit of water visible beneath the snow and ice.

He was free here, he thought, fishing in the pockets of his insulated ski pants and withdrawing a key ring as he made his way to a carport big enough for an RV or boat and separating the quadruple garage from the main house.

In Denver there were pressures. First there was Maya and her petulant insistence that they get married in a cathedral with hundreds of guests. She wanted to walk down the aisle in a white dress with a long train and have over a dozen attendants. It didn’t matter that this would be his third time saying “I do” and “’til death do us part.”

Secondly, there was the board of directors, old farts and pains in the butt each and every one.

Third, there was dear old Dad. Still clinging to life by a thread in the nursing home but looking as if he might kick the bucket at any minute. Brady was sick to his back teeth of answering questions about his father. Hubert Elmore Long was dying. Period. What more was there to say except what he didn’t dare voice, that he hoped the old man kicked off and fast. What good was lying, barely conscious, unaware of the world, suffering, for God’s sake, when there was no hope left?

Angry, Brady unlocked the back door and walked through a mud room where he started stripping off his outer layers. He knew a lot of people thought he wanted the old man to die so he could officially inherit his fortune. What was it now? Forty, maybe forty-five million? But he already had control of the money as it was. Yeah, it would be nice to actually be the head of Long International, but hell, unofficially, he was. He just didn’t want his father to linger any longer in that near-vegetative state that Hubert would have hated. He wanted the old man hearty and hale, a man who could stalk a bull elk for hours on end, or pull a calf from a cow having trouble birthing. He wanted the hard-as-nails executive who could negotiate stubbornly with the Chinese or Saudis or anyone on God’s green earth—language being no barrier to him getting his way. He wanted the six-foot-four man who would laugh at a ribald joke while having a few beers at the Spot Tavern, or sip cognac while sucking on an expensive cigar in a high-priced New York hotel.

That’s the guy Brady would like to see again.

But it wasn’t going to happen.

So the husk of a human lying in Regal Oaks Care Center with the iron constitution and will to cling to life at any cost, that guy should just give it up.

He unlaced his boots and left them in the expansive mud room, tucked on the tile floor under a bench above, which his jacket and pants were hung and dripping. He wondered if Clementine was in the house, and that pleasant thought teased one corner of his mouth upward.

Clementine DeGrazio, a petite, pretty woman pushing forty who could clean a stove until it sparkled with as much gusto as she would get on her knees for Brady if he asked, which he did each and every time he returned here and had since he was in his mid-twenties. Her touches were everywhere, he thought, as he padded through the kitchen in his stocking feet. Fresh fruit in a bowl on the counter, three newspapers spread neatly on the table in the nook, country music emanating from hidden speakers, and as he opened the refrigerator door, he discovered platters of cheeses and deli meats, spreads and dips, his favorite nacho that just needed reheating. He knew the cupboards would be stocked with his favorites. All because he’d called her less than eight hours earlier.

Clementine asked for nothing other than to keep her job. Not only was she paid well, she and her son lived in this big house rent free. Still, he did, as he aged, feel a twinge of conscience about the eager if submissive sex.

God, he was getting old.

Things that never bothered him had started to dig a bit into his conscience. His old man lying near death in the nursing home, his sister in a far-off institution, and Clementine with her full lips and quick tongue…Oh, hell. He shoved his hair from his eyes and realized he hadn’t thought of Maya and the way that he refused to give into her demands. Probably because she was as hardheaded and probably hard-hearted as he.

“A match made in heaven,” he said and flicked on the lights, then made his way to the thermostat in the front hallway where an open staircase climbed to the upper floors and leaded glass surrounded the massive front doors. As he adjusted the heat down a couple of degrees, he glanced across the stone floor of the foyer to a huge room where the ceiling soared twenty feet upward and a wall of glass offered an incredible view of the forest and creek that wound through the grounds. A river rock fireplace stretched to the beamed ceiling on the opposite wall and leather chairs, tufted couches, and metal wall art, all compliments of his last ex-wife, filled the wide expanse.

“A goddamned fishbowl,” his father had complained, preferring the den located down a wide hallway where he was allowed to smoke his cigars while surrounded by pine walls covered with the heads and hides of creatures killed by generations of Long huntsmen.

From one of the bank of windows, Brady took a look down the lane to the spot where, through the trees, he could just make out the house that had been built as part of the original homestead. Sure enough, he caught a glimpse of some light through the trees and assumed that Santana was either in the cabin, stable, barn, or other shed. The guy was a hard worker. For all his faults.

What was the old axiom? Keep your friends close, your enemies closer?

Brady subscribed to the theory. Big-time. He wondered if Santana guessed, then discarded the question. Didn’t matter. They’d known each other as kids and, both super competitive, had butted heads and clashed fists. There had been a few black eyes and a couple of bloody noses, but Brady had always wondered what made Santana tick. The man never sucked up to him, never gave in; always, it seemed, looking down his crooked nose at Brady. But Santana was a helluva horseman, communicated with animals in a way that Brady found both uncomfortable and fascinating. The upshot was that Santana was working for him, here, in No-Fucking-Where Montana, which was just as it should be.

Brady carried his laptop case to his father’s den and dropped the computer on the desk. Then he found the bar located near another massive rock fireplace and poured himself a stiff drink. Three fingers of bourbon. On the rocks, again compliments of Clementine, who had left a filled ice bucket on the counter. Ice cubes clinked softly as he carried the drink to his desk. Reaching down, he pressed a hidden button and waited as a false wall decorated with the fading coat of a zebra slid to one side and a bank of cabinets was revealed. Flanked by an arsenal of rifles, shotguns, bows, and pistols was a safe where, he hoped, his father’s most recent will would be found.

He could have just asked his father’s attorney, Barton Tinneman, for a copy, he supposed, but truth to tell, he didn’t trust Tinneman any more than he held faith in his father’s friends, most of whom had already died. And that went double for the members of the damned board.

The safe had an old-fashioned combination lock. No electronics or bells and whistles of any sort. Brady had memorized the numbers as a kid of five and never, ever, let on that he knew. Well, his sister, too, had learned the secret sequence, but it wouldn’t do her a whole helluva lot of good where she was, locked away in a sanitarium, barely able to function, now would it? He felt a bit of guilt about her condition, then shrugged it off. Padgett had been unable to care for herself for half her life, nearly fifteen years, and before that time, she’d been a raving bitch, so he rarely spent too much time worrying about how she’d ended up there or what his part in it had been.

It was all water under the bridge.

He heard the soft click of ancient tumblers as he turned the dial.

“Sorry, Dad,” he said aloud with the final flick of his wrist, the dial stopping at just the right spot, the lock giving way. Smiling in satisfaction, Brady set down his drink and yanked open the door to the safe.

He was certain the will was inside.

All he had to do, once he retrieved it, was wait a few hours, maybe days, for the old man to die.