She was all right. His sister was all right.
Jack sat heavily on the curb holding his head in his hands, fighting the dizziness. Between the shock of Lacey’s disappearance and the relief that Melody was out of the killer’s clutches, he was ready to crack. When he’d seen Frank Stevenson come out of that house he’d known Lacey was in immediate danger.
He’d left her alone.
The guilt was crippling him. Why hadn’t he insisted she come with him? Why hadn’t he grabbed a uniform and planted him at the truck? In hindsight, there were so many things he could’ve done. A lot like the last time he let a woman down. If only he and Cal had...If only. If only.
He’d told Lacey he could keep her safe.
Instead he’d fucked up and possibly killed her. Rage boiled acid in his throat, and his vision tunneled. Count to ten.
She’d blown his mind last night. He didn’t know what to think. The feisty woman had crawled under his heart and set up camp. As they’d made love, her eyes had made a silent pledge and he’d found himself doing the same.
Images of his future all floated around Lacey Campbell.
He couldn’t lose her. He’d just gotten her.
His breakfast stirred in his stomach, threatening to reappear.
It was twenty-five degrees, and he sat in a melting pile of snow, sweating like he’d sprinted a marathon.
He had to do something.
It’d taken the police this long to find this house. Lacey couldn’t wait a week for them to find another. She probably couldn’t wait a day.
Voices sounded. He wearily turned to see the detectives approach. Callahan looked ready to spit fire and Lusco looked like he wanted to hit something, hard. They were good men; they cared about this case and were doing their damned best to find the slippery killer. Jack pushed to his feet as they approached, wincing as he felt the cold seep through his wet jeans.
He had to pull it together if he was going to find Lacey.
“Now what?” he asked as he watched the men circle his truck, studying it minutely. Were they expecting to find an arrow drawn in the snow? Pointing in the direction she’d vanished? He’d already checked. No discernible footprints. No nothing.
Lusco pulled out his phone and got his pencil ready. Callahan stopped next to Jack and looked him hard in the eye from under his hat. Probably measuring my sanity.
“Don’t worry. I won’t crack this time.” He managed a sickly smile.
Callahan studied him again and nodded. He didn’t look convinced.
“I’ve got Ray checking for any other real estate under the same name as this house. Our man is using the name Robert Costar instead of DeCosta. Ray’s also getting hold of your friend, Brody. Send him to question the old woman again. See if she knows where her son would go.”
Callahan took a breath. “She must have tipped him off.” The man was pissed, his mouth tight, his hat low. “Your sister’s fine. Just cold and freaked out. They’re taking her to the hospital to get checked, but she says he didn’t touch her.”
Jack ran a shaky hand through his hair. “Now what?”
“We wait.”
“I can’t fucking wait,” Jack muttered.
“I’ve got the local PD setting up roadblocks around the area. Checking leaving vehicles, but I think it’s too late. I suspect he whisked her out of here pretty quick,” Callahan stated grimly. Both men watched Lusco burn up his notepad with his flying pencil, his phone tucked under his ear. Jack prayed the man would come up with something.
Lusco glanced up as if he heard Jack’s thoughts. He nodded, his eyes bright.
“I’ve got another address under the name Robert Costar. It’s an isolated cabin outside Lakefield. That’s our boy’s home turf.”
“Lakefield,” Mason repeated.
Where Suzanne’s remains had appeared. They’d come full circle.
“Call Lakefield PD. Get them caught up and find out what they know about the location of that cabin, but I want county SWAT in charge of handling the cabin, not just the locals.”
Jack whirled toward his truck, mentally plotting out the shortest route to Lakefield. It was going to take a couple of hours for him to drive there, but if he—Callahan knocked his hand away before he touched his door handle. What the fuck?
The detective looked pissed. Reluctant, but pissed. “You can’t take the truck.”
“What?” Every nerve went on defense.
“It’s a crime scene. Your truck’s not going anywhere.”
Jack’s heart stopped. Crime scene? He stared at the detective, then at Lusco. Lusco nodded.
“Then I’ll ride with you.”
Both men shook their heads. “You aren’t going with us.” Callahan moved his face too close to Jack’s. “Keep out of it. You’re done here. Wait and we’ll call when we know something.” He held the younger man’s gaze, daring him to contradict him. Jack opened his mouth then shut it, feeling anger rocket through his veins. His hands itched to race off in his truck. He counted to ten again.
He nodded.
He’d figure out something else.
Callahan gave orders to two nearby uniforms, gesturing back at Jack’s truck. Lusco was silent, watching Jack like he expected him to jump in the truck and split.
Smart man.
Jack plopped back on the curb, his breath gone again. Grounded. His eyes scanned the cops milling about the street. He searched for a friendly face, looking for any hope of getting to Lakefield as his mind rapidly flicked through options and rapidly rejected them.
How could he to get to Lacey?
Lacey woke in the icy darkness and her head jerked in pain. “Shit.”
She didn’t remember hitting her head, but she had one hell of a headache and a sharp pain in the right temple as it pulsated against the hard ground. She lay silent, blinking rapidly and trying to catch her breath. How had she...DeCosta. Fight. The cloth on her nose. Her body shivered spastically, trying to warm itself on the dirt floor. The cold had seeped through her clothes and cooled her core.
Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light and she swallowed hard as she studied her surroundings. Low ceiling, close walls. She smelled damp dirt and musty cold air. A few cracks of flickering weak light shone through the wood ceiling. A fireplace. He’d dumped her under a building, maybe a house. She listened hard for footsteps as she stared pleadingly at the cracks, willing heat to filter through. No sounds. Her foggy breath steamed in the dim light. She was fucking freezing.
Death from exposure could come fast in these temperatures.
She had to get moving.
She pushed up to a sitting position and blindly fingered the ties on her ankles. Her feet were bound, and he’d tied her hands in front of her. She couldn’t feel a thing with her numb hands. Her fingers screamed with pain as she moved them, reviving the circulation, sending tears down her face.
She’d been so stupid.
DeCosta. It’d been DeCosta’s younger brother, Bobby.
Too late, she’d realized Detective Callahan would never send someone to move her to safety. It’d confused her that the man seemed faintly familiar. She’d thought maybe he was an officer in plainclothes whom she’d met before. Callahan’s hunch about the identity of the killer had been right. The kid had grown up. If she hadn’t been exhausted and sick with worry and guilt over Melody Harper, she might’ve figured it out sooner. She blinked away tears as she fought her numb fingers.
Fighting back had accomplished nothing. Bobby DeCosta had been surprisingly strong for his size. Her pepper spray had been in her purse, stupidly out of reach as he grabbed her arms. She’d clawed his face, drawing blood, making him howl and slap her. At the pain, his eyes changed and didn’t look human. It was like he became a different being, something created from rage.
Lacey forced her fingers to keep wiggling and bit her lip at the burning pain. After a long minute, her fingertips could feel the rough texture of the rope wrapped around her ankles. The knots were tight and swollen, because her legs had lain in a puddle of melting snow. A fingernail ripped as she dug at the damp knots, making her gasp and her eyes water.
Her head throbbed like the bass in a teenager’s stereo. A concussion? Everything hurt. An all-over hurt. The kind where you can’t focus on one particular pain because all the other pains were just as strong.
When would he be back? She moved her hands faster. He hadn’t killed her yet, and God damn it, she wasn’t going to let him.
Had Jack lost control when he returned to an empty truck? First Melody gone and now her.
I’m so sorry, Jack. You didn’t deserve this.
A knot loosened the tiniest bit. She attacked the ropes, fighting to work through her pain. She’d get the damn ropes off and then she’d find a way out. She squinted at the door; its lock looked fuzzy. She blinked and saw two locks. She closed her eyes tight and opened them again. Only one lock on the old door. Fuck. She’d really hurt her head.
She breathed deep and focused on her fingers. She had to get out.
In the fading light, Jack and Alex flew down the freeway in Alex’s old Bronco. At this speed, they’d hit Lakefield within the hour. Jack checked the GPS on the dashboard. He’d gotten a look at Lusco’s notepad as he’d printed the address. Their destination was out in the boonies, up the Coast Range a bit. Heavily forested. Extremely isolated. It was going to be pitch-dark when they got there.
Alex’s truck was old but boasted every techno-geek gadget available. His friend hadn’t hesitated when Jack had called for help. Alex had simply asked when and where.
The speedometer read 95 MPH and Jack gripped the door handle tighter. This could be a wild goose chase. Their killer might be headed for Mexico. Or Canada. They were throwing all their eggs in one basket.
Today was the day. The tenth anniversary of Dave DeCosta’s sentencing. Whatever horror was going to happen would happen today. Bobby DeCosta had made that clear in his note card to Lacey. He hadn’t written specific actions, but his target was clear.
Jack had thought DeCosta nabbed Melody to take Lacey’s place. But now he knew Melody had been a lure to flush Lacey out.
Jack had delivered the quarry on a silver platter.
He was going to get her back. He’d promised her he’d keep her safe and he was going to keep his promise. He couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t. He put the images of a bleeding pregnant woman out of his mind.
Alex concentrated on the slick roads, not speaking. His mind plotting, Jack barely noticed his cell go off. He ignored it. The ring stopped and then started again.
He hit the speakerphone. “What?”
“He made contact.” Callahan’s tone was short, tight.
“What? How?”
“He knows we’re coming. He spotted county and SWAT setting up outside his property and called the switchboard. They put him through. He wants to deal.”
“Deal? How much do you need? I can get the money. What’s his price?” A spot of optimism touched his spine. Jack could handle money. He understood money.