Left To Die by Lisa Jackson Page B

Alvarez said. “Haven’t been able to determine if—”
    “It was shot.” Grayson voiced what they all thought was fact, just not yet proven. “This isn’t a coincidence. That bastard’s hunting again.”
    “I’d bet on it,” Watershed agreed.
    Alvarez nodded.
    “Run the license plate,” Grayson said. “Find out who owns the car and we’ll work from there. If the bullet isn’t lodged in the undercarriage or somewhere else in the vehicle, check the ridge. Maybe it fell onto the road or became imbedded in the cliff on the farside. Anyone call a tow truck to haul the car in?”
    “Truck’s on its way,” Alvarez said. She’d put in the call as soon as she arrived.
    “Let’s hope they can get down here. The roads are a mess. Half the staff is dealing with power outages and accidents.” He rubbed his chin and shook his head, his gaze fastening on the crumpled car, which was quickly being buried in snow. “We need to nail this bastard.”
    “I’m all for that,” Pescoli agreed.
    Grayson nodded and met Alvarez’s eyes. “But first let’s find the victim. And this time, let’s find her alive.”

Chapter Seven
    Scccrratttch!
    The match head scrapes loudly against the stone hearth and the sharp smell of sulfur stings my nostrils. With a sweet hiss, the flame flares before my eyes.
    Perfect little flicker of hot light.
    I’ve always loved fire.
    Always been fascinated at how it so quickly springs to life—a living, breathing thing that requires air to survive. The shifting yellow and orange flames are oh so seductive in their warmth and brilliance and deadly abilities.
    Striking matches—bringing fire to life—is one of my passions, one of many.
    Carefully lifting the glass of the lantern, I light the wick, another spot of illumination in the large, barren room. A fire already crackles and burns in the grate, red embers glowing in a thick bed of ashes, mossy wood licked by passionate flames, smoke rising through the old stone chimney, golden shadows dancing on the watery old windowpanes.
    Outside the storm rages, winds howling, snow blowing furiously, and yet the stone-and-log cabin is a fortress against the elements. Here I don’t have to bother with the burden of clothing that scratches and itches and bothers. No, I can walk comfortably over the smooth flagstones in bare feet, the heat radiating from the fire enough to keep my skin warm.
    I keep a large store of firewood within the cabin, but should I need to walk to the outbuilding to retrieve more, I won’t need the trappings of boots and jacket but can face the elements naked, bracing myself against the bite of the wind and the slap of ice.
    The match burns down, licking at my fingertips, and I shake it out quickly.
    With one ear to the police-band radio that spits and sputters, I sit on the chairs I’ve turned by hand. I spread out my forestry maps, along with the more graphic pictures I’ve printed from satellites, photos available on the Internet, on the long table. I’ve carefully pieced these images together and marked them with colored pins that correspond to the same colored pins on the forestry maps.
    From a room down the hallway, I hear her quiet cough.
    I freeze. Listening.
    She groans, no doubt still unconscious.
    A smile pricks at the corners of my mouth when I think of her. She is rousing and that’s a good sign. Soon she’ll be ready. A little sizzle of anticipation sweeps through my bloodstream and I quickly tamp it down. Not yet. Not until the time is right. Not until she is healthy enough to do her part.
    Oh, it will be unwillingly, but she will partake.
    They all do.
    She groans more loudly and I know I’ll have to attend to her. Soon. I look at the open closet, an armoire I’ve fashioned with my own hands and a few basic tools. I’ve carved it ornately, lovingly, with images of celestial beings cut into the dark wood. Inside are the cubicles where I keep my treasures, little mementos of the reluctant participants. The