Authors: Lisa Jackson
Afraid to Die (3 page)
That comment had elicited a gasp from Dorie, but Mildred was on a roll and didn't stop. “If you ask me,” she'd said, “the devil's behind this. He's always there, y'know, Satan, he's just over your shoulder, waiting to pounce.” Her lips had pursed for a second, and before she could rant on, another person on the committee, Jenny Kropft, had asked Mildred if she would be so kind as to give her blackberry crumb cake recipe to the cookbook the group was assembling. Mildred had been too smart not to see that she was being diverted, but had been pleased just the same.
“Save me,” Brenda whispered now, her breath fogging in the night air as she crossed the near-empty lot and unlocked her car. This, the old church, was located high on the bluff in the hills overlooking the city. The church and parsonage had been built in the late 1880s, and though modernized over the years with indoor plumbing, electricity, forced-air heat and insulation, the buildings were still as drafty as they were charming, and the congregation was growing each year. As it was, on Sunday morning, the old choir loft was filled with parishioners, and on Easter and Christmas, there had to be an additional two services added for the once- and twice-a-year members of the flock. In the harsh Montana winters, the old buildings suffered, as did everyone inside.
The new church was a great idea in Brenda's mind, as was Preacher Mullins's introduction of rock renditions of traditional songs by a couple of young musicians in the flock. Though traditionalists like Mildred might balk at the changes, if they could bring new, young blood into the church, Brenda was all for it. Maybe eventually she could convince her two teenaged boys to get up and attend services again, though she doubted it, especially with Ray, her ex-husband, setting such a stellar example of being a hedonistic, self-indulgent jerk!
At the thought of the boys' father, she scowled, sent up a little prayer for humility and a way to find forgiveness in her heart, then caught the anger simmering in her eyes in the reflection of her rearview mirror. “Please, give me strength,” she whispered as she shoved her old Ford Escape into gear, backed up and headed out of the church lot. The boys were with Ray tonight and she had to accept the fact that
she
was the one who had decided Ray Sutherland was the perfect man to father her kids. “The follies of youth,” she said under her breath and tried not to dwell on Ray and his failings as a husband and dad.
she
was the one who had decided Ray Sutherland was the perfect man to father her kids. “The follies of youth,” she said under her breath and tried not to dwell on Ray and his failings as a husband and dad.
She'd hoped to pick up a few odds and ends Christmas presents at the local pharmacy and gift shop, so she drove across the bluff to the strip mall, where she sneaked in, just before the store was to close, and grabbed a stuffed reindeer for her nephew and some plastic Christmas-themed blocks for her niece. She'd been eyeing them both for a couple of weeks, and with the coupon she'd clipped in the Sunday paper, she got two for the price of one.
Feeling better, she paid for her purchases and thought about treating herself to a hot chocolate at the coffee shop, then thought better of it. Her job at Wild Will's restaurant downtown didn't cover the expenses of raising two kids on her own, so she kept her “going out” money to a minimum and partook of the fancy coffee drinks she confined to her account at the restaurant, where she got a twenty percent discount. Sandi, the owner of Wild Will's, was generous with her employees and she'd given Brenda the job as a waitress when Ray had walked out five years earlier.
Already the car's interior had cooled, so she cranked up the heat and the radio that played “Christmas, all day, every day,” and hummed along as she drove toward her house. Snowflakes caught in the beams of her headlights, seeming to pirouette and dance as they fell. Through neighborhoods with plastic Santas, wicker reindeer, fresh garlands and colored lights strung on eaves and foliage, she drove as the heater finally kicked in. Her house was located close to September Creek, a few miles out of town. A little two-bedroom cabin she and Ray had bought three years into their marriage, it was beginning to show signs of age. In the divorce, she was granted ownership of the house, though she was still making payments to Ray each month and he was supposed to reciprocate with child support ... Oh, yeah, that worked. Fine on paper. She'd considered stopping the payments to him but didn't want to deal with a lien. Though she'd hated to do it, she'd contacted a lawyer and intended, after the first of the year, to take the son of a bitch to court.
Stop it! It's Christmas!
Again she caught her gaze in the rearview mirror and again she saw the anger that seemed to be forever lurking just beneath the surface of her gaze. It was something she was working on. A Christian woman, she believed fervently in forgiveness. She just couldn't find it in her heart when it came to Ray.
Again she caught her gaze in the rearview mirror and again she saw the anger that seemed to be forever lurking just beneath the surface of her gaze. It was something she was working on. A Christian woman, she believed fervently in forgiveness. She just couldn't find it in her heart when it came to Ray.
Someday it might happen, she thought, once she found another man to fix the sagging porch, replace the old pipes under the sink and hold her long into the night. Oh, what she wouldn't do to find a real Prince Charming the second time around. At forty-two she wasn't ready to give up on love.
Well, at least not yet.
The residential houses gave way to countryside, where snow covered the surrounding fields and drifted against the fence posts. Even the skeletal brambles and berry vines took on an unlikely serenity with the snowfall.
As she turned off the main road, she noticed a car parked at the side of the road. Its hood was lifted, a man peering at the engine. She slowed, the beams of her headlights catching him in their glare. He waved, flagging her down, and she told herself to be careful, then she recognized him as a regular customer at the restaurant and as a member of the church.
Slowing, she rolled down her window as he scurried through the piling snow to the driver's side.
“Hey,” she said. “You got a problem?”
“Darned thing just died on me,” he said “and I left my cell phone at home. Can't call my wife.”
“I could call her.”
“That would be great.” He flashed the smile she'd always found endearing. “Or maybe I should?”
“Sure.” Turning, she reached into her bag, found her cell and said, “I know it's about out of battery life, but it should work ...” As she straightened again, she was making certain the phone was on when she felt something cold against her neck. “Whaâ” A second later, pain scorched through her body. She screamed and twitched, losing all control as he pressed the trigger on his stun gun.
Dear Lord, help me,
she thought, jerking and trying to scream. Her phone slipped from her palsied fingers, and horrified, she watched helplessly, unable to fight as he unlocked her door, bumping his head on the frame and losing his hat for a second, before he hauled her into the cold weather. She tried to fight, to punch and kick and bite, but all her efforts were futile as her mind could not control her twitching, useless body.
Dear Lord, help me,
she thought, jerking and trying to scream. Her phone slipped from her palsied fingers, and horrified, she watched helplessly, unable to fight as he unlocked her door, bumping his head on the frame and losing his hat for a second, before he hauled her into the cold weather. She tried to fight, to punch and kick and bite, but all her efforts were futile as her mind could not control her twitching, useless body.
No, no, no! This can't be happening.
She trusted this man, knew him from church, and yet he was coldly throwing her into the backseat of his sedan and locking the door. She was helpless to do anything to save herself. The world was spinning, her body flopping on the vinyl of his backseat, and for a few minutes he left her alone in the frigid car only to show up, get behind the wheel and drive in the same direction she'd been heading.
Why?
Her mind screamed but she had no control of her tongue, couldn't say a word, and listened feebly as he snapped on the radio and an instrumental version of “Silent Night” filled the interior.
Her mind screamed but she had no control of her tongue, couldn't say a word, and listened feebly as he snapped on the radio and an instrumental version of “Silent Night” filled the interior.
Oddly, he didn't bother with the heater, and as the miles rolled under the car's tires, Brenda wondered where he was taking her and, oh, God, what he planned to do to her.
He's a Christian man. This is just a prank,
she tried to convince herself, but she knew, deep in her heart, that whatever was in store for her tonight, it wouldn't be good. Over the strains of the Christmas carol, Mildred's theory echoed through her mind, haunting in its precise prediction:
she tried to convince herself, but she knew, deep in her heart, that whatever was in store for her tonight, it wouldn't be good. Over the strains of the Christmas carol, Mildred's theory echoed through her mind, haunting in its precise prediction:
The devil's behind this!
He's always there, y'know, Satan, he's just over your shoulder, waiting to pounce
...
...
Chapter 3
“I
can't,” Pescoli said into her cell phone as she eased her Jeep down the long, snow-covered drive to her house. The wheels of the Jeep cut fresh paths in the snow as she drove through the trees and across a small bridge that spanned the iced-over creek running through her few acres in the foothills outside of Grizzly Falls. When the trees parted, her headlights flashed against the front of the house. Not a single light was glowing from within. “I have a feeling both of my kids are MIA. And that would be A-G-A-I-N.” The bad feeling that had been with her most of the day, while trying to sort out what happened to Len Bradshaw, still lingered.
can't,” Pescoli said into her cell phone as she eased her Jeep down the long, snow-covered drive to her house. The wheels of the Jeep cut fresh paths in the snow as she drove through the trees and across a small bridge that spanned the iced-over creek running through her few acres in the foothills outside of Grizzly Falls. When the trees parted, her headlights flashed against the front of the house. Not a single light was glowing from within. “I have a feeling both of my kids are MIA. And that would be A-G-A-I-N.” The bad feeling that had been with her most of the day, while trying to sort out what happened to Len Bradshaw, still lingered.
“I won't say it,” Santana said and for that she was grateful. She knew how he felt about both of her teenagers needing a serious father figure in their lives.
“Good. Don't. Then I won't have to unleash my inner bitch.”
“God knows we don't want that.”
“No, we don't.” She clicked on the remote to open her garage and watched the snow fall in front of her headlights. What she wouldn't do to drive over to Santana's place right now, take him up on his offer of drinks and dinner, then spend the night with him, but responsibility called. Responsibility in the form of her children, wherever the hell they were. “I'll call you later.”
“Do that.” She was about to hang up when he said, “Regan?”
“Yeah.”
“You deserve a life, too.”
“That I do.” She couldn't agree more. And he wasn't wrong about her kids. She just wasn't ready to admit it. Yet. “Later.” She clicked off and pulled into the garage, her headlights flashing on the back wall that still held bins of Joe's tools. Her heart tore a little bit when she thought of her first husband, who, like her, had been a cop. Joe Strand hadn't been a perfect man, far from it, but she'd loved him and he'd given her Jeremy, who had all of his father's good looks and none of his sense of responsibility. Joe had been killed in the line of duty during the worst of their marital rough spots. “I think I failed, Joe,” she said as the engine ticked and the headlights died, leaving the garage in total darkness. The wind rattled the window casings and she realized it had been a long time since she'd talked to her deceased husband, something that had been her regular practice in the weeks, months and years after his unexpected death.
Since Nate Santana had come into her life, Joe's image had begun to fade. Finally.
It hadn't happened when she'd been married to Luke “Lucky” Pescoli. In retrospect, Luke should have been a fling. Instead, desperate not to raise a child alone or some other such garbage, Regan had ended up marrying the loser. Lucky became husband number two and father to Bianca. A truck driver, Lucky was sexy and handsome in that bad-boy way she found so fascinating. He, of course, hadn't had a faithful bone in his body. The marriage had been a mistake from the get-go.
Not that she could do anything about it now. And she did get Bianca out of the deal.
After her divorce, Pescoli vowed never to get involved again, and then she'd met Nate Santana and all of her willpower had dissolved with one flash of his sexy, cowboy smile and flicker of naughtiness that she recognized in his eyes. They'd sparked from the first time they'd laid eyes on each other, a chemistry that was as undeniable as it was unfathomable.
Trouble was, he'd gotten serious and she was trying not to be rash. She'd told herself over and over again that
this time
she was going to take it slow, let her head rule her heart for once, rather than the other way around. But Nate Santana was making it difficult. Damned difficult.
this time
she was going to take it slow, let her head rule her heart for once, rather than the other way around. But Nate Santana was making it difficult. Damned difficult.
Dragging her briefcase and laptop from the car, she headed inside and was immediately greeted with excited yips and scurrying feet as Cisco raced across the linoleum. A terrier of indeterminate mix, the dog wasn't as spry as he had been. At twelve, Cisco was definitely slowing down, but he never failed to give an enthusiastic and heartfelt greeting each and every time she walked through the door.
“Jer?” she called, snapping on the lights, though she knew her son wasn't around due to the lack of his truck being parked in its usual spot at the front of the house. “Bianca?” she yelled a little louder as she dropped her laptop and briefcase onto the counter, but aside from Cisco's frenetic dance at her feet, she heard nothing.
“Great.” She let the dog out and checked her phone for voice messages or texts.
Nada.
“Some things never change.” While Cisco took care of business outside, she noted that there was a pizza box on the counter with several bits of crusts and a couple of globs of cheese still within. “More good news.” At least half a dozen cups were situated near the sink, not rinsed and placed in the dishwasher, but at least not scattered all over the living room. As for the dishwasher, it was full, clean dishes ready to be put into waiting cupboards, if only anyone had noticed. She tried to be patient, she really did; after all, she was the one who had encouraged her son to go back to college and he had, if taking six hours really counted as being a student. “I'm workin' my way into it,” Jeremy had said.
“God forbid you take any time away from playing video games. Come on, Jer. There's more to life than annihilating fake soldiers on the flat screen.”
“But I'm playing with other people, from all over.” He pushed a button and Pescoli heard rapid machine-gun fire before another victim died a bloody death in a burned-out bunker on the television screen. “I'm part of a team.”
“Yeah, you are. And it's called Team Strand-Pescoli. And lately, soldier, you haven't exactly been carrying your weight.”
“Oh, Mom.”
“I mean it!”
“This is more than just a video game!”
“Seriously?” she'd countered. “You think?”
“I know.
Call of Duty
isn't just a video game,” he'd told her, controls in his hand as he stared at the television.
Call of Duty
isn't just a video game,” he'd told her, controls in his hand as he stared at the television.
“Sure it is. Watch this.” She'd walked over and turned off the television.
“Mom!”
“Yeah?”
Seeing she meant business, he'd had the brains not to argue. Pescoli considered the bitten tongue a baby step, but a step in the right direction, though, of course, he still needed some sincere attitude adjustments.
Now as Pescoli unzipped her jacket and tossed it over the back of a chair, Cisco raced into the house and took up residence near his bowl, barking loudly until she found his kibbles in the pantry and measured out half a cup. He danced on his back legs and spun in tight little circles as she poured the scoop into his dish. “Oh, come on, it's not
that
late,” she said. “It's not as if you're starving.” However, he wolfed down his food as if he hadn't eaten in a week rather than in a mere twelve hours.
that
late,” she said. “It's not as if you're starving.” However, he wolfed down his food as if he hadn't eaten in a week rather than in a mere twelve hours.
Pescoli tried each of her kids on their cells. Neither picked up. She left quick voice mails asking them to phone her back but knew they wouldn't bother listening to her message. They never did, so she texted each of them.
Where R U? Call ASAP!
She thought about pouring herself a beer or a glass of wine but thought she'd wait until she found her kids.
I'm an adult now, I can do what I want. You have no say over me.
Jeremy's proclamations rang in her ears. His “adulthood” had been a serious bone of contention between them. She figured as long as she was supporting him, he wasn't anywhere near mature enough to be considered an adult and he should report in. He didn't see it that way, of course, and his room, located in the basement, didn't look any more organized or adult than it had when he was twelve. As for Bianca, she was as headstrong as both her parents and of the age where she was testing her bounds, pushing the limits on her freedom.
Her phone dinged, indicating she'd gotten a text, so she checked the screen. From Bianca: With Michelle. Xmas shopping. Home soon. Xoxo.
Okay, she couldn't complain about that one, she supposed, though she'd like to. Michelle was technically the kids' stepmother, though Pescoli hated to think of the twenty-odd-year-old as anything close to a parent of her children. She was Lucky's current wife, had long, blond hair, a killer figure, and despite her innocent look was a cunning woman who had, for reasons indiscernible to Pescoli, zeroed in on Luke and married him soon after college. Michelle played the part of the bimbo to a T, but there was more to her than met the eye. Grudgingly, Pescoli had to admit she took care of the “girly” things with Bianca. They got their pedicures and manicures done together, went out to lunch or coffee and shopped 'til they dropped, seeming to delight in every sale that came along.
At least Pescoli didn't have to do those things that made her uncomfortable. She'd work with Bianca on her homework and had signed her up for every sport from soccer to tennis to horseback riding and would gladly have coached, but Bianca, from the get-go, liked all the things that Pescoli detested about being feminine.
You know, Mom, there's something wrong with YOU, not Michelle,
Bianca had once accused.
What is it with you? It's almost as if you have to prove you're more of a man than a woman and it's gross!
Bianca had once accused.
What is it with you? It's almost as if you have to prove you're more of a man than a woman and it's gross!
“Bingo,” she said now, and texted back,
K
. Bianca's one letter response meaning, “okay.”
K
. Bianca's one letter response meaning, “okay.”
Jer, of course, being the “adult” he was, didn't bother to text.
She should have taken Santana up on his offer! Instead, she tackled the dishes, turned on the dishwasher, then took the overflowing garbage and empty pizza box out to the exterior can, where snow had piled four inches, covering the lid. The night was quiet, snow falling.
Her cell phone jangled as she walked into the house and she smiled when she saw Bianca's face and number fill the small screen.
“Hey,” she said as she walked into the living room, where the Christmas tree, without an ornament or light, stood in the corner.
“Hi, Mom!” Bianca was breathless.
“Where are you?”
“Still at the mall. Michelle and I just had dinner and I still have tons of shopping to do. So I was thinking it would just be easier for Michelle if we ... um, finished and I stayed over at Dad's.”
“For the night?”
“Yeah. Michelle said she'd get me to school in the morning.”
Pescoli tried to ignore the pain in her heart. “You've got your homework.”
“What do you think?” Bianca said, copping an attitude for a second before adding quickly. “Of course I do. I'm finished with my report for English and I just have a little more algebra.”
“Spanish?”
“Finished.”
She wanted to say no, and “get your behind home,” but that was just selfish and territorial on her part and wouldn't help with Bianca's attitude or her being involved in her father's life. “Okay, then.” Ignoring a little hole in her heart, she added, “I'll see you ... when? Hey, wait, is Michelle going to get you to school early? For dance team?”
“Yeah. She
wouldn't
let me miss that. It's important, she thinks. You know she was captain of her cheerleading squad when she was in high school.”
wouldn't
let me miss that. It's important, she thinks. You know she was captain of her cheerleading squad when she was in high school.”
And that was about two years ago,
Pescoli wanted to say but bit her tongue, even though the fact that Luke's current wife was still in her twenties bugged the hell out of her. “Okay, then let's have dinner tomorrow. Seven. Good?”
Pescoli wanted to say but bit her tongue, even though the fact that Luke's current wife was still in her twenties bugged the hell out of her. “Okay, then let's have dinner tomorrow. Seven. Good?”
“Good.”
“Maybe we'll get lucky and Jeremy will deign to join us.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I'm serious.”
“What're the chances of you and Jer both being home for dinner? Or me, either. Jeremy and I do have lives, y'-know. And face it, Mom, you're
always
working.”
always
working.”
That stung as it was the same accusation she'd heard from Santana on more than one occasion.
“Point taken. But let's try. Tomorrow. Get our Christmas plans straight.”
“Fine. Whatever.” Sounding put-upon, Bianca hung up quickly and was off to do whatever was so important with Michelle, the pseudo-bimbo who seemed to be in the running for Stepmom of the Year. “Great,” Pescoli said to the dog, then decided to get over it. She rustled up leftover spaghetti, a spinach salad that had seen better days and half a glass of merlot.
“Cheers,” she told herself as she pulled out a bar stool, sat down and, while reading what she'd missed in the paper this morning, dug in. She thought of Santana again and realized he was right: She couldn't live the rest of her life for her kids. Not that they would ever think so. And maybe she did work long hours, but her work mattered, damn it, and was for the good of the community. Besides, she loved it. Pronging a meatball as if her life depended on it, she turned her attention to the paper, then decided that soon, come hell or high water, her family was going to trim the tree. Together. Even if it killed them.
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