Another man appeared in the doorway, obviously trying to talk some sense into De Maestro, to pull him inside, but the bigger man was having none of it, and as the dog quieted and somewhere in the distance a siren wailed, he turned, looking straight at Alvarez.
Oh, God.
A smile as evil as all of hell curved his lips, showing off white teeth as he raised his gun. “Perra,” he said, aiming, his voice slurred.
Alvarez froze.
Too late.
Running now, his weapon raised, O’Keefe yelled, “Drop it! Police! Policia! Alberto De Maestro, drop your weapon!”
“Fuck off!” Spinning agilely, De Maestro turned his gun on O’Keefe. His malicious grin widened. The devil himself. “Feliz Navidad, bastardo!”
With that, he pulled the trigger.
Chapter 1
Her skin wa
s tinged with blue.
Her flesh becoming stiff—which was perfect.
Her eyes, through the ice, stared upward, yet they saw nothing and, unfortunately, she couldn’t appreciate how much love, affection and thought was going into this work.
No longer did her shallow breath cause the ice to melt near her nose, and her mouth, thankfully, had closed, her lips perfectly fused together, a darker blue ... like Sleeping Beauty, he thought as he carefully poured another layer of water over her.
Ice crystals formed over her naked body, glazing the youthful flesh, sparkling in the dim lights of his cavern.
So beautiful.
So perfect.
So dead.
Humming along to Christmas music playing from his battery-operated docking station in this, his private chamber, he sculpted. Carefully. With precise attention to detail. Perfection; that was what he was striving for. And he would get it.
He kept his sculpting room at thirty degrees, just below freezing, and his breath fogged as he worked in his underground studio. Though a snowstorm was raging through this section of the Bitterroot Mountains, down here, deep in the caves, the air was calm; not a breath of the wind could be heard.
Wearing a neoprene suit, gloves, boots and ski mask, he silently wished he could strip bare, feel the bite of cold air against his flesh, feel more alive, but that would have to wait. He couldn’t be rash, couldn’t allow any bit of his skin or hair or even sweat to mar his work.
Besides, there was always that sticky problem of DNA once the police became involved. That would be soon, he knew, because this piece of art was nearly finished. A little more whittling here, a bit of shaving there.
“Oh, the weather outside is frightful,” he sang along under his breath as the music reverberated through these linked caves that he’d claimed for his work. Hidden deep in these foothills, the caverns provided a perfect spot. A natural spring provided the water he needed, and battery-powered lights gave off a bluish glow. When he needed brighter light, he donned headlamps to illuminate the areas where he needed to work.
From deeper within his workspace he heard a pathetic mewl and he frowned. Why wouldn’t that woman just die, already? He’d given her enough sedatives to knock out an elephant and yet she lay on the precipice between consciousness and death, lingering. And moaning. He frowned, hit his chisel with his hammer and the blade slipped, slicing through his glove and nicking his finger. “Damn!” Blood, his damned blood fell in a singular drop along the ice. Quickly it froze and he, rather than smear it, let it dry, all the time irritated at the delay. Once it was solid, he cut around the rivulet, giving wide berth and making certain that no hint of red disturbed his perfect piece of art.
He was sweating by the time he was finished excavating the blood. Carefully, telling himself to be patient, he began pouring clear water from the spring over that flaw in his masterpiece. Allowing the water to freeze, he waited impatiently before pouring a little more, until there was no hint of a fissure, no blemish visible.
“Perfect,” he whispered, satisfied.
He stared down at his artwork, the naked woman encased in ice, and he couldn’t help but lean forward, bending close enough to lick one ice-encased nipple. His tongue tingled, the interior of his mouth so cold that a ripple of pure, icy pleasure worked its way through his bloodstream, starting out frigid, but, as his mind created scenarios where his body was rubbing up against her arctic flesh, he felt the tiniest niggle of excitement, the start of arousal.
He rolled his tongue over the ice, imagining the salty taste of her, the bud of her nipple hard in his mouth. He’d sink his teeth in, just a little, to mingle pleasure with pain. He let out a quiet moan as his fantasy emerged.
In his mind’s eye, he saw another beautiful woman, her hair falling freely behind her as she ran, laughing, her voice echoing through the wintry forest. Snow had drifted against the scaly trunks of the pines, ice collecting on the long needles.
He raced through thick powder, chasing after her, watching in arousal as she tossed off her clothing, piece by piece, dropping a blouse, a skirt, a scarf into nearby snowdrifts. Finally her bra was discarded and she, in only panties, continued to run.