“What does your wife think about this?” she threw out and he visibly reacted. That’s when she saw the blood. A trickle running down his arm, as if one of her bullets had found its mark. “Dorie? Isn’t that her name? Is she part of this?”
“No!” he yelled, stung, his face pulling into an expression of revulsion.
“Oh, come on. She must have some idea.”
“Leave her out of this.” He drew in a deep breath. “It doesn’t matter anyway. She’s ... gone.”
“Gone?”
“He killed her!” a woman’s voice yelled and the freak looked up quickly.
Someone else was down here? Oh, yes ... she’d heard a woman crying ... Slowly her brain was snapping to.
“Shut the fuck up!” Jon yelled, but the woman wouldn’t obey him.
“He killed her. Bragged about it! Didn’t you, you fucking abomination of nature!”
He turned then, distracted, and Alvarez knew, if she was ever going to get the drop on him, it was now!
O’Keefe rounded a final corner and saw the boy, facedown in the snow, blood pooling around him. Alvarez’s Outback, still idling, shot to hell, was parked at the crest of the hill, but it was empty. Weapon drawn, O’Keefe pulled up to the boy and carefully got out of his car.
Where was she?
No sign of her, nor the killer, nor another vehicle.
But a dog lay motionless in the snow and O’Keefe realized he’d finally found Alvarez’s Roscoe.
Too little, too late.
His gaze searching the area, his hand tight over his weapon, he readied himself and crouched over the boy. Please be alive, Gabe. Please ...
He expected a hail of bullets, but it was quiet in the surrounding forest, no sound but the thrum of the car’s idling engine and his own thudding heart.
Too damned quiet.
And no Selena ... He wouldn’t let his mind wander to that forbidden territory, the dark corner of his brain that accused him of moving too slowly, of not chasing her down faster, of letting her end up here and, now, most likely dead.
His throat tightened and he focused on the here and now, what he could do rather than the cold, stark fact that he’d never see Alvarez alive again.
Reaching the kid, still keeping a wary eye out for an ambush that could happen at any second, he felt the weakest of pulses and, as he checked for injuries, dialed 911. When the operator answered, he cut her off before she could ask about his emergency. “I need an ambulance stat.” He gave his name and position and explained that Gabriel Reeve had been shot, was clinging to life. After assuring him that help was on the way, the operator insisted O’Keefe stay on the line as she patched him through to an EMT, who over the phone would help him stabilize the boy.
“Come on, Gabe, hang in there, buddy,” O’Keefe said, opening the boy’s jacket and shirt, seeing the bullet hole high in his chest.
The boy moaned, and over the sound, he heard the whine of another engine.
Backup?
Or the killer?
Positioning himself between the boy and the oncoming vehicle, O’Keefe aimed his gun at the rise. Twin beams appeared, and as the Jeep rounded the corner, O’Keefe saw Regan Pescoli at the wheel.
“It’s a damned bloodbath, one victim, a woman, naked and unrecognizable, on the bed, blood all over the walls and carpet and bed ... Man, it’s a friggin’ nightmare. Right out of some horror movie,” Peter Watershed was saying to Pescoli over the phone. He and Rule Kayan had been sent to the Oestergard farm and, after calling the station, Watershed had phoned her.
“No sign of the husband?”
“No, and the only vehicle in the garage is a Honda Civic registered to the wife. But we haven’t checked all the outbuildings yet and it’s obvious someone goes down to the barn and sheds; there’s a pretty clear path in the snow. We’re heading that way next.”
“Be careful.”