Deserves to Die Part 24

"I'm divorcing the son of a b.i.t.c.h."

Her mother hesitated at the French doors leading to the kitchen. With one hand on the doork.n.o.b, she glanced over her shoulder. "Then you're divorcing all of us, Anne-Marie. You won't be welcome here again."

Anne-Marie's stomach tightened and she'd fought the urge to run to her mother and beg her forgiveness, but she stood firm.

"I trust you can show yourself out," were the last words her mother said to her.

Chapter 21.

Jessica shoved thoughts of her family aside as she drove through the night. They would not be any help. Never had been. Even her grandmother on her mother's side, Marcella, who had adored her only granddaughter, wouldn't come to her aid.

Not any longer.

That, of course, was her own fault. The effect of stealing from someone who loved and trusted her.

Would the police be able to protect her?

She doubted it. She had too many strikes against her-a mental patient as well as a thief and a known liar. No, she didn't really believe the cops would help her, at least not the cops in New Orleans. She'd pinned her hopes on Dan Grayson. But even if he'd still been alive, chances were he wouldn't have come to her rescue, either.

"Face it," she said to the disguised woman in the mirror, "you're on your own."

Then again, hadn't she always been?

The snow began to fall a little more heavily, collecting on the winds.h.i.+eld, and she remembered the storm that had been predicted, a blizzard moving south from Canada, the biggest of the winter. Great, she thought sarcastically. Just what she needed. She flipped on the wipers and from the corner of her eye, caught a flash of headlights s.h.i.+ning through the night, a vehicle somewhere behind her.

You're not the only one who lives out here, she reminded herself.

"But almost," she said, her gloved hands tightening over the steering wheel. Again, she looked back. Again she saw lights.

She swallowed hard and wondered where the h.e.l.l all of her bravado had gone. It was as if her courage had dissolved in the time, over a year, since that conversation with her mother.

It's nothing. Don't be paranoid. Get a d.a.m.n grip.

Her heart was pounding like crazy. Despite the cold, her fingers began to sweat in her gloves as she clenched the wheel.

Another look in the mirror.

The lights had disappeared.

Probably turned off at that last junction. She let out her breath.

It was nothing. See? For G.o.d's sake pull yourself together. You have to keep a level head.

She saw the lane leading to her cabin and started to turn in when two eyes caught in the headlights. "Oh, G.o.d!" She slammed on the brakes and the SUV skidded, back end fishtailing as the deer leaped nimbly into the surrounding trees.

She sat for a second, waiting for her rollicking heart to return to normal as snow drifted down, falling steadily, piling on the ground.

It was a d.a.m.n deer. Nothing more.

She pressed on the gas pedal. Wheels spinning, she whispered, "Come on, come on," as the back end slid some more. Finally, the front wheels caught, the Tahoe lurched forward, and she drove along the ruts to the cabin, a tiny dark abode in the middle of nowhere.

She'd been foolish to come to Grizzly Falls, she realized, propelled by fear and confusion and, yes, paranoia. But, come the daylight, she would make things right.

The rest of the drive down the winding length of the lane was uneventful. She parked, hurried into the cabin, then went through her usual routine of replacing firewood, then stoking the flames, and double-checking all the locks on the doors and latches on the windows before making certain that every curtain or shade was pulled tight.

After twisting on the shower to get the warm water running, she took off the pieces of her disguise. She hung her wig and padding on a hook behind the bathroom door then secured her dental appliance in a ziplock plastic bag that she left on the counter. Cold to the bone, she showered quickly, then dried off, tossing her towel over a hook near the window. She cracked the window just enough to clear the room of what little steam had collected. s.h.i.+vering, she pulled on her sweats, grabbed her uniform and underclothes, then hurried back to the living room where the fire was burning more brightly, some heat emanating from the grate.

Yeah, this place is miserable, she thought. Hardly a haven.

By habit, she folded her work clothes then placed them on the table at one end of her makes.h.i.+ft bed. Finally, she settled in by the fire and turned on her computer to catch up on the day's news and watch some mind-numbing television. Currently, she found no more information about the two women who had been killed in Grizzly Falls and she prayed that they hadn't been targeted because of her.

No way.

That was impossible, right?

Creeeaaak.

Her heart stilled as she listened.

Had she been mistaken, or had a floorboard squeaked somewhere in her house?

Waiting, not moving a muscle, she listened hard.

Nothing.

There's no one here. No one. You know it.

But there had been a noise. She was sure of it. And it sounded as if it had emanated from inside the house.

Swallowing back her fear, she stayed motionless, her ears straining as she listened, but she heard nothing other than the sound of dry tinder popping and moss hissing as they caught fire, the sound of the wind outside the cabin, and the d.a.m.n drip of the bathroom faucet.

Get over yourself.

Still, she held her breath, then slowly retrieved her tiny pistol and, moving slowly, carefully went through the house to investigate. Cautiously she moved through the small rooms. Over the internal clamoring of her heart, she listened for any sound that was out of the ordinary while searching the nooks and crannies, every shadow, for someone or something that was trapped inside.

An animal. That's it. A squirrel or rat or rabbit. Or G.o.d forbid, a skunk might have found its way inside. Right? Or do they hibernate? She didn't really know. Just hoped that whatever it was, it wasn't human.

Her throat was dry as sand.

Fear pulsed through her.

The living area was clear, no one inside. The kitchen alcove was empty, too, and cold, a bit of air seeping from the area around the window over the sink. On bare feet, she made her way to the back door and lifted the shade where she could peek outside to the small porch.

The snow was falling faster. The predicted blizzard had arrived. She worried her lower lip and wondered if she'd be trapped, her plans of telling her wild tale to the police thwarted.

You're not backing out of this. Too many times you've turned tail and run. Tomorrow, come h.e.l.l or high water . . .

She forcibly steeled herself. For months, she'd been a coward, but no longer. She had a four-wheel-drive vehicle and would make it to the police station . . . if she got through this last, lonely night.

Trying to see through the thickening veil of snow, she saw no one. Nothing sinister seemed to be peering from the shadows. Narrowing her eyes, she studied each of the trees closest to the house and the back of the old garage and the small pump house. She waited, antic.i.p.ating movement, but nothing moved other than the flurries of snow that swirled past frantically, the wind increasing.

Give it up, Anne-Marie or Jessica or whoever it is you're calling yourself now.

Her fingers clutched fiercely over the pistol's grip, because something didn't seem right outside. Everything looked peaceful, even serene and yet . . . what was it?

Then she knew. It wasn't that she saw anyone, but the snow behind the house seemed uneven rather than smooth. Were those footprints on the landscape, large impressions in the icy powder that she hadn't created?

She looked harder, but, of course, she couldn't be certain as it was so dark, and really, who would be skulking around the cabin? Who knew she was there?

No one.

Well, besides Cade. And maybe Big Zed as he had to have seen her SUV parked in the driveway, but they wouldn't be a problem. No one would come. And it was her last night in the cabin.

She hoped.

Staring into the night, she saw no movement other than the sway of branches and swirl of snow. The impressions she thought were footprints could have been caused by the irregular terrain behind the house-dirt clods or boulders or brush. Surely there was no clear trail, no path that someone had broken in the snow, no clear print on the thin snow of the back step. No, no, she was just letting her wild imagination get the better of her.

Still convincing herself that she was safe, that no one was lurking in the frigid shadows outside, she backed away from the door, letting the shade drop. She moved silently to the bathroom, slowly pus.h.i.+ng open the door a bit with the muzzle of the gun so that the weak light of the living area could permeate the darkness. She started to step inside and- No!

Her heart jolted at the sight of a dark figure in the reflection of the cracked mirror.

She bit back a scream, stepped back, and pointed her pistol at the doorway. "Drop your weapon!" she ordered, taking another step back, gun aimed, ready to fire.

Nothing.

No movement.

No response.

"Drop your weapon! Step out! Hands over your head!"

Again no response.

Just the keen of the wind and somewhere a branch banging against the side of the house.

"I mean it. I'll shoot!"

She was breathing hard, nearly hyperventilating. The gun beginning to wobble. She considered firing a warning shot, but was afraid of the ricochet. "Come out. Now!"

d.a.m.n. He wasn't responding. In fact, he hadn't so much as moved a muscle.

Cautiously, her finger on the trigger, she moved forward to the side of the door in case he should jump into the bathroom and start firing.

But that wasn't his style, was it?

"Who the h.e.l.l are you?" she cried and then, ever so cautiously looked into the bathroom, to the mirror.

He was still in the same position. Crouching. Hiding halfway behind the door. His eyes were guarded, but his hair was visible. She swung her straight arm around the edge of the door. "I said 'Drop!' " she cried.

Not a whisper.

Trembling, she repeated, "I said-" But the command died in her throat and she felt all the strength seep out of her. "For the love of G.o.d."

As she looked more closely, first in the mirror, and then around the door to the wall itself, she realized she wasn't looking at some sinister cloaked figure ready to do her bodily harm. The "figure" wasn't a person at all. What she'd seen in the distorted image of the broken mirror was her own disguise, the padding and wig suspended from a hook in the wall behind the door. Just where she'd left it not an hour earlier.

"Idiot," she muttered, leaning against the vanity. Her knees were jelly and she felt herself flush in embarra.s.sment. What was wrong with her? She was letting her paranoia get the better of her.

You keep this up and you'll end up in the mental hospital again. Is that what you want? For G.o.d's sake, get a d.a.m.n grip, would ya?

She studied her image in the cracked mirror and thought it was ironically symbolic that her face was disfigured and warped.

So so true.

As her heart rate eventually slowed, she collected her wits and yanked the window shut tight, latching it securely.

Why would anyone, even a maniac as malicious as her husband, harm an innocent person? She'd leaped to the wrong conclusion. Again.

Still, she felt as if someone were watching her, following her, tracking her. The feeling never left her. From the moment she awoke, all through her days at the diner, on the road, and even in the cabin, it was the same. She glanced around the room and wondered about bugs-the kind with tiny microphones and itsy little cameras-and even her own computer. It had a camera in it. Could someone even now, be looking through- Stop it! No one's been here. No one's planting listening devices, for G.o.d's sake. You don't even talk to anyone. And as for cameras-really? Why would anyone on G.o.d's green earth go to all that trouble? Why not just come in and kill you in your sleep? Get over your crazy self!

Whether there was reason or not, she did a quick sweep with her flashlight of the obvious places, and double-checked her stashes that she'd hidden to make certain her money and fake licenses and pa.s.sports that had cost her so much were in place. Using the cash she'd stolen, she'd purchased them from a sketchy friend of a sketchy friend of a sketchy friend. She and the contact had met twice, once in an alley behind a crowded bar in the wee hours and the second time when she'd actually been handed the perfect-appearing doc.u.ments on the waterfront of the slow-moving Mississippi in New Orleans in the dead of night. With the noise and lights of the French Quarter not far away, they'd made the exchange. Being that close to the river alone had made her skin crawl, and dealing with the skinny sharp-nosed man who didn't hide the fact that he was carrying a weapon, had been nerve-wracking. The pictures on her ID were far from perfect, of course, but so far, she hadn't been asked to show her driver's license anywhere. That would change when she told her story, of course.

Oh, G.o.d, she hoped the officer she connected with would believe her.

Don't freak out. You're safe. You'll go into the sheriff's department in the morning and demand protection, explain yourself. Everything will be fine.

That of course was a lie, but she swallowed back her fear, forced her heartbeat to slow, and found a way to become calm again. Tomorrow, come what may, she would be done running.

The fire crackled and hissed. Warmth radiated through the small room. She closed her eyes on the couch and touched the underside of her pillow, making certain the pistol was back where she'd placed it.

As nervous as she was, she felt too wound up to fall asleep and the minutes ticked by in the dark. She heard the wind screaming through the mountains and that d.a.m.n limb bang against the house. The drip in the faucet, too, was audible, but it had become a part of her environment and eventually, as the fire began to die, exhaustion finally took over and she drifted off.

She didn't know how long she'd slept, but awoke slowly. Today is the day, her mind nagged, but she pulled the sleeping bag tighter around her to fend off the cold. She didn't open her eyes, didn't want to wake up. Not yet. Who knew what the day would bring? After all, it wasn't as if she'd gotten a full night's rest. It had been late when she'd fallen asleep and her recurring nightmare of drowning in blood had been peppered with the noises of the cabin. Images of glowing eyes watching her as she'd frantically tried to swim had been accompanied by a keening laughter and the steady clap of her attacker's hands. The wind screaming, the window panes rattling, the pounding of the branch against the house all added to her unrest. She'd even half-woken once, certain she wasn't alone, that someone was near enough that she felt his warm breath against her neck, but after blinking her eyes open and seeing nothing, she'd rolled over and settled back into fretful sleep.

Hours later, her back aching from her uncomfortable position on the old couch, a crick in her neck, Jessica rolled over without opening her eyes. It felt as if she hadn't slept a wink. Thankfully, she had a couple days off so she could sleep in.

And put off the inevitable? Isn't that what you're doing? Get up! Get going! Face the d.a.m.n music. It's time to get on with the rest of your life.

"No," she said aloud and s.h.i.+vered, pulling up the sleeping bag as the temperature in the cabin had fallen overnight. She needed to get up and stoke the fire. Try to make herself presentable. Get her story straight.

What story? For once you'd better tell the truth.