That thought was foreign. Unappealing.

"Oh, G.o.d," she whispered. Throwing off the covers, she opened her eyes.

The cabin was nearly dark, of course, though she discerned from the bits of gray light filtering through the shades or cracks in the curtains that dawn had broken. Good. It was time to stoke the fire and get moving, face the d.a.m.n music.

Finally, the waiting, and, oh G.o.d, the running, were nearly over.

She flung her legs off the couch and, stretching her arms over her head, yawned as she tried to wake up. Rotating the tightness from her neck, she felt it-that sizzling, heart-stopping sensation that something wasn't right.

Don't be silly.

Then she heard a sc.r.a.pe of leather against old floorboards.

Instinctively she rolled off the couch, her arm shooting forward under the pillow, her fingers searching for the hard steel of her pistol.

Nothing.

What? No!

"It's not there," a deep voice said.

Turning to look over her shoulder, she saw him then, the huge dark figure standing against the door.

Oh, G.o.d!

He'd found her.

Chapter 22.

Pescoli had half-expected the atmosphere around the department to be different after Grayson's funeral, but when she got to work on Monday it didn't feel that way. Stomping snow from her boots, she felt a wall of heat greet her along with that same sense of somberness. Everyone who'd worked for Grayson may have gotten some closure from the ceremony, but it was going to take a while until it was business as usual again.

Winter had returned full force, a mother of a storm blowing in from Canada that had dumped nearly a foot of snow in the area and wasn't done yet. The wind was gusting and brutal, the temperature plunging to below freezing. Currently, most of the roads were clogged, some closed, maintenance crews working overtime. Deputies from the department had been called in early to deal with traffic snarls. Parts of the county were reporting electrical outages. Frozen pipes might be next, and the homeless population needed more shelter.

All that along with their current whack job-one who liked fingers and rings and dead women.

Pescoli, who had always claimed to have hated all the folderol over celebrations from New Year's to Christmas, found she missed the lightheartedness of Joelle's attempts to decorate the office, or at least her chance to poke fun at it. It was going to take a while until denial slowly morphed into reality and people got back into routine.

She had gotten up early and it was still predawn outside, not her norm by a long shot. She'd been unable to sleep, so she'd come to the station earlier than usual, ready to get back to the job, even though she was working for a man she didn't much like.

As she unwound her scarf, she told herself it was time for a personal att.i.tude adjustment. She didn't like Blackwater, and she was pretty sure he didn't like her. So what? It was time to get along, at least as long as she was employed in the department. Considering her current state-engaged, pregnant, the mother of teenagers who still needed her words of wisdom and guidance-it might be time to pack it in.

But not quite yet.

She still needed to find who'd killed Sheree Cantnor and Calypso Pope. That part-solving the mysteries of homicides, catching the culprits, and slamming their a.s.ses behind bars-she would miss. As for the particular freak they were currently chasing, she wanted him behind bars and fast. She and Alvarez needed to wrap it up.

Unzipping her outer coat as she walked by Blackwater's office, she caught a glimpse of him on the floor doing a slow, determined set of push-ups. "Detective?" he called before she could move past. "I'd like to have a word."

She paused. Backed up a step. Stood in the open doorway.

"Glad you're in early."

His face was away from her and as far as she could tell he hadn't even looked in her direction, which was a little disconcerting. She hadn't spoken, wasn't usually in before eight, and didn't think her footsteps were all that unique, yet there was no doubt he'd known it was she who was pa.s.sing by his door.

"Come on in." He lifted one arm, still balancing himself off the floor with the other as he waved her inside.

Was he showing off? For her? She could have told him it wasn't going to work.

She stepped inside the small room that had once held a dog bed and hat rack. Both were gone, as were all of Grayson's personal belongings. Then again, his memorabilia had been missing for a while because Blackwater wasn't the first person to claim this office after Grayson had been shot; another man had sat in his chair, wielding his own brand of distorted power for a very short period.

"What can I do for you?" she asked him.

Dressed in uniform, his sleeves rolled up, his body straight as a board, not so much as breaking a sweat, Blackwater did three more slow, perfect push-ups, holding his body rigidly off the floor.

"You look busy," she said, looking longingly toward her office door.

"Nope. Finished. For now." In one swift, athletic motion he hopped to his feet and straightened, his face only slightly flushed. "Have a seat," he said, and she thought better of arguing, even though she was still wearing her jacket and hadn't even spent a second at her desk. "I'd like your take on the Cantnor and Pope homicides. Bring me up to speed."

"I thought Alvarez talked to you." Pescoli was pretty sure Blackwater had all the information they did.

"She did. As did Gage. But I'd like to hear what you think." He was staring at her intently, almost as if he were trying to read her mind.

So, he wants a recitation. Fine. "Well, I think we've got ourselves another nutcase." She perched stiffly on the chair she'd occupied so often when Grayson was alive.

Some kind of cla.s.sical music was playing softly, Blackwater's computer was at the ready, the monitor glowing with the logo for the department on display, and every book, file, pen, or note pad was placed neatly on the desk or the surrounding cases, his awards mounted precisely on the walls. The whole "neat as a pin" feel gave Pescoli a bad feeling-kind of like Alvarez's office on steroids. It was all part and parcel of Blackwater's consistent military style.

"I think the murders are linked. That's the obvious conclusion, and I think it's the right one. We've got one sick j.e.r.k.-.o.f.f. who gets his jollies by slicing off the victim's ring finger. I've got no real idea who's behind the deeds yet." She almost lost her train of thought, he was staring at her so intently, but she went through all the facts again as they knew them, finally returning to, "The big connection so far is the missing fingers and rings, and that fingerprint. We only hope we'll come up with a hit and be able to ID whoever picked up Sheree Cantnor's shoe and Calypso Pope's bag."

His eyebrows pinched together. "Not one suspect so far?"

He knew that, too, but apparently wanted her to reiterate. "No. At least not until we identify the print found on Cantnor's shoe and Pope's bag. Or, if our killer is dumb enough to try and p.a.w.n the rings and give himself away."

Blackwater picked a pencil out of the holder and leaning back in his chair, fiddled with it. "Odd case."

"We get our share around here."

"And then some," he agreed.

"Must be the water, or the hard winters. Makes people crazy."

He didn't so much as crack a smile. So much for a little levity.

"You got anything else?" he asked.

"We're still looking for a connection between the two women, old schools or boyfriends or friends, even friends of friends, but as near as we can tell at this point, the two victims didn't know each other."

"Random?"

"Or possibly each woman knew the killer, but not each other. If this were a TV show, it would turn out that the female victims happened to share the same bad-boy lover who maybe went to prison and hired some lunatic to off them or something like that. So far, we haven't been lucky enough to find any connection between the victims and Montana's version of a modern day Jerry Brudos."

When Blackwater didn't immediately respond, she elucidated. "The guy in Oregon who had a fetish for shoes and cut off body parts and kept 'em in the freezer. Back in the sixties, I think. My folks told me about it. Our guy has a thing for fingers and rings."

Listening, Blackwater asked, "You think the killer will strike again? Here?" He pointed to the office floor, but she knew he meant in the general area of Grizzly Falls.

"I would have said 'probably not' after the first victim. I mean, who knew what was going on? I thought the Cantnor woman's killer might just be a p.i.s.sed off ex-boyfriend. But after Pope that doesn't make as much sense now. Maybe he's setting up for another kill, or maybe he was just pa.s.sing through, did his business here, twice that we know of, then moved on. For all we know, there could be more bodies of earlier victims that have been killed and dumped somewhere else, and not yet discovered."

"He could have had other victims. Cases before ours."

"We're double-checking that, as well as the names of all of the women who've gone missing in the past month."

"Do you think he's moved on?" Blackwater asked.

Pescoli slowly shook her head. "Just a gut feeling, but no. Our doer seems to know the area pretty well. Either that, or he's been extremely fortunate, as we can't find a link between the women, and we have no video footage or pictures of anyone near the victims in their last moments. Somehow, he avoided any cameras on that stretch of the waterfront when he attacked Calypso Pope. The same goes for Sheree Cantnor, yet these days everyone has a camera phone in their purse or pocket. People are always taking pictures and posting them on social media sites. And most businesses keep security cameras running twenty-four seven. So, how's our guy been so lucky unless he's really aware of the area?"

As if realizing he was fiddling with the pencil, Blackwater replaced it. "Why the rings? The fingers?"

"Trophies? You know, to relive the moment. Again, like our friend Brudos. Or maybe some kind of personal statement about the rings, or marriage? Maybe both?" She shook her head. "Hard to know what kind of psychosis the doer's dealing with."

"You think he's insane?"

"Without a doubt, but, hey, I'm not giving the killer a defense. I'm just saying he's not what most of us would call normal."

Blackwater nodded. "Rings with fingers. A weird fetish."

"Name a fetish that isn't abnormal," she suggested and realized that for the first time since Blackwater had taken over they seemed to be on the same page.

His phone rang and he ended the meeting abruptly with, "Okay. Just wanted your thoughts. Keep me posted."

"Will do." She rose, then couldn't help herself from asking, "So, what's with the push-ups?"

"Keeps the blood flowing. Any kind of exercise. I do something every two hours, makes my brain clearer."

"Oh."

"You should try it."

"I should," she said equably.

He actually smiled, seeing through her. "And Pescoli?"

"Hmmm?"

"Just for the record, I know what happened. Out in the woods that day when you'd chased down Grayson's killer."

"Oh, yeah?" Where is this going?

"I'm glad your son saved your life and shot the son of a b.i.t.c.h who was trying to kill you." His hand was poised over the phone which was on its third ring, but his gaze was locked with hers.

Surprised, she said, "Umm. Me, too."

"You're lucky." Then he added, "Jeremy's a good kid." Blackwater actually flashed a quick smile, straight white teeth against bronzed skin. "And fortunately a d.a.m.n good shot."

"Thanks," she said, then started down the hall to her office. She still wasn't fond of the man, but it seemed like he was at least trying harder. Unless he was just blowing hot air up her skirt because he sensed she neither trusted nor liked him. He was smart enough to pull that off, she knew.

As she reached the door to her office, she heard him answer, "Sheriff Blackwater," and the muscles in the back of her neck clenched. She had to remind herself to get over it. The office was his. Whether she trusted him or not, he was her boss. Until someone else was elected, or she quit, she'd just have to deal with him.

End of story.

Her hand searched frantically beneath the pillow, but her d.a.m.n gun was missing!

Terrified, Anne-Marie sat bolt upright, her eyes narrowing, her mind racing. It was a dream. That was it. A very real nightmare.

"I've got it." His voice was a raspy whisper over the wind screaming outside.

She blinked. Knew it was no dream. It was happening. He'd found her. Somehow. Someway. Her heart pounded, her courage flagged, and she wanted to melt into the couch.

You're still alive. He's got the gun, but you're still alive. Maybe he doesn't want to kill you . . .

And then she knew. Not kill. Torture. Maim.

Fight, d.a.m.n it. Don't give up.

How had he found her? How had he broken in and she not heard? How the h.e.l.l had he plucked the gun from under her head without her waking? She licked suddenly dry lips and remembered her dreams, the hot breath against her neck, the waking and thinking someone was inside, then convincing herself otherwise. Had he been right beside her? Within touching distance? If so, why hadn't he just killed her then, if that was his intent?

Her insides curdled at the thought of him watching her sleep while she lay unaware. While her heart was hammering wildly, she tried to think, to plot out her escape. But there was nowhere to run in the storm. If she tried to leave, he'd catch her fast. Still, her gaze slid to the window, so near the door where he stood, blocking any chance of escape. If she flung herself over the back of the couch and tried to make it across the room and through the kitchen to the back door, no doubt he would be on her in less than a second.

No no no! Even if she was able to run outside, how far would she get barefoot in the snow, in the raging wind and driving storm?

Unless she made it to her SUV.

She could drive to the sheriff's office.... Wait! Her phone! If she could somehow get away from him and call 9-1-1, she might have a chance.

Avery slim one.

Or she could try to reason with him.

Oh, yeah. Right. Like that had ever worked.

"What are you doing here?" she finally demanded when she had her wits about her. Fear had driven any lingering vestige of sleep from her mind. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she tried to see him more clearly, still in the same position at the door. She tried to make out his features, to read his expression.

"Come on, Anne-Marie," he said, his voice a little clearer, his faint Texas drawl perceptible. "Is that any way to greet your husband?"