So there it was. Obviously, he couldn't give up another shot at the spotlight.

Joelle clarified. "You want me to ask Nia Del Ray to wait for the press conference?"

"She can d.a.m.n well cool her jets," Pescoli said.

But Blackwater held up a hand to silence her. "I'll speak to Ms. Del Ray," he said to Joelle. "Give me five minutes, then send her in."

It was all Pescoli could do to hold her tongue.

"I'm not going to tell her anything about the case," Blackwater a.s.sured the detectives as he pushed his chair back and stood. "I just want to a.s.sure her that we're not holding anything back and, as I said, see if the press can help us." With one eye on the mirror, he reached for his jacket. "Keep me up to the minute, Detectives," he ordered and waited as they walked out of his office.

Pescoli seethed.

"Don't let him get to you," Alvarez whispered. "Don't. It won't end well."

"No?" Pescoli threw back. "You know me. Here I was believing in happy endings."

Something was wrong.

Ryder sensed it the minute he stepped inside the cabin again. It was too quiet. Too d.a.m.n quiet. "Hey!" he called, crossing the living room. "It's been five minutes."

Still nothing. "Anne-Marie?"

No response, just the soft thunk of one of the blackened logs in the fireplace splitting, causing a few sparks to rise and the reddish embers to glow bright. He told himself to relax, that he was starting to jump at shadows. Hadn't he conjured up someone lurking through the veil of snow around the cabin a few minutes ago? Being cooped up, listening to her lies . . . h.e.l.l, believing them . . . was making him edgy. "Anne?" he yelled again. "Let's go!"

Nothing.

Not one d.a.m.n sound.

In a heartbeat, he knew what had happened. "s.h.i.t!"

Somehow, though he'd watched the interior during his phone call, even checked the grounds near the little cottage, she'd managed to escape, either by lucking out and running to the back door while he was surveying the snowy landscape near the side of the house, or somehow she'd crawled through that tiny window in the bathroom and dropped outside, hiding her tracks.

He flashed on the shadow he'd witnessed.

c.r.a.p! It had been her. Of course!

d.a.m.n it all to h.e.l.l, I've been an idiot, he thought, crossing the small s.p.a.ce.

He'd been careless, believing the stupid window was too d.a.m.n small. But without all the extra padding, Anne-Marie was a slim, athletic woman. And she had a purpose. Hadn't she told him over and over that she wouldn't go back, that she'd rather die than . . .

Jaw clenched, he flung the cracked door open wide. "Anne-Oh, G.o.d!"

His voice died in his throat as he looked into the small interior. There, crumpled on the floor, blood pooling beneath her on the dirty old linoleum, she lay.

A pair of long-bladed shears, the kind used by hairdressers, were still clutched in her right hand. Despite her wrists being handcuffed, she'd been able to open the blades and slash at her wrists. Jagged red scratches, blood still oozing, ran lengthwise down the inside of her forearms.

Her eyes were closed.

And she seemed peaceful.

As if she'd accepted death all too willingly.

Pescoli and Alvarez stared at the images Zoller brought up on the computer screen. She had copies of the security tapes from the motel. They'd been on their way to the diner when the junior detective had asked them to step into her cubicle.

"I thought you'd want to see this," Zoller said. "I had the lab send me a digital copy."

"They've already done that?" Alvarez asked.

"I told them it was a rush. I, uh, I might have invoked Sheriff Blackwater's name."

"Better than G.o.d's," Pescoli observed, then shut up as Alvarez sent her another sharp look. Her partner was right. If she wanted to keep her job, she needed to keep the peace. You attract more flies with honey than vinegar. Wasn't that the old saying? Well, it sucks, she thought.

"So here it is." Zoller freeze-framed the tape. "This is Bryan Smith as he checked in."

Pescoli recognized the registration desk, the same brochures on the stand nearby, the coffeepot, and old couch. Carla, the heavyset manager of the River View Motel, was standing on the business side of the counter, her gold tooth catching the light. A tall man stood on the other side, leaning over to fill out the card. He was handsome, fit, with dark hair and the very visage of Dr. Bruce Effin' Calderone.

Heart in his throat, Ryder fell to his knees beside Anne-Marie's pale unmoving body. "Oh, Jesus," he whispered. "Anne, G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Anne-Marie!" Warm blood seeped through his jeans. "Anne-Marie? Can you hear me? Oh, come on, come on!"

He felt for a pulse and found it, heard the soft sound of her breathing. He felt a bit of relief. It wasn't too late. She was still alive. "Hang in there. You . . . hang in there."

Yanking the phone from his pocket, he dialed 9-1-1, but it was a futile call. They were too far out of town to wait for an ambulance and no helicopter could fly in the storm. "Come on," he said to Anne-Marie as the operator answered.

"9-1-1. What is the nature of-"

"Listen! I have a woman near death. Dying. Her wrists slashed. I need help!" Ryder didn't hesitate.

"Is the woman alive?"

"Yes! Yes! I said so."

"Sir, I need your name and your location."

"We're off a county road in the mountains, twenty miles north of Grizzly Falls, maybe fifteen miles west of Missoula, I'm not sure, but I'm bringing her in. To the hospital in Missoula. Northern General." G.o.d, this is taking too much time.

All the while Anne-Marie was bleeding out.

He set the phone down and found a roll of gauze in an emergency first aid kit, probably Anne's, and probably where she'd kept the d.a.m.n scissors she'd used to try and end her life. Heart thudding, operator yelling at him, he quickly unlocked her cuffs, stuffed them into his pocket, then pried her blood-stained hands apart. As he'd learned in the Army, he wrapped the wounds, binding them, hoping to stanch the flow of blood as the 9-1-1 operator still yelled at him, her voice squawking instructions as he worked.

"Sir!" she yelled. "Are you still there? Keep this line open. Officers are dispatched and-"

He ignored her instructions. "Come on, Anne-Marie," he said, forcing himself to remain calm, to go into that zone he'd learned long ago. But it wasn't working. Not with her, the only woman he'd married no matter how false it had been. "Hang in there, honey." His voice cracked a little.

Why hadn't he paid attention to her desperation?

Hadn't she said she'd rather die?

She was on the brink of death by her own hand, her choice, because he'd run her to the ground. Guilt tore at him as he looked at her, the woman who had been so full of life, such a brilliant, careless liar, the only woman he'd ever met who could hold her own with him in a verbal sparring match or while making love. His d.a.m.n heart wrenched and he realized he'd been kidding himself. It had been a lie when he'd convinced himself that he didn't care for her and never had. She'd gotten to him, burrowed under his skin and into his d.a.m.n soul.

The reason he'd agreed with her b.a.s.t.a.r.d of a father to bring her back to New Orleans wasn't about justice or even money. It was about seeing her again, having his day of reckoning.

Well he was having it.

In spades.

As for her old man, the devil with whom he'd partnered, Talbert was nearly broke. No way would Ryder have gotten paid. He'd known that from the get-go. Had done a little research. The old man had probably hoped that with his notorious daughter's return, he could somehow capitalize on her capture, figure out a way to make some big cash. Maybe a tell-all book? A movie of the week? Or even a reality television series. Who knew? The man had grandiose opinions of himself.

Stupidly, Ryder had wanted to see Anne-Marie again and yes, to take her back to New Orleans to clear up the mystery. He had outwardly been Talbert's willing p.a.w.n.

Ryder had told himself he had to be the one to bring Anne-Marie to justice, to make her face her sins. Oh, yes, his own motives had been far from altruistic.

Well, no longer.

That whole returning to New Orleans thing was over. At least for him.

He would take Anne-Marie to the hospital and hope beyond hope that she survived. That was all that mattered. How they dealt with the rest of their lives was of little concern. Once she was healthy again, he would help her prove that she was innocent of any crimes and that her husband, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d of a doctor who had severed her finger, was the true unG.o.dly culprit.

What was it she'd said? That she'd worried the women killed recently in Grizzly Falls had been targeted because of her? Killed to terrorize her.

That, of course, had to be her own fears taking flight.

Right?

But the thought gnawed at him as he worked over her, and he wondered if it was possible. Was she crazy? Or singularly perceptive where Bruce Calderone was involved? As he tucked the final end of the gauze strip around her bandaged arm, she moaned. Gently he tried to rouse her. "Anne-Marie? Honey. Anne? Come on. Hang in there. We've got to go now."

The white strips of gauze covering her arms were already turning scarlet.

Time was running out.

And the d.a.m.n 9-1-1 operator was still yammering, advising him to stay on the line when he slid his arms under Anne-Marie and gently lifted her, his heart hammering at the urgency. Would he make it in time? Or would she die on the way?

Either way, guilt would be his lifelong companion.

"We've got a hit," Alvarez said, checking her phone as they were leaving Zoller's cubicle. "Ryder's cell phone."

"Already?"

"Today's technology."

"Let me get my coat." Pescoli grabbed her jacket, sidearm, purse, and another energy bar as they'd never made it to the diner. Her stomach had started growling again, the hunger pangs only subsiding by the shot of adrenaline that pumped through her bloodstream at the thought of catching one of the key players in the homicide cases.

Once she and Alvarez met in the hall again, walking rapidly to the back door, Alvarez explained. "Not only is Ryder's location being triangulated by the cell phone company and our department, but, get this, he's on the line now with 9-1-1."

"Are you kidding me?"

"Nope. The call is being traced, emergency vehicles dispatched."

"What's the emergency?" It didn't sound good. People on the run didn't tend to call the police unless something unexpected and dire, usually life-threatening, had gone down.

"Don't know for certain. He said something about a possible suicide attempt."

"By whom?"

"A woman."

"s.h.i.t. It's Anne-Marie Calderone. Suicide attempt, my a.s.s."

"He claims he's at a cabin in the Bitterroots off the county road. The triangulation confirms the location. A cabin owned by someone who lives out of state."

"He's there? With her? You mean, they're there?"

"It's sketchy. He's not responding to the operator though he hasn't hung up."

"Ominous," Pescoli thought aloud as she scrabbled into the side pocket of her purse for her key ring. Sidestepping around Pete Watershed, who was heading in the opposite direction, Pescoli tried to piece it all together. "Maybe he tracked her down and they got into some kind of lover's quarrel. She did do the bogus marriage thing with him. That's gotta sting. Big rodeo rider. Probably a macho guy. Maybe he tried to kill her and has remorse."

"Who knows?"

"It's just unbelievable that after all this time of chasing shadows, we get a G.o.dd.a.m.n call for help from one of the suspects."

"Person of interest," Alvarez pointed out. "Not a suspect."

"There you go again, semantics." Pushing open the back door, Pescoli caught a blast as the arctic air slapped her full in the face. "You know, just once, just d.a.m.n once, it would be nice if one of our local serial killers decided to do his business in the summer." She hit the b.u.t.ton on the remote lock, and the Jeep's lights flickered, its horn giving a soft beep. "Yeah, wouldn't that be the ticket."

"Careful what you wish for," Alvarez said. "Summer brings heat, rotting flesh, maggots, flies, stench, you name it."

"Still-" Pescoli's breath formed clouds as she talked.

Alvarez turned the conversation back to the case. "Even though emergency vehicles have been dispatched, Ryder's claiming he's taking the victim to a hospital in Missoula. Northwest General."

Where Dan Grayson had died. Pescoli didn't like the reminder.

At the county vehicle, Alvarez opened the door to the pa.s.senger seat. "Oh. I've already advised Blackwater."

Perfect. Pescoli slid behind the wheel and remembered the new sheriff showing up at the O'Halleran ranch where the first victim had been discovered. The two doors closed simultaneously. "Isn't Blackwater already driving to the location? Trying to grab a little glory?"

"You're awful."

"So I've heard." Pescoli started the Jeep, flipped on the wipers, and backed out of the parking spot.

Alvarez actually grinned. "I don't know if the sheriff will show up. He was still eyeball deep in a conversation with Nia Del Ray. I had to text him the info. Didn't want to break up his moment to shine with the press."

"Then, no," Pescoli said, answering her own question. Ramming the Jeep into gear, she nosed out of the lot. "He wouldn't pa.s.s up the opportunity for a sound bite."

"Even for capturing a serial killer?"

"Eh." Pescoli tipped a gloved hand up and down. "Maybe. Maybe not." She checked the street, then gunned the engine and cut in front of a slow-moving van of some kind.

Alvarez hung on. "Slow down, Detective. Remember, we don't know that we're going to find Calderone and even if we do and she survives, we still don't have proof other than one lousy fingerprint that she's the killer."