"Oh, save me," she whispered, but laughed-and Jenna felt better than she had since discovering the note in her bedroom, if only slightly.

Two days after the accident, Carter drove into town and pa.s.sed the fir tree that Roxie's little car had smashed into. Since her crumpled, abandoned car had been discovered, no one had heard a word from her. Nor had search parties found any indication of what had happened to her. The tree bore a nasty scar, bark splintered, bare wood now covered with rime.

The Oregon State Police were working with the FBI, but Lieutenant Sparks kept Carter in the loop. Because of the suspected abduction, the state crime lab had processed the site where the car had been wrecked and the Corolla, towed to a police garage, had been gone over by technicians. They'd found little evidence except to note that apparently Roxie had been on her way to Carter's house when she'd lost control of the car. A fresh dent on the rear b.u.mper and fender indicated that she might have been hit, though there were several other dents on the car, all of which appeared older that this new sc.r.a.pe. The lab was working with the scratches on the b.u.mper, but no paint had been left behind.

Roxie had left her purse, gym bag, laptop computer, spilled thermos of coffee, and a map she'd printed off the Internet which included driving directions to Carter's front door. According to her editor, she'd been working on several stories at the time, one of which had been Sonja Hatch.e.l.l's disappearance, and now she, too, was missing.

Ironic.

Fated?

Or just plain bad luck?

Carter had talked to the detectives from the OSP and had admitted he'd been avoiding Roxie Olmstead as well as anyone else from the press prior to her disappearance. Now, of course, he was second-guessing himself and was fighting his own personal battle with guilt demons about the accident. If he'd granted her an interview, would she be alive today?

There's no evidence that she's dead. Remember that. You're looking for a missing woman, not a dead one.

But deep down, he felt a dread so vile, he couldn't face it. Didn't want to be the first to say the words "serial killer" when there were no bodies to suggest the horrid thought.

Nonetheless, he couldn't help wondering, had he granted her an interview earlier, would she have traveled that stretch of road? Been hit from behind? Been abducted?

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h," he muttered to himself as the police band radio crackled and he pa.s.sed the theater. Christmas lights burned around the windows and a backlit sign reminded everyone that tickets were currently on sale for the troupe's next production, a local version of It's a Wonderful Life.

Since when? Carter thought, his mood as gray as the clouds overhead. At least it wasn't snowing. Crews had finally managed to sc.r.a.pe and sand the roads and electricity had been restored to all but a handful of citizens of Lewis County, but the temperature was still below freezing and now the ice floes in the river were beginning to cause concern. Sleet mixed with snow in the higher elevations and wasn't supposed to improve.

He noticed Jenna Hughes's Jeep was parked in the theater's lot and he wondered if she'd hired Turnquist or if she was still looking for a bodyguard. He didn't like to think of her and her girls alone and isolated at their ranch. Since he had a few minutes before he was officially on duty, he pulled into the lot. Before he second-guessed his reasons, he headed up the steps to the front doors and walked into the theater.

Music was playing from the speakers and he heard the sound of voices coming from the lower level. His boots ringing along the hardwood, he made his way to the sound and found Rinda and Jenna bending over a computer screen.

"Hey, handsome," Rinda said, standing and hugging Carter before holding him at arm's length and studying him. "Bad morning?"

"Aren't they all?"

Rinda rolled her eyes, but Jenna, leaning against the desk, actually cracked a smile. And what a smile it was. d.a.m.ned near radiant. Probably practiced.

"I saw your Jeep out front and I wondered how things were going. You hired Turnquist, right?"

She nodded.

"But he's not here."

"He took the kids to school and is going back home. We have a deal. He stays overnight in the studio over the garage so that he's got a bird's-eye view of the place, and we've got cell phones and walkie-talkies on all the time." As if she read the questions in Carter's eyes, she added, "Look, I'm freaked out, of course I am, but I can't have someone breathing down my neck every second of the day. I have to have a little privacy. Some independence."

"The security system's working?"

"So far, so good. Jake's double-checked everything and he walks the perimeter every night...I feel a whole lot safer. Thanks."

"Just do what he says."

Rinda let out an exasperated breath, "The polite response is 'You're welcome.' Jesus, Carter, when will you quit being such a hard-a.s.s?"

"When I think things are safe."

"Things are never safe," Rinda pointed out, her good mood dissolving. "But yeah, right now it's not a great time around here. First Sonja and then Roxie." She clucked her tongue and rubbed her arms. "I don't suppose you have any news on either one of them."

"Not yet."

"Jesus. I hate this. Roxie was a good kid. Headstrong, but, well, she was young."

"You knew her?"

"Not all that well, but when Scott and I moved back here from California, I met Lila, Roxie's mom. We were both newly divorced and so we connected. Scott hung out with Roxie even though she was a couple of years older."

The door to the theater opened and footsteps heralded Wes Allen's arrival. "Hey, what's going on...?" His gaze clashed with Carter's. "Shane," he said and nodded, though his smile was forced. Had been for years. To think they'd all been friends once.

"Wes."

"In here fighting crime?" Wes asked, winking a steely blue eye.

Rinda let out a nervous little laugh.

"Wherever I can find it," Carter said, refusing to be baited. No more. There had been a time when he'd wanted to bash in Wes Allen's face and he'd given it a good shot one night, jeopardizing his job for a chance to pummel the man who had seduced his wife. But that had been years ago, before Carter accepted the fact that Carolyn had probably done the seducing and that he, Carter, had been instrumental in pushing her away. Maybe those years of therapy hadn't been wasted after all. He nodded toward Jenna Hughes. "I'll stop by later."

Was it his imagination, or did her green eyes brighten just a fraction? "Do that."

"I will," he promised, and for the first time in over two weeks, Carter felt as if there was light at the end of the tunnel. "See ya around," he said to Rinda and clapped a stunned Wes Allen on his shoulder.

Why is it so dark?

And cold...so d.a.m.ned cold.

Pain screamed up her arms.

Groggily, she opened one eye.

Where am I?

Roxie's head was thick, her thoughts unconnected, her memory fragmented. Her mouth ached. Her teeth felt weird.

Shivering violently, her painful teeth chattering so hard they rattled in her skull, she tried to think.

Frigid air swirled around her, whispering over her bare skin.

Was she naked?

She forced her other eye open and saw that she was in some kind of chamber...or laboratory, a dark, cylindrical room that was so cold that her breath fogged in shallow wisps. Suspended over a large tank.

What! Suspended?

Jesus, Roxie, think! Where the h.e.l.l are you?

Little bits of memory emerged. The accident. The stun gun. The needle. Oh, G.o.d, some pervert had her!

She tried to scream but couldn't force a sound. Her arms were stretched over her head, her wrists bound to a crossbar, her legs, too, strapped against a long, steel beam that pressed against her spine.

Looking down, she saw that the vat was gla.s.s and filled with a clear liquid.

Oh, G.o.d, it's acid, she thought wildly, trying to struggle, as she remembered the horror movies she'd watched so avidly. Panic squeezed through her insides. Ice-cold air swirled around her. She had to escape. Now! Frantically, she searched the large, frigid chamber. The ceiling was twenty feet above her, the rounded walls far away and darkened, but there were people in one corner. No, not people, but the faceless mannequins she'd seen earlier, all dressed in weird clothes...or costumes...clothes she was certain she'd seen somewhere, but that couldn't be...She swallowed back her fear as she spied posters plastered upon the walls surrounding the macabre stage, posters from movies she'd seen: Resurrection.

Beneath the Shadows.

Innocence Lost.

Summer's End.

Movies starring Jenna Hughes...and her pictures were everywhere, tacked to the ceiling and walls. This was some kind of, what-macabre shrine to her? What the h.e.l.l kind of madness was this?

This is a dream. A nightmare. That's all. Calm down.

But her heart was racing, thundering in her ears. Though she was frigidly cold, she began to sweat, the thin, wet drops of pure fear.

Was she alone?

"Help!" she yelled. "Oh, G.o.d, please, someone help me!" But her voice was garbled and muted, even to her own ears. Fear and desperation clawed through her.

Then she saw him. Again.

The dirt-wad who had done this to her.

Stark naked, standing in the eerie blue glow of a computer monitor.

"You f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" she tried to yell. "Get me down from here, you p.r.i.c.k!" Her words were useless...unintelligible.

He stared up at her. Even smiled.

Oh, G.o.d, he was enjoying this.

Her bravado crumbled.

"Help me!" she tried to plead. "Please!"

He moved slightly and she noticed his erection...thick and hard. He was really getting off on this. Oh, G.o.d...she thought she might be sick.

He pushed a b.u.t.ton on the computer. Music filled the chamber. A song she recognized. The theme from some movie. White Out, that was it-the movie was never finished but the song had been released.

The beam jolted.

Terror sc.r.a.ped down Roxie's spine and she screamed.

With a whirring sound, the steel cable began to unwind.

Slowly the beam began to descend. By inches she was being lowered, closer to the tank of clear, deadly liquid.

"No! Oh, G.o.d, no!" She began to whimper and shake, struggled vainly against her bonds, watched in terror as she was lowered ever downward. "Please, for the love of G.o.d, let me go!"

The volume of the music increased until it was echoing in the chamber, ricocheting through her brain as the beam touched the clear liquid. She sucked in her breath, the cold burning her lungs as her toes. .h.i.t the icy liquid.

Not acid.

But water.

Cold enough to freeze solid.

"Stop! Please! Why are you doing this to me?"

Her feet were submerged, muscles cramping against the cold as it crawled upward, ever upward. Past her calves to her thighs and higher still. She screamed wildly, trying to thrash, her legs and arms unresponsive, the bonds too tight, her blood congealing in her body. As the water reached her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, she knew that she was doomed. Through her tears and the curved gla.s.s of the vat, she saw the son of a b.i.t.c.h again, now so much closer. She spat at him, hitting the gla.s.s above the surface of the water. He didn't so much as flinch. Just stood naked and hard.

Watching.

Waiting.

Killing her by frigid, deadly inches.

CHAPTER 30.

Fifteen minutes after deciding to quit holding an old grudge against Wes Allen, Carter was seated at his desk in the courthouse. He spent most of the morning answering e-mail, filling out reports, taking phone calls, and handling the regular business of the department, but all the while he thought about the missing women, Mavis Gette, and the notes Jenna Hughes had received. Were they connected? Not that he could prove anything.

But he wasn't done trying.

It didn't help that the D.A.'s office was on his a.s.s. Amanda Pratt had stopped by his office earlier, sweet as pie, inquiring about the Mavis Gette case. The broken collarbone, a bit of an overbite, and finally, DNA, had proved that Jane Doe was Mavis Gette, whose killer was, presumably, still on the loose. As an a.s.sistant D.A., Amanda was getting pressure from the District Attorney, who, in turn, was being pressured by the media and community to find Mavis Gette's killer.

"We need to come up with some answers," Amanda had said when she'd swung into his office earlier.

Get in line, Carter had thought, but had said, "We're working on it. If anything breaks, you'll be the first to know."

"Thanks, Carter." She'd laid a hand on his, as if they'd somehow bonded. Then she'd wrinkled her nose and offered him a smile that was supposed to be cute and unthreatening. It wasn't. The woman was a shark in a tight skirt and three-inch heels, out to promote number one and eventually become D.A. She didn't care whom she skewered with her stiletto heels on the way up. Carter knew it. Everyone in the department knew it.

Fortunately, she'd finished with him and, shoes clicking down the hallway, had left him to his work. He spent the next few hours fielding calls, finishing reports, and studying pictures of the two missing women and Mavis Gette. Physically, they were similar in build, though not coloring. They were all pretty and pet.i.te, around five feet, three inches, all around thirty, all Caucasian. But Mavis had been a transient. Roxie a career woman. Sonja a wife and mother trying to make ends meet. Mavis and Sonja had lived in California, Roxie hadn't.

But there was something that tied them together. He just couldn't see it yet. Absently, he wrote the names of the women on a legal pad, thinking about each.