She pressed a b.u.t.ton, the window descended, and his face was only inches from hers, warm in the cold night.

"For the record," he said, "the name's Shane."

"But everyone calls you Carter, right?" Dear G.o.d, what was this tiny rush she felt, the sense of intimacy tonight? She caught a hint of aftershave. "Or Sheriff?"

"Oh, they probably call me a lot of things behind my back, none of them worth repeating. But you can call me Shane."

"Fair enough, Carter," she teased.

An eyebrow quirked. "That'll work, too." His gaze held hers for a second as snowflakes collected on his dark hair and broad shoulders and again she thought he might kiss her. Again she was disappointed. "Later." He slapped the Jeep's fender twice and turned toward his rig.

"Take a deep breath," she whispered to herself as she rolled up her window to watch him fold his big frame into the driver's side of his Blazer. What had she been thinking, flirting and bussing him on the cheek?

"Nerves," she told herself as she threw the Jeep into gear. "It's just that I've got a real bad case of nerves." He represented safety, that was all. It wasn't that he was s.e.xy as all get-out, or that his smile, beneath warm, dark eyes, could melt the ice around her heart.

Stupid woman! With all the worry that's going on around here, the last thing, the very last thing, you need is an entanglement with a man-especially Carter. Don't even think about him like that!

Letting out her breath, angry with herself and her silly fantasies, she glanced in the rearview mirror. As promised, Carter was following her, but beyond the rea.s.suring glow of the Blazer's headlights, her gaze skated to the theater disappearing rapidly from view.

She felt another chill. Cold as midnight. Something in the ancient church wasn't right. The lonely building, with its opaque stained-gla.s.s windows and sharp-peaked, desolate belltower, stood stark against the frigid night and seemed sinister in the snowfall. That's ludicrous. It's all your perception, your imagination. The building has nothing to hide, no heinous secrets. It was a church, for G.o.d's sake, a joyous place for worshippers to gather and give praise.

So why did she feel like Satan himself resided there tonight?

"Because you're a drama queen, maybe, or an over-the-top paranoid," she muttered. There was nothing wrong with the building housing the theater. Nothing! "You've seen one too many horror flicks." She was just letting her own fears get the better of her, that was it. Right? Even if there was some horror hidden within the old clapboard walls, it had stayed secreted away for the night and Sheriff Shane Carter, an extraordinary hunk of a lawman, had come to her supposed rescue. Even now he was driving behind her through the snow. Things could be worse. Lots worse.

With one eye on the road ahead, she snapped open her cell phone and tried to call the house. It took several attempts, as the phone seemed to have suffered some damage when it had dropped to the floor in Rinda's office. Finally, it connected.

Allie answered quickly. "h.e.l.lo?" Her voice was barely audible over the static.

No reason to beat around the bush. "Hi, hon. Hey, look, I'm sorry, honey, the backpack's not in the car and it's not at the theater. I checked."

"But it has to be!"

"Maybe you left it at school," Jenna suggested, straining to listen.

"Uh-uh."

"Or it's in Jake's truck or your room or-"

"Mom!" Allie cut in angrily, her voice wavering. "I know where it was. In the back of the Jeep!" She sounded near the verge of tears, but it was hard to tell with the blips in the conversation.

"Listen, don't worry about it. Call someone in the cla.s.s, see if they can give you the questions over the phone, or...if they have a fax machine, they can send a copy over."

"Not if they've already done their homework! And I need the book!"

"We'll talk about this when I get home. If I have to, I'll call Mrs. Hopfinger in the morning."

"I can't hear you."

Jenna repeated herself, nearly shouting, and Allie tried to argue.

Jenna's frayed nerves snapped. "Hey, slow down, Allie. I've done the best I can do. You can pout and get mad and whatever else you want to do, but it won't help, now, will it?"

There was a long, brutal silence. Jenna waited it out. Wondered if she'd lost her connection. Finally, just as she was about to hang up, Allie muttered almost inaudibly, "Jake wants to talk to you."

"Good." Jenna forced enthusiasm into her voice as she stopped for a streetlight. "Put him on."

A second later, the bodyguard was on the line.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

"Aside from the backpack being AWOL, and my cell phone trying to give up the ghost, yeah, things are fine," she said, glancing in the mirror again. Carter's rig was still following her. "Can you hear me?"

"Barely."

"Well, the cavalry came to the rescue. Thanks."

"Just doing my job," he said, his voice breaking up.

"And I appreciate it. Really. I'll be home in twenty minutes."

The connection failed before he could respond. "And a fine piece of c.r.a.p you are," she said to the phone as she flung it into the seat next to her and drove, with Carter on her tail, out of town.

He watched her go.

Closeted in the darkened spire, hiding in the shadows, he trained his night-vision gla.s.ses on her and silently observed Jenna Hughes as she drove off in her Jeep.

With the d.a.m.ned sheriff on her b.u.mper.

He hadn't counted on the police showing up.

Nor had he expected Jenna, his Jenna, to press her face into the cop's, and kiss the b.a.s.t.a.r.d on his G.o.dd.a.m.ned cheek. Rage surged through his blood and a tic developed under his eye. She shouldn't be kissing anyone, or talking to anyone, or laughing with anyone.

No one but him!

The police should never have come. Never!

Next time, think things through more carefully.

Still, despite the lawman, he could have taken Jenna tonight. If he'd wanted to. If it had been her time.

It would have been so easy.

But rushed.

Not part of the plan.

Precision. That was the key. Precision.

Tonight he'd nearly been discovered.

Because he'd been too eager.

Again he berated himself and he closed his eyes for a second let the cold breeze blow across his face, chill the anger in his blood. Tiny crystals of ice caressed his face and he imagined Jenna's chilled lips kissing him. Oh, such sweet, sweet surrender.

But she'd not kissed him. Not tonight. No, she'd stood on her tiptoes and swept her chilled lips over the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's face.

His muscles tensed in fury.

The sheriff's arrival had caught him off guard. He'd barely finished his mission and had lingered to look through the bags of clothes Jenna had donated, searching for a perfect scarf for Zoey Trammel...a green scarf, with threads of gold woven through the coa.r.s.e fabric-just like the one she always wore and fingered in A Silent Snow, a fitting t.i.tle, one with ironic overtones.

He'd hoped, when he'd heard that she was giving the theater troupe more things, that he would find a few little gems for his collection. Including the scarf. He'd been sadly mistaken. Most of what he'd pawed through was trash. Old clothes her children had outgrown, or things she'd given that weren't a.s.sociated with her films. He'd pressed those articles of clothing to his face, hoping to smell her scent, a lingering aroma of her perfume, but had been disappointed. He'd also thought she might have included some panties or bras, but there had been no underclothes, not even a slip or teddy.

Frustration boiled through his blood.

The search had nearly proved fruitless. Until he'd seen the backpack and recognized it for what it was. Bait. An ugly little piece of bait. That thought brought a smile to his face and he opened his eyes. From his high perch, he gazed down at the lights of the little town spread upon the sh.o.r.es of the murky Columbia River, its waters thick and burgeoning with ice floes that were stalling river traffic, panicking the populace. Even the streams that fed the mighty river had frozen solid, the falls tumbling over the surrounding cliffs, becoming plumes of ice.

A perfect time for killing.

A thrill curled down his spine. He recognized this new, fresh snowfall as an omen, a sign that things were nearly in place.

He waited a few more minutes, surveying the parking lot and icy streets, a.s.suring himself that the sheriff hadn't a.s.signed another patrol to the theater. Finally, a.s.sured that he wouldn't be disturbed, he returned to his work.

Shouldering the kid's backpack, he started his descent, his steps quick and stealthy as he hurried ever downward. The musty, skeletal interior of the belltower sheltered him from the weather, its rickety, circular stairs groaning softly against his weight.

He didn't stop until he reached the bas.e.m.e.nt. It was an area he knew well.

He crept past old scenery stacked against a wall, down an aisle where makeup mirrors and lights were now darkened, and around a corner to a nearly forgotten storage area, hidden deep beneath the stage of the floor above.

His pulse pounded in antic.i.p.ation as he reached the closet he considered his, a small, compact, dark s.p.a.ce where he'd hidden behind a rack of folding chairs as a child. From this secret spot he'd heard the minister giving his loud sermons, felt the shuffle of feet overhead, listened to piano music, beautiful, tinkling notes of each hymn's introduction before the choir or congregation began to sing so loudly he covered his ears.

This was his own private sanctuary, a cold, dim place where he could sequester himself, unknown to anyone. His closet. Rarely disturbed.

Now, with his key, he opened the closet door, the musty air filtering out as he shined his penlight over the few boxes, crates, and trunks that had been stored and long forgotten. He flipped through his keys again, and finding the smallest on his ring, he unlocked one of the large trunks, a dusty crate no one seemed to notice.

He pushed.

The rounded top creaked open.

Electricity sang through his blood as his gaze landed on the barely breathing body stuffed inside. Unconscious. Unaware of her fate.

Just as he'd left her.

One small hand was visible, and he stared at her fingers. Not unlike Zoey's, if he found the right rings to decorate them...He fixated on her ring finger and frowned when he noticed the wedding band and gaudy engagement ring. They would never do. Zoey was a single woman. He'd remove the band immediately, but as he stared at the finger, he imagined what he could do with it. A shiver of adrenaline swept through him, caused a tightening in his crotch.

Oh, yes. The finger was perfect.

"Come on, Zoey," he whispered gently, dragging the small woman from her cramped confines. "It's curtain time."

CHAPTER 33.

"...I was hoping that we could have dinner sometime," Travis was saying as Jenna held the phone between her ear and shoulder. Forcing the corkscrew into a bottle of wine, she tried not to think about Shane Carter. From her rearview mirror, she'd watched Carter follow her home and hoped he'd turn into her driveway, but as the gates to her house had swung open, he'd driven past, his Blazer disappearing into the ever-worsening snowstorm. Disappointed, she'd come into the house, talked a few minutes to Turnquist and the kids, then finally, reluctantly, returned Travis Settler's phone call. He hadn't answered, but had called her back within ten minutes.

Dinner with him had suddenly lost a lot of its appeal.

Because of a country sheriff who doesn't care about you when this man does? This smart, good-looking, single father who has a great sense of humor? And you're pining for the lonesome lawman? Come on, Jenna, wake up!

She suggested, "Maybe you and Dani could come over once the roads are cleared. I could even cook, though my repertoire is pretty limited."

"When the roads are cleared?" He laughed and again, because of the connection, she had the sensation that he was driving somewhere in this hideous storm. He hadn't called her back from his house, but his cell phone. "When will that be? In May?"

"I was thinking more like a barbecue in July," she joked back, relaxing a little as she stared out the window and worked on extracting the cork. Long icicles hung from the eaves and gusts of wind blew against the house, rattling the windows and sending the barely visible windmill slats spinning crazily. The wine cork popped and she poured herself a long-stemmed gla.s.s. "How about the Fourth?"

"I'll check my calendar." He paused, then added, "Looks good. You're on. Remember, we already discussed hot beaches and drinks."

She'd forgotten about the conversation. "That's right."

"So what about sometime sooner? Seriously, Jenna, I'd really like to see you. Without the girls. I was hoping that Ca.s.sie would babysit and you and I could go in to Portland. There's a restaurant in the Hotel Danvers that's supposed to be excellent."

He sounded closer now, but that was probably a trick of the weather. She tasted her wine, then asked, "Where are you?"

Was there just a beat of hesitation?

"In my truck, trying to get home."

"Is Dani with you?"

"With a sitter," he said.

"At home?"

"I'm picking her up on the way home. Why?"

So that explained why no one had answered when she called his house. He must've picked up his messages from the road. Nothing sinister about that. Dear G.o.d, was she suspicious of everyone now, even Travis? "I just wondered how the roads are," she lied, as she'd been driving home from the theater less than an hour earlier.

"Miserable."

Sipping her chardonnay, she squinted through the swirling snow and saw taillights barely visible on the road. The hairs on the back of her arms lifted. Was it possible that he was pa.s.sing by and not mentioning it?

"Are you anywhere near my place?"