Northwest: Deep Freeze Part 55

"You're going up there?"

"No other choice," Carter said and was out the door and into the freezing weather. "Get me a search warrant."

"Tonight?"

"That's right. Call Amanda Pratt with the D.A.'s office and let her know this is her big chance. She'll love it. Trust me, if there's a chance she can break this case open, she'll find a judge if she has to crawl into bed with one tonight. But I need to get into Seth Whitaker's property."

"I'll see what I can do, but how the h.e.l.l you plan on getting to his place?" Sparks asked, his voice drowned by the wind.

"The only way I can," Carter said, and opened the door to his Blazer.

He'd have to climb the d.a.m.ned falls.

CHAPTER 46.

The cold caressed him as he slid out of the pickup. Like a lover, it wrapped around him, sending icy thrills along his spine. He trudged to the back of the pickup and opened the tailgate. Jenna was lying as he'd left her, seemingly still unconscious, though she should be waking up.

Carefully, wary that she could be faking her state of unconsciousnes, he touched her leg. She didn't budge. Then he raised a fist as if to strike her, slamming it toward her face, only to pull his hand back before he touched her. She didn't so much as flinch.

Satisfied that she was still out, he carefully untied the cord holding her in place from the pickup's grommets.

Her black hair tumbled over her face, her ebony lashes swept the crest of her sculpted cheeks, and he imagined what she'd look like as Anne Parks...well, he knew. He'd watched Resurrection so many times that he could recite the dialogue from memory, knew every nuance of her gestures, antic.i.p.ated her actions.

But before he created Anne, he had one more lifelike mannequin to create, compliments of the woman who looked so much like Jenna that she stole the breath from his lungs. Ca.s.sie Kramer, Jenna's firstborn, would be the perfect mold for Katrina in Innocence Lost. Her features were spot-on with her mother's, only her hair needed to be a darker color.

Once he'd finished with Ca.s.sie, he'd create his replication of Anne Parks by using Jenna, herself, as the mold. She would be immortalized, caught in her most beautiful role forever.

His shrine would be complete-the only character that would be missing would be Rebecca Lange of White Out. That part he'd reserved for Jenna's sister, Jill, but he'd fouled up years before and caused an accident he hadn't meant to. Not that the idea of an avalanche hadn't been an erotic fantasy, with snow and ice exploding down the hillside in a thunderous, rolling plume. But he hadn't meant to kill a woman who would have been ideal for the lifelike replica of Rebecca Lange from White Out, though of course, at that time, his shrine had only been a far-flung and half-formed plan. Only in the tragedy's aftermath, when he'd been injured and collected an insurance settlement, had he first thought of his special tribute to her. The movie had been sc.r.a.pped and Jenna's marriage had broken up. She had pulled away from the glitter of Hollywood and had started talking about leaving L.A. Upon learning that she wanted to move north, he took it as an omen. Fate. That they were destined to be together. One. An incredibly perfect union of bodies and minds.

And now she was his.

Alone.

But he was running out of time. Could feel it. Had even altered his routine a bit, and that angered him. There had been no time to file down Ca.s.sie Kramer's teeth...

Not good. A bad sign. Things should be planned.

He gathered her gently from the truck and carried her, like a bridegroom lifting his new bride over a threshold, to the waiting snowmobile with its webbed stretcher behind, the same kind of stretcher used to transport the injured off a ski run.

As the wind whispered through the trees, he gently placed her into the stretcher's cradle. "It won't be long now," he promised.

Jenna waited. It was all she could do not to hurl herself at the madman, but she knew that if she blew it now, she wouldn't be able to disarm him. Nor would she be able to locate Ca.s.sie.

Be patient, she told herself as she felt him strap her into a webbed canoe of sorts, fire up an engine, and take off. She didn't dare even chance the slit of an eye opening until she felt the sharp tug; the stretcher shuddered, then slid across the snow. A rush of cold air swept past her, and only then did she risk viewing the snow-crusted trees and brush flying by in a blur, old-growth timber rising high above her. She was strapped into some kind of sled that was anch.o.r.ed to a snowmobile, spraying snow.

Fear clawed its way through her, but she gritted her teeth. She would suffer through whatever he had planned.

Just take me to Ca.s.sie, you freak, then we'll see.

The equipment was old. Ropes and crampons and an ice pick that he hadn't used since the accident that had taken David Landis's life. Carter had never planned to use the ice-climbing gear again, but had kept it in the garage, never understanding the reason why. Tonight he piled everything in the back of his Blazer and headed to the logging road that intersected the falls about two hundred feet off the valley floor. He wore boots with cleats, gloves that were flexible yet warm, his body-fitting ski gear, and he never questioned his mission.

BJ was right-the road to Whitaker's land was closed, a back forest-service access road miles out of the way. Up the falls was dangerous as h.e.l.l, but it was the quickest and stealthiest way to Whitaker's door.

He drove as far as he could up an abandoned logging road, where his tires spun in the snow and his Blazer lurched and lunged, four-wheel drive forcing the SUV upward, the engine grinding. He nosed his rig along the ancient road, driving as fast as he dared, as quickly as the Blazer would go, past trees that knifed into the cloudy sky, and steep, sheer canyons that fell away from the narrow road.

He stared through the winds.h.i.+eld, trying to make out where the road was stable and where the bluff, hidden by snow, gave way. His teeth ground together, his jaw aching, every minute antic.i.p.ating a wheel sliding off the gravel, sending snow and rocks over the edge, his truck pitching into the darkness, but still he climbed. Upward. Lurching. Grinding. Clawing, the Blazer roared upward until the road ran out.

Carter didn't so much as think twice. He set the emergency brake and grabbed the gear from the back of his rig, then slogged through the snow. The hike was severe, ever upward through the deep snow, following a narrow trail that switched back and forth before it reached the falls and ended abruptly.

In the darkness, Carter s.h.i.+ned his flashlight on the silvery sheen of thick ice-water frozen in time as it tumbled down the rocky cliffs to the gorge. In an instant he saw David Landis climbing up this very stretch of frozen water, heard his taunts as he'd scaled the sheer, slippery slope, the same taunts that had echoed through his head for so many years.

"Don't tell me you're afraid."

h.e.l.l, yes, I'm afraid.

"The ultimate chickens.h.i.+t? p.u.s.s.y-to-the-max?"

Carter's guts knotted as he remembered the fall...how he couldn't save David. And now, the wind whispered through the trees, seeming to echo David's jeers.

"Don't tell me you're afraid."

Carter set his jaw.

Strapped on his crampons and didn't look down.

He'd either save Jenna, or die trying.

They slowed and the snowmobile's engine died.

Jenna told herself to relax, to feign being unconscious, to keep up the act. So far, it had worked.

Oh, yeah, like a charm. Now you're a million miles away from anyone, trapped with a psycho.

She heard him stow the snowmobile, then felt him lift her again and it was all she could do not to recoil at the feel of him carrying her. She let her head loll back over his arm, felt her hair falling free and catching in the frigid wind.

He paused. Stopped dead in his tracks. As if he sensed something was wrong.

Breathe normally. Remain limp. You're Raggedy Ann. Don't s.h.i.+ver, don't look, don't so much as lift an eyebrow.

"Jesus, you're beautiful," he whispered, and she thought she recognized his voice. Inwardly, she cringed. Outwardly, she didn't react. "I've waited so long." He s.h.i.+fted, lifted her higher, and she felt his hot breath against her face.

Don't move, Jenna. Whatever he does, do NOT react.

"You are every woman...my woman..."

She thought she might get sick.

He brushed his lips across her neck, his warm flesh making her own chilled skin crawl. Still she didn't react, not even when his mouth nibbled at the corner of hers and he let the tip of his tongue press against the seam of her lips. She wanted to lock her jaw, but reminded herself of all the love scenes she'd played where the actor who was her love interest in the script was a nauseating, arrogant b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

You can do this, Jenna. You can.

She felt her abductor shudder with desire, and it was all she could do not to shrivel away from him.

Gratefully, he started moving again and she heard a door open, then slam shut with a heavy, metallic thud. His footsteps were steady and Jenna told herself she could do this...until she heard the voice-Ca.s.sie's voice. Relief mingled with fear.

"Hey! You! Let me down from here! Do you hear me? I said...oh...nooooooo. You have my mother? You b.a.s.t.a.r.d you put her down, right now!"

Don't, Ca.s.sie! Don't taunt him.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing with her? Leave her the f.u.c.k alone!"

Her abductor stiffened.

"Shut up!"

"Let her go. You're never going to get away with this...this sick thing you've got going, whatever it is."

"Oh, no?" he tossed back, and Jenna's heart sank. Don't push him, Ca.s.s, for G.o.d's sake!

He set Jenna down on the floor-cold and smooth-cement, she guessed. It was so d.a.m.ned cold in here. She heard his footsteps moving away from her and risked the tiniest peek through her lashes.

Quickly, she saw that she was in a huge room. He'd left her in the middle of a stage with actresses posed across it. No, not actresses. Every one of them were replicas of herself in her movie roles. The clothes, jewelry, an umbrella hanging from Marnie Sylvane's arm, nerdy gla.s.ses propped on Zoey Trammel's nose, the missing faux pearl bracelet surrounding Paris Knowlton's wrist. All were props from her movies. Even the two mannequins without faces could be identified by the wigs they wore, Katrina's long, curling black tresses that fell over the shoulders of a sheer white teddy, the lace a perfect imitation of the costume Jenna wore in the role. The other faceless mannequin already wore a dog collar and held a butcher knife in one hand; no doubt she was soon to become a replica of Anne Parks.

Oh, this was sick...

A roiling nausea crept up her throat at the extent of this man's depravity. What was this, a weird shrine? A house of wax where she was the only display? Panic gripped her, and she had to force her eyelids to remain almost closed, to keep herself from trembling as she surveyed the stage. A dentist's chair was the only prop, a drill poised above it and dark stains...blood?...drizzled over the arm and headrest. What kind of sickness was this?

High overhead were pictures of her in her various roles or from magazines, blown up and stapled to the ceiling.

She took another quick look and located a computer room, lit by the glow of monitors, and from the hum, she guessed a generator was supplying energy.

But where was Ca.s.sie?

She chanced turning her head just a bit and when she did, she nearly screamed. In a far corner was a contraption that she couldn't fully understand. A huge gla.s.s tub, and above it her daughter was naked, her head shaved and propped on some kind of beam, her hands yanked high over her head, her feet balanced on a slim footing.

Jenna nearly cried out when she saw her daughter. Doom clenched its fist around her.

Jenna had no doubt in her mind that this psycho was going to kill them both.

Upward. One agonizing foothold at a time. Shane worked his way up, digging in, hugging the icy falls, using his rope, feeling the wind tear and shriek at his back. Snow tumbled from the sky and it was still dark-early morning but far from dawn.

Despite his insulated wear, his teeth were chattering from the cold, his body covered in sweat from the exertion. He was making progress-slow, steady, unnerving progress, his thoughts spurring him on.

Jenna could be dead already.

Another person he loved, a casualty of the winter cold and a madman.

Ca.s.sie, too, had probably already been killed.

"You crazy son of a b.i.t.c.h," he ground out, swinging his ice axe, making another niche in the frozen falls. He had less than twenty feet to climb-twenty agonizing feet.

Another gust of wind battered at his back, seemed to laugh at his futile attempts. He reached for the handhold. His fingers missed, his feet slipped. His body dropped, sliding along the icy wall.

"s.h.i.+t!"

His rope grabbed.

Stopped his rapid descent.

Saved him from dangling or falling nearly three hundred feet to the icy ground below. For a second he thought of David. His heart pounded wildly as he eased back to the cliff face and the icy sheet that was his ladder.

Gritting his teeth, every muscle screaming, he forced himself against the face of frozen water and reached upward, making a handhold. "I'm coming, you son of a b.i.t.c.h," he said through the frozen bristles of his moustache. "I'm coming."

"Are you awake yet, Jenna?" he asked, and his voice seemed to come from everywhere, speakers hidden in the darkness. "This is my theater, dedicated to you. Wake up and see what I've done, the tribute I've made to you."

"Tribute?" Ca.s.sie yelled, and Jenna willed her to be quiet. Don't antagonize him.

"I know you're awake...pretending. No need. Not any longer. You're home with me. You know who I am, don't you?"

"Who cares, you dumb s.h.i.+t!"

Ca.s.sie, no!

Through the veil of her lashes, she watched as he slowly unlaced his boots and stepped out of them. Somehow he lost four inches. Then he peeled off his clothes, insulated camouflage jacket-the kind hunters wear to hide in the fall brush-matching pants, and beneath the outerwear, insulated thermal pants and s.h.i.+rt. Off came the ski mask and hat and she nearly gasped.

Seth Whitaker.

The man she'd trusted to set up her alarm system. How many times had he "checked the wiring"? Oh, G.o.d, what a fool she'd been.

"You creep!" Ca.s.sie yelled.

He looked up at her. "You don't even know who I really am," and his voice changed slightly, was a tad higher. He pulled off his wig to reveal that he was nearly bald, short, blond fuzz over his head. Then he popped out contact lenses to reveal darker eyes. Eyes she'd seen before.

"Who are you?" Ca.s.sie asked as he removed his teeth and temporary implants along his jaw line so that he lost his jowls.

Jenna had seen him before. She was sure of it. When? California? He swung his face toward hers and she knew in an instant. One of the technicians on the set of White Out, one of the guys who'd been injured. The guy with the same name as one of the characters in her films. Steven White-that was it.

He tugged off his thermal wear and revealed a bodysuit. As he stripped it off, his thick waist disappeared, revealing a taut, corded body that looked honed by some kind of physical activity.

Seth Whitaker. Steven White. She wondered what his real name was.