Born To Die

removed the white sheepskin cover to his seats, exposing the black leather, just in case anyone caught a glimpse inside the window as he was doing his “work.” The final step was to peel off the fake bumper stickers on the back of the truck. He’d made his own, though they were really magnets that he could remove at will. The truck, he knew, always needed to be disguised, even though during the day he drove his silver Lexus, bought at a dealer in Missoula, registered in his name, and sporting current Montana plates.

Once satisfied that the pickup, if ever found, would appear innocent enough, he carried the bumper to the other side of the shed, set up a drip cloth, and, after sanding off any traces of paint transfer, used a rattle can of dull black paint and restored the bumper to new. He’d have to let it dry for a while; then he could put it, along with the seat covers and metallic “stickers,” in a hiding spot beneath the old manger, which still, if there wasn’t any breeze, smelled of long-forgotten Suffolks and Targhees and other breeds popular half a century earlier.

He knew he was being overly cautious, but he didn’t want to make the mistake of underestimating the police. He hadn’t run his missions for over a decade without being careful; even so, he’d encountered a few problems along the way. Though he was a genius, his IQ scores had proved as much, and he was a damned sight smarter than his father, he still couldn’t afford overconfidence.

So far, so good.

And then he felt it.

A crinkling of the skin on his nape — a warning.

That odd sensation that he was being observed by unseen eyes in this frigid shed.

His pulse skyrocketed and he turned quickly, looking over his shoulder, checking the cobwebby corners and shadowy doorways, but there was no one spying on him. He squinted, glancing through the one dirty window to the snowy fields beyond.

There was nothing out of the ordinary.

He was just jumpy.

Because he was stepping things up.

His work was more dangerous than ever.

The moan of the wind in the rafters sounded like eerie laughter, mocking him.

Sweat suddenly dappled his hairline.

Don’t let your imagination run away with you. He took in a deep breath. You’re the one in charge. You decide who dies. Do not forget that.

He talked himself down, found his equilibrium once more.

Satisfied that his secret was safe, he locked the shed and jogged back to the house, where he intended to shower, shave, and face the day. There would be news of the “accident” near the bridge, and he wanted to catch what the reporters and sheriff’s department were saying.

He lived for these moments when he’d neatly removed one of the Unknowings, and there was still some buzz about it. Soon enough the interest faded and the story slipped off the headlines.

A good thing, he reminded himself as he took the steps two at a time. The more disinterest, the better. Shelly Bonaventure had proved that. She’d gotten a helluva lot more press dead than she ever did during her lifetime. And yet he reveled in the recapping of the deaths, loved seeing the bafflement on the faces of the investigating officers, felt a sense of pride that he’d managed, once again, to outwit the authorities while working toward his ultimate goal.

But he had to be careful. Always. Time was of the essence. The problem was that most of the remaining Unknowings lived in and around this part of Montana, where they would be more likely linked. Oh, he’d taken care of some early on, years before, all deemed unfortunate accidents, but now, it seemed, most of his work would be here. He needed to be doubly careful as a cluster of deaths would now arouse more suspicion.

Again, he felt as if someone were surveying him, even seeing into his mind, but that was nuts. Crazy.

He closed his eyes and centered himself.

Pull yourself together! Do not fall victim to the paranoia. It’s nothing. Nothing!

Finally, again, his pulse was normal.

Checking his watch, he realized it was too late to listen in on Acacia, the most troubling of the lot. Just thinking of her made his skin tingle in a way he found disturbing, yet slightly erotic.

Too risky, he reminded himself. She had been the reason, all those years ago, that he’d learned of the other Unknowings. Her existence had unwittingly brought them all to his attention and each’s ultimate demise.

He should probably thank her.

He almost laughed aloud and wished that he could listen in on her and fantasize, but he knew it would be fruitless. There was no reason to try and listen now. She was already out of the house and probably at the clinic.

He smiled.

Maybe he should become her “patient.”

Soon. He smiled to himself and felt his cock tweak just a bit. Very, very soon.

“So she has some vague, slight resemblance to the other women. So what?” Pescoli said two hours later, when she and Alvarez had reconnected and were driving to the department’s garage. Today, it seemed, her partner was really grasping at straws. Her latest: Elle Alexander looked like Shelly Bonaventure and Jocelyn Wallis. That was just a leap of faith Pescoli wasn’t about to take.

But she did have to agree with Alvarez that the 9-1-1 tape of Tom Alexander’s frantic call to the emergency line sounded authentic, that he was out of his mind with fear, which was only reinforced when he showed up at the department earlier this morning. Upset, he’d stormed into the sheriff’s department and demanded an investigation into his wife’s death. But his anger had slipped as he’d talked to Pescoli.

Handsome and trim, he’d been the epitome of the grief-stricken husband who was still in shock.

“She was a good driver and was used to inclement weather. I’m telling you, she could navigate the worst roads in snow! And I heard it all! I was on the phone when he hit her. She was scared out of her mind and must’ve dropped the phone, because she wasn’t answering, and I heard the sound of metal on metal. Oh, God it was… deafening. And then she was yelling and screaming, calling my name over and over, but she couldn’t hear me!” At that point he dissolved onto one of the side chairs, burying his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. “Then there was the screams and the rush of. . water, I guess, and then… and then… nothing. The phone went dead. For the love of God, what am I going to do? Elle. . oh, Jesus, Elle.”

Pescoli hadn’t been able to offer platitudes. She hadn’t told him, “It’ll be all right,” or “I know it’s tough, but you’ll get through this.” Not when she’d been where he was on the night that her first husband, Joe, had been shot.

It didn’t matter that it was in the line of duty.

She didn’t care that he was deemed a damned “hero.”

All she knew was that he was dead, leaving her with a young son and a hole in her heart big enough that an army tank could have driven through it. She would never be able to talk to him again or hear his laugh or watch him haul Jeremy around on his broad shoulders, or make love to him long into the night. It had been over in an instant. Those first years after Joe’s death had been hard. So hard that she’d mistaken lust for love and married Luke Pescoli, “Lucky,” who had proved to be anything but.

So she didn’t offer up bromides. Instead she said, “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Alexander,” and slid the Kleenex box across her desk to him.

Somehow she’d managed to take his statement, and now she and Alvarez were heading to the department’s garage. Alvarez was explaining that Detective Jonas Hayes of the LAPD wasn’t convinced that Shelly Bonaventure committed suicide, though most of the evidence pointed that way.

“There were just some things that didn’t add up to his satisfaction,” she said as she pulled into the lot designated for official vehicles. She found a parking spot near one of the large metallic garage doors and switched off the engine.

“Just like the Jocelyn Wallis case,” Pescoli guessed, still reluctant to accept any loose connection between