The Whitebridge Episcopal Church was a pretty, traditional building with white wooden walls and green trim. Its spire could be seen from the approach to the town, and Vincente parked the car in the street opposite. Beth had become so used to wearing her disguise of baseball cap and shades that it was second nature to her now. She tilted the brim down low over her face as she followed Vincente toward the church.
“Tania said Peter lived in the house next to the church.”
There was only one house matching that description. Nestling within a protective apron of white-barked and gold-topped aspens, the tiny dwelling looked like the sort of home that belonged to a storybook character. It was perfectly maintained, with not a single leaf daring to mar the flawless, emerald lawn. As they drew closer, Beth was certain they were being watched by someone inside the house. Her suspicions appeared to be confirmed when the door was opened almost as soon as Vincente knocked.
She had been prepared for anger. Even possibly the threat of violence. But the look on Peter’s expression made her step back in shock. Not because she was afraid for herself, but because she was frightened for him. Vincente had asked if she thought Peter Sharp was at peace with himself. Looking at him now, there was no doubt about the answer to that question. He was in hell.
Although Beth’s face was hidden, Peter must have remembered Vincente from the last time they had met and made the association with her, because he gave a tortured groan. “I told you, I don’t want to talk.”
As he began to close the door, Beth stepped up close. She would only get one chance at this and she didn’t have time for tact or hesitation. “Did Cory try to kill himself?”
The door’s forward motion halted. Peter’s face crumpled. “How can you ask me that...?” The words lacked heat.
“Because someone is trying to kill us all, and what happened to Cory is the key.”
His shoulders slumped in an attitude of defeat. “You’d better come in.”
The interior of the house was as new and pin neat as the outside. Peter led them to a small sitting room that overlooked a flower garden and gestured to a sofa. “A police officer came to see me.” There was a haunted look in his eyes as he took a seat opposite theirs. “Why is this happening now? After all this time?”
“Because Andy Smith and Danielle Penn are dead, and it’s possible they were murdered.” Beth decided not to mention Rick Sterling. “Did you get sent a copy of the newspaper article, and then a letter and the photographs with people’s faces crossed out?” Beth asked.
Peter nodded miserably. “That’s what I mean. Why now? Whoever is doing this must have felt all this hatred ever since Cory died. Why wait until now to start attacking us?”
“You’re right.” She turned her head to look at Vincente. “It’s an aspect that hadn’t occurred to me. Cory died a decade ago, yet the murderer waited eight years before sending the newspaper article, letter and photographs. What was the trigger two years ago that made him want to start killing us?”
“I can’t believe this is happening. When I agreed—” Peter broke off, burying his face in his hands.
“So it’s true? You agreed to help Cory kill himself?” Beth jumped on the words as proof. Until now, she had only half believed her own theory.
When Peter raised his head, his face was streaked with tears. “Cory was my best friend.” He made a sound that could have been a laugh. “Who am I kidding? Cory was my only friend. You know what he was like. He had this big personality that wrapped itself around you. For a long time after we became climbing partners, I couldn’t understand how someone so popular and with so many gifts would want to be friends with me. He wore me down. We’d hang out sometimes. I’m sure other people looked at us and wondered what the hell the guy with the movie-star looks had in common with the geek.”
“Cory had a mind of his own. If he chose you as his friend, it was because he liked you.” It was strange how, ten years on, she was getting a glimpse into a friendship she hadn’t understood back then. This intensely shy man was clearly uncomfortable talking to them, and yet she sensed a part of him wanted to open up and tell them about Cory.
“That was what he used to say.” Peter’s expression had taken on a faraway quality, as though he was looking back in time. “When he was diagnosed with eye cancer, he didn’t tell anyone except me. Not even his family. He’d left it too late, you see, and it had already spread throughout his body. He’d been ignoring the symptoms, hoping they’d go away. When he told me about it, he was quite calm, but he was already in pain and was losing his sight. He knew the next thing would be complete blindness.”
He turned his head and looked at one of the pictures on the wall. The scene was unmistakable. Tenderness Lake was a focal point on the Stillwater Trail. The artist had captured a perfect moment. The mirror-smooth surface of the lake, the majesty of the mountain range, the ribbon of low-hanging clouds, the rounded pebbles peeking through the water’s edge in the foreground...the palette was exclusively blue, teasing out every shade and nuance. The visual impact was stunning.
Beth raised a hand to her lips. “Oh, poor Cory! His eyesight was everything to him.”
“That was the hardest part. He said he could cope with the pain and the thought of dying, but he couldn’t stand to go blind.” Peter dragged his gaze away from the picture with an obvious effort. “When he made the decision to take his life, he was quite calm about it. He thought it through carefully. For the sake of his family, he wanted it to look like an accident. He had convinced himself it would be easier that way. He wanted them to remember him as an active person, a person who died doing what he loved, rather than—and these were his words—‘the guy who swallowed a bottle of pills rather than facing the end with dignity.’”
“But why did he need to involve you?” Beth asked. “If he was going to make it appear that he had died in a fall, he could have gone out on a solo climb and not come back.”
Her thoughts went to Rick Sterling, who, it appeared, had staged his own death in an accident. There were so many twists and turns to this story, it felt like they would never get to the truth.
“Because his eyesight was already failing. If he was alone, he couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t fall and injure himself badly at a lower height. He risked a horrible impairment that left him in agony, but didn’t kill him. The irony was, of course, that it happened anyway.” Peter scrubbed a hand over his face as though trying to rub away the memory. “He needed my help to get him to a high point. A place where, once he decided to stage a fall, he couldn’t possibly survive.”
“And you agreed to help him because he was your friend.”
He nodded, the tears beginning to flow again. “At that time, he was my only friend.” Beth recalled Tania’s words that he had recently found someone with whom he was happy. She was glad. The thought of his loneliness was painful.
“Why don’t I make coffee?” Vincente raised his brows at Beth and she nodded gratefully.
While Vincente found the kitchen and could be heard clanking cups, Beth moved across to kneel on the rug beside Peter’s chair. Clasping his hand in both of hers, she looked up into his face. Bleak sadness clouded his features.
“I made Cory a promise I would make sure he didn’t come back down from that mountain. I had to see it through. When it was my turn to take over and watch him, I decided that would be the time to do it. Killing him was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. When I held the pillow over his face, he didn’t even fight. It was like he knew what was happening and he welcomed it.” He gulped back a sob. “Although I don’t regret it, there is one thing I’m sorry about... I wish it hadn’t been necessary to hit you.”
Beth lifted a hand to the back of her head. “I don’t think there’s even a scar.”
“How did you figure out I was the person who killed him?”
“It was something Cory said when we were alone in his tent. He said he wanted to die so bad, and I guessed that he was talking about what happened when he fell,” Beth said. “I was the only person who heard him say it, so whoever is sending these pictures still doesn’t know that it was you who killed Cory.”
“I wonder if he, or she, cares?” Peter drew a perfectly folded handkerchief from his pocket and dried his eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“The letter addressed us all as murderers and said he would come for us one by one. I may have held the pillow over Cory’s face, but that rage was directed at all of us. This person blames everyone who took part in that climb.” Peter returned the clasp of her hands. “Although I said I have no regrets, I do feel guilty about the effects of what happened. And I’ve kept silent for too long. I had already decided to tell my story to that superefficient Stillwater detective. My partner persuaded me it would be the right thing to do, but don’t count on it stopping this killer.”
Beth sat back on her heels, considering his words. “I wonder how he decides on the order of the victims? Is it random, or is there a pattern?”
“What do you mean?” Vincente asked as he returned with the coffee cups.
“Andy, then Rick, then Danielle. That’s the order the photographs were sent. If Peter is right, and the killer blames all of us equally for Cory’s death, I wonder why he selected the victims in that order? Is it to do with location?” She shook her head. “No, it can’t be that. Andy was in Elmville and Danielle in Toronto.”
She left Rick out of the conversation. Even though his face had been crossed out of a photograph, she knew he wasn’t dead.
“Maybe he is apportioning blame?” Vincente hazarded a guess. “Killing those he considers most guilty first.”
“If you use that logic, Peter and I should have been the first people killed.” She gave Peter an apologetic smile. “I was with Cory when he died, and Peter was the person who was with him when he fell.”
“And I’m next.”
Peter’s words sent a chill down Beth’s spine. “How do you know that?”
“Haven’t you received the latest picture?” He got to his feet, moving to a desk that was piled high with books. Reaching into the top drawer, he withdrew a photograph and brought it to Beth.
She didn’t want to look at it. Every instinct told her to throw it down on the floor and run. Just like she had wanted to do when they found the picture in Lia’s crib back in Casper. Run and keep on running. Instead, she took the picture from Peter and forced herself to look at it. There were five red crosses on this copy. Cory, Andy, Rick, Danielle and now Peter. Bold red lines slashing through their faces. She could feel the killer’s rage as he took his pen and marked them off, one by one.
“When did you get this?” Her hand shook as she gave the picture back to Peter.
“What day did you come to the climbing club meeting? It was in my mailbox the next day.” He frowned. “I wonder why you didn’t get a copy.”
“He doesn’t know where I live.” The words provided a measure of relief from the shock of looking at the picture. Ten people. Five crosses. Half of them should be dead. Peter was the next target...and Rick was still on the run.
Before they could discuss it further, there was a knock on the door. Beth cast a scared look in Vincente’s direction, but Peter reassured her. “I’m expecting a delivery. Wait in here.”
As he left the room to answer the door, Beth moved closer to Vincente anyway. The house was so small they could hear every sound as Peter drew back the catch on the front door. “Can you carry it through to the kitchen?”
There was the sound of two sets of footsteps walking along the wooden floorboards in the hall. A moment or two of silence followed, then Peter uttered a startled exclamation. “You!”
The gunshot was horribly loud, freezing Vincente and Beth into a moment of immobility. Then, springing into action together, they darted out of the room and into the hall. They were in time to see a black-clad figure dash out of the open front door. They saw nothing of the killer’s face, only catching a glimpse of the back of a hooded sweatshirt before the door slammed closed.
In the kitchen, Peter lay in a crumpled heap. The perfect circle of a bullet wound was in the center of his right temple and a puddle of blood was forming on the floor beneath his head. A gun lay close to his right hand, placed to look as if he had dropped it when he fell.
Vincente muttered a curse, and Beth could read his dilemma on his face. The killer was seconds away from them. But if Vincente chased after him and left Beth alone, he exposed her to a possible trap. If he took her with him and they confronted an armed murderer who had already sworn to kill her...
Keeping an arm around Beth and holding her tight against his side, he reached for his cell phone. “Laurie? I need you in Whitebridge right now. You’re going to need backup.”
* * *
Two uniformed police officers from the Whitebridge Police Department arrived five minutes after Vincente called Laurie. Vincente showed them through to the kitchen.
“The caller didn’t say anything about a body.” One of the officers frowned as they surveyed the scene.
“The caller? Aren’t you here because Detective Delaney from the Stillwater Police Department called you?” The feeling that he and Beth were in a shared nightmare was growing stronger.
“Detective who?”
After several minutes of trying to explain the situation, Vincente called Laurie. Although she was already in her car, she was able to speak on her hands-free cell phone and assure the police officers that Vincente had indeed been the person to call in the murder. No one was able to explain the confusion surrounding the call, but Vincente and Beth waited in Peter’s sitting room until Laurie finally arrived with a Whitebridge detective.
“Looks like a suicide.” One of the Whitebridge police officers studied Peter’s body from the kitchen doorway.
It took Laurie about two and a half minutes of relaying cold, hard facts about Andy Smith and Danielle Penn to change his mind.
“Forensics will show that there is no gunshot residue on his clothing and his fingerprints are not on the gun.”
She never once used the words jumping or conclusions, but they were obvious from her attitude. The uniformed officer grew red in the face and shuffled his feet as she spoke.
Laurie then questioned Vincente and Beth about what happened. With her usual relentless focus on detail, she missed nothing. When the forensic team turned up, she told Vincente and Beth to go home and informed them that she would call at the lake house later.
They were silent for most of the drive, the horror of what had happened still sinking in.
“Just before he was shot, Peter said ‘you.’ That means he knew who it was,” Beth said.
It was the first time Vincente had thought of it that way. She was right. When he uttered that single word, Peter signaled that he had recognized his killer. Peter, who had been Cory’s friend, could have gotten to know the other man’s acquaintances. Would he still be in touch with them after ten years? It wasn’t impossible, but that single word made it seem less likely that the killer was a member of Cory’s family or one of his friends. It felt more like Peter had recognized the person instantly and been shocked at who it was.
So who are you?
Vincente had been close enough to the killer to reach out a hand and touch him. The frustration that he had let him get away left a sour taste in his mouth.
“Although the murderer placed the gun next to Peter’s body, it wasn’t going to work as a staged suicide this time.” He voiced his thoughts out loud. “Apart from the forensic evidence Laurie talked about, we were in the house. There were witnesses this time. It was only a half-hearted attempt to disguise the killing as something else.”
“Why is that?” Beth asked. “Did the killer panic because we were with Peter? Did he think that, between us, we might come up with the truth? Or did he just want to scare me even more by showing how daring he is?”
“Maybe it was both of those things...or neither.” Vincente briefly placed a reassuring hand on her knee. “Who knows what’s going on inside this person’s mind? And possibly it’s that simple. The killer could be starting to unravel.”
“A violent, unpredictable criminal who is becoming more volatile? That makes me feel a whole lot better.”
“I’m here.” He tightened his grip on her leg. “He won’t get past me.”
The easiest way to reach Bryce and Steffi’s home on the way back from Whitebridge was to drive through the center of Stillwater, then take the lake road out toward the Stillwater Trail. Their house, with the animal sanctuary located in its rambling grounds, was nestled in the foothills of the mountain range. Vincente had deliberately avoided the route through town the last few times he had driven out to collect Lia. Even though the car he was using had tinted windows, meaning Beth was unlikely to be recognized as they drove through Main Street, he didn’t want to take any risks with her safety. It would only take a flat tire in the center of town or another unforeseen holdup, and her cover would be blown.
Just as he was about to drive past the turn that would have taken them along Main Street, Beth cried out, startling him.
“Stop!” The exclamation appeared to have been caused when she saw a man jogging toward them along the edge of the highway.
Vincente braked hard. “What the hell...?”
The jogger ran past them, taking the right turn that led into Stillwater.
“Back up and follow him.”
Even though he did as she asked, he issued a warning. “Beth, this is dangerous. We’re right on the edge of town here.”
“Keep going but slow down.” Her voice was urgent as she slewed around in her seat to get another look at the jogger. “Now pull over. Look in the rearview mirror.” Vincente did as she instructed. “See this guy running along as though he doesn’t have a care in the world?” Her hand was on the door handle as she prepared to jump out of the car. “It’s Rick Sterling.”
“Wait—” Beth was gone before he finished speaking. There weren’t enough curse words in the world to summarize what he was feeling, so Vincente settled for one or two as he slammed the car door and ran after her.
Beth couldn’t have chosen a worse place for a confrontation. Up ahead, just a few hundred yards away, was the start of Main Street itself. Vincente could see the giant, skillet-shaped sign of the Pancake Parlor swinging in the breeze and glimpses of the whiteboards of the cab company office were just visible through the trees. In the opposite direction, he could still hear the sounds of the highway they had just exited. To their right was the brutal scar that slashed across the landscape, the knife-sharp fissure known as Savage Canyon. It was a wilderness packed with forest so dense it was almost impossible to plow through it.
To their left was the Ryerson River and the Eternal Springs. At least the local scenic attraction wasn’t likely to be busy with tourists at this time of year.
“Rick?”
As soon as Beth said his name, the guy’s head snapped up and he stopped running. Beth halted as well, giving Vincente time to catch up to her. Although Vincente had never met Rick Sterling, there was no doubt in his mind. They had the right man. The wary look on his face confirmed it. Side by side, Vincente and Beth faced him across a distance of several feet for a few seconds. Then Rick turned and ran in the direction of the waterfall.
Beth didn’t hesitate. She took off after him with the speed of an eagle swooping on its prey. Although Rick was bigger, Beth had determination on her side and she was closing on him as he neared the top of the cliff from which the river took a sharp downward plunge. Vincente muttered another curse. Beth had no idea what kind of danger she would be in if she caught up to this guy. Rick had faked his own death, been in Toronto the day before Danielle Penn died and was likely to have been the person on their deck in the middle of the night. Taking those things into account, Vincente decided to concentrate on running after her instead of swearing or shouting a warning.
When Rick reached the top of the waterfall, he cast a glance over his shoulder at Beth, who was close behind him. Crouching low, he placed his hands on the cliff edge and lowered himself into the water. Vincente blinked as the other man disappeared into the spray. He had a horrible premonition about what was going to happen next.
“Beth, don’t—”
It was too late. Beth had already launched herself into the waterfall.