God, he was tired.
Outside, the wind tore through the forest and Carter grumbled under his breath. He walked to the kitchen, opened the freezer, and ignored a man-sized dinner in favor of a tray of ice cubes and a bottle of Jack Daniels tucked away in the cupboard. With a flip of his wrist, he slapped the tray onto his counter, sent a few frozen cubes flying, then poured himself a drink. He was supposed to be off duty for the next two days but figured he’d be called in before daybreak.
But he still had time for a short one.
Sipping the whiskey, he hankered for another smoke, but ignored the craving as he sat at his desk and booted up the computer. His electricity flickered, and he had to try again, but the lights managed to stay on and he was able to access the Internet. Without hesitation, he called up a search engine and typed in Jenna Hughes’s name.
The number of sites that could be accessed was astronomical. Especially for an actress who was no longer working, a once-upon-a-time star who should have fallen off the public’s radar. Carter pulled up the first fan club site and found himself staring at a computer image of Jenna, the Internet’s answer to an 8x10 glossy head shot. In the picture, she was half-turned toward the camera’s lens, and a hint of a smile tugged at her full lips. There was a glimmer of naughtiness in her green eyes, a shadow of a sexy imp beneath her serious facade. Shiny black hair fell in tangled disarray and framed her face coquettishly. Though the image was only of her shoulders and head, you had the feeling that she was naked in front of the camera, that she was teasing whoever had the audacity to stare at her.
Carter’s gut tightened.
He felt a current of lust in his blood, just a tiny bit of want, which, he knew, was exactly what the publicity shot was meant to inspire. And the kind of imagery that could cause not only sane men, but those who were unbalanced, to think of Jenna Hughes intimately, to want her, to imagine themselves with her sexually.
A scary proposition.
And now his problem.
He viewed several pages, read some facts about her, checked out some of the posts to the bulletin board, then surfed again. Without too much trouble, he found the picture of Jenna that was used for the publicity of Resurrection, the same sensual shot that had been copied, printed over, and sent to her by some sicko.
It was easy enough to download the picture.
A six-year-old could do it.
By the time Carter had finished his drink, he’d looked through a dozen sites, and only scratched the surface. He typed in several lines from the poem and came up with nothing significant, then gave up. Jenna Hughes had a serious problem, yes, but so did a lot of other people. He thought of Lester Hatchell and frowned.
What had happened to Sonja?
Even in an ice storm, people in cars didn’t just disappear.
Or did they?
He walked into the kitchen and poured himself another stiff shot. The wind was raging, rattling the windowpanes, howling in the trees, forcing brittle branches to slap against the old siding. God, he hated the cold.
How many times had he considered moving to a warmer climate?
To Tempe, Arizona, or Sonoma, California, or Taos, New Mexico. He’d gotten literature from over a dozen towns in the Southwest, weighed the pros and cons of pulling up stakes and chasing the sun, but had never followed through. It was almost as if he were fated to be here, that the invisible ties that bound him to Falls Crossing were strong as steel cable.
Back at his desk, he settled into his chair again and before he concentrated on the computer screen, he caught a glimpse of a Lucite cube that was forever beneath his desk lamp, yet never noticed. It had been a gift from Carolyn on their first wedding anniversary, and beneath the plastic surfaces were faded snapshots of him as a much younger man, a much less jaded man, a man who, at that time in his life, had known how to smile. Six photographs. All were of him, four included Carolyn, another was with David when they were gangly-looking freshmen in high school, and the last was a group shot that included Rinda Allen and her brother Wes, along with Carolyn and a few others. They’d been ringing in the New Year and were all wearing stupid little hats and blowing those ridiculous noisemakers…
That New Year’s Eve party had been so long ago.
During another bone-cold winter.
He closed his eyes for a second. Tried to call up Carolyn’s face. But all he could remember were images from photographs or home movies that had been taken over the years. Knowing he was making a mistake, he walked to the hall closet, pushed aside some loose tools, and found an ancient cardboard box. Inside were videotapes from a life he’d led long ago. He pulled out the first cartridge he came to, then walked into the living room. Hesitating only for a second, he shoved the tape into his VCR and clicked on the television.
A few seconds later, there she was.
His heart clutched.
She was laughing, her blond hair poking out of a red stocking cap, her scarf unwinding, her boots slipping as she ran through the snow and hurled hastily packed snowballs back at the cameraman.
“Don’t…Shane, don’t you dare,” she ordered, laughing as the image wiggled and a snowball came from the direction of the camera to splat against her back. “Oh, you devil! That was dirty! Just you wait.” She threw a few back at the camera. “When I get you home…”
“You’ll what?” his voice demanded.
“I’ll make you pay!”
“How?”