Left To Die by Lisa Jackson Page B

responded, winter tires digging into the icy terrain. She took a sip from her cup, a rapidly cooling cup of coffee that she’d bought at the last town she’d passed through, now nearly five miles back. Spruce Creek, the town, if you could call it that, was little more than a stoplight at two crossroads. The intersection had boasted a post office, gas station, coffee shop, two churches and, as if in perfect juxtaposition, two taverns. A few distantly spaced farmhouses had peppered the snowy landscape.
    “Welcome to rural Montana,” she said aloud, wondering, not for the first time, if she was on a fool’s mission. The radio was tuned to a country/western station and Willie Nelson was singing over the underlying static, “White Christmas” no less.
    “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas,” he warbled in his nasal twang.
    “Well, you got one, Willie Boy,” she said, staring out a windshield threatening to fog over to a vast landscape of snow-laden trees and piling drifts. “You’ve got yourself one helluva white Christmas.”
    All around her, the mountains knifed upward, their peaks hidden by the thick clouds and driving snow. Here, in the Bitterroot Mountains, it looked like a second Ice Age.
    The road twisted ever upward and her little car climbed steadily, its wipers slapping the flurries off the windshield. One tire slipped before digging in. Jillian eased into the slide, sloshing coffee, and the car’s all-wheel drive didn’t let her down. Nonetheless, she was nervous and wondered how far it was to the next town.
    This mountainous part of Montana was more desolate than she’d anticipated, and though she wasn’t a coward or the least bit skittish, today, as dusk threatened and she met not one other vehicle on the road, she felt a little anxious, a bit edgy.
    “Too much caffeine,” she muttered as Willie’s song faded and an announcer’s voice cut in and out. Irritated, she switched off the radio and thought about the calls she’d received from the unidentified caller and the pictures he or she had sent.
    Had they been of Aaron?
    Or was this some elaborate hoax?
    “Face it, you’re on a wild goose chase,” she told herself for the umpteenth time, but her hands tightened on the steering wheel as she remembered those whispered conversations all insisting the same thing:
    “He’s alive.”
    “Son of a bitch,” she muttered as the Subaru’s engine suddenly strained. She hadn’t really believed the weirdo on the other end of the line and God knew the photos could have been doctored, but she wasn’t one to live with any kind of doubt. So what if it was just a twisted joke? At least she could finally put Aaron’s memory to rest.
    Right?
    She’d left Seattle without telling a soul other than to ask her nineteen-year-old neighbor, Emily Hardy, to take care of Marilyn for a few days. So now she was in the middle of the Montana wilderness, a blizzard brewing. “Turn around,” she told herself, realizing she was chasing the same damned ghost she had been pursuing for years.
    Hadn’t Mason, her second husband, accused her of just that? “Damn it all to hell.” The Outback’s tires slid a bit and she slipped the gearshift into a lower gear. “Come on, come on.” The mid-size car lunged forward, engine groaning in protest.
    Spruce Creek wasn’t that far behind her. If she found a wide spot in the road, she could turn around and give up for the night.
    The thought of a bed and a warm room in a motel made her sigh. She could hole up and spread her map out, check out the best route between here and Missoula, where she would spring her surprise on Mason.
    But turning back felt too much like quitting, and she’d never been a quitter. Not since third grade, when she’d been bucked off a horse and decided to give up horseback riding all together. Until her grandfather had stared down at her with kind blue eyes and said, “Hey, Jillie, don’t you know, quitting’s for sissies? I never figured you to be