Alvarez suggested, “You mean, maybe he’s mentally unbalanced?”
“Well, obviously!”
“Did you ever see him with anyone?” Pescoli asked.
“He was always alone. Under the tree. Always under that tall fir. Always staring.” She shivered visibly. “I told Kathryn he was dangerous, but she didn’t pay him any mind.”
Pescoli looked across the street to the park with its dozens of trees and street lamps to the very tree the woman was indicating. Her heart stilled and the dream she’d had the night before reawakened. She imagined the assailant, dressed in white, standing beneath the branches and even now, there was a little girl walking near the tree, her mother pushing a stroller nearby.
So much like the images she’d seen in her mind that a cold finger seemed to slide down her spine.
“Pescoli?” Alvarez asked and she snapped to.
To Claudia, she asked, “When was the last time you saw him?”
The thin woman thought hard. “Oh, when was it? Last week, I think, before Christmas, maybe around the twenty-first or twenty-second . . . sometimes my memory isn’t . . . oh, that’s right!” She snapped her gloved fingers. “It was the twentieth. I remember because he was standing there as I was backing up, taking some of my pumpkin bars to the church for the evening Bible study classes. But that person, whoever he is, was there again. Beneath the tree as always. It’s right on the jogging trail and I believe he chose that spot because it would be easy to grab anyone who passed by!”
“But you said he was focused on the judge.”
“Her house. The Millers’ and ours, yes! But there’s no telling what he’ll do. He’s dangerous, I know it and now . . . oh, dear, poor Kathryn.”
“What time of day did you see him?” Pescoli asked.
“Always in the evening or late at night,” Claudia said hurriedly. “I’ve never once seen him in the mornings or early afternoons. No, no, always in the dark.” She was nodding, agreeing with herself, her hand still keeping her hat in place. “And I went to drop off the cookies after five, I think, and this time of year the night comes so early.”
Alvarez cast Pescoli a look, then asked, “Can you describe him?”
“Tall, fit—maybe, hard to tell. Always wearing ski gear, heavy down jacket, y’know, bulky. Camouflage white for winter, like hunters wear.”
White. Like the dream.
“The hood has a bill, so his eyes are always shaded. I’m telling you it’s downright spooky, takes all the fun out of Christmas.” Once more, Claudia hazarded a quick glance to the park where a solitary jogger made his way along a snowy path.
“Did you ever see him in or near a vehicle?” Alvarez asked.
“Oh, no.” She stared at them as if they’d asked if the man she’d seen was from Jupiter.
“Does he carry a weapon?” Pescoli asked, thinking of her dream and the assault weapon she’d envisioned on her assailant’s back.
“Of course he does!”
Pescoli focused on her. “What kind of weapon?”
“Well, how would I know? I haven’t actually seen a gun or a knife, but he’s always facing the street, observing our houses.” She laughed a little. “How could I possibly know what he’s got in his pockets?”
“So, you’re just assuming,” Alvarez clarified.
“It’s not that big of a leap. This is Montana, you know.”
Weirder and weirder, Pescoli thought. And yet . . . “Would you mind working with a police artist?” she asked, even though she was starting to question the woman’s credibility. Something about all the information she was spewing seemed off, though it was so like last night’s nightmare that it was spooky and Pescoli couldn’t just write it off.
Coincidence.
Nothing more.
“I’d love to!” Claudia cried. She visibly brightened at the thought of actually helping, or perhaps it was just because someone in authority was taking her seriously. “You want me to come down to the police station?”
“The sheriff’s office,” Pescoli clarified.