Bone Cold

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Acknowledgments

June 1978
Southern California

T
error held thirteen-year-old Harlow Anastasia Grail in a death grip. She huddled in the corner of the dimly lit, windowless room, Timmy cowering beside her, weeping.

The matted carpet smelled faintly of urine, as did the mattress she and Timmy had awakened on hours before. Or had it been days? Harlow didn't know. She had lost all sense of whether it was day or night and of the hours passing. Time had ceased to exist the moment Monica, her father's trusted nurse, had coaxed her and Timmy into a car Harlow hadn't recognized.

He had been waiting inside it. The man Monica called Kurt.

Harlow shuddered, remembering the cold way he had smiled at her. She had known instantly that he meant her and Timmy harm; she had screamed and lunged for the door handle. He had stopped her, holding her fast while Monica injected her with something that had turned her world black.

“I want to go home,” Timmy whimpered. “I want my mom.”

Harlow drew the boy closer to her side, protectiveness surging through her. It was her fault he was here. She had to take care of him; he was her responsibility. “It's going to be all right. I won't let them hurt you.”

From the adjoining room came the sound of a TV news report in progress:

“—yet in the kidnapping of little Harlow Grail and her friend, Timmy Price. Harlow Grail, daughter of actress Savannah North Grail and Hollywood plastic surgeon Cornelius Grail, was abducted from the stables on the family's estate. The housekeeper's six-year-old son had apparently followed Grail to the stables and was also abducted. Authorities do not believe he was part of the original plot and FBI officials—”

A crash rent the air, followed by the sound of splintering wood. “Son-of-a-bitch!”

“Kurt, calm dow—”

“I told them what would happen if they went to the cops! Stupid Hollywood assholes! I told them—”

“Kurt, for God's sake, don't—”

The door flew open with such force it crashed against the wall behind it. Kurt stood in the doorway, breathing hard, face white with rage. Monica and the other woman, the one called Sis, hovered behind him. They looked terrified.

“Your parents didn't listen,” he said softly, voice vibrating with hatred. “Too bad for you.”

“Let us go!” Harlow cried, pulling Timmy closer. The boy clung to her, sobbing, hysterical.

He laughed, the sound cruel. “Spoiled little bitch. If I let you go, how will I get what I want?”

He crossed the room and grabbed Timmy, wrenching him from her.

“Ha'low!” the boy screamed, terrified.

“Leave him alone!” As she scrambled to her feet to help him, Monica and Sis sprang forward, stopping her. Harlow fought them, but they were too strong. Their hands circled her arms, their nails dug into her flesh, holding her fast.

Kurt tossed Timmy onto the dirty cot and held the struggling six-year-old down. “Watch carefully, little princess,” he said to her. “See what your parents caused. They didn't listen to me. I warned them not to go to the authorities. I told them what the consequences would be. They did this. Stupid Hollywood assholes.”

Laughing, Kurt grabbed a pillow and pressed it over Timmy's face.

“No!” The word, her scream, flew out of her, reverberating off the walls and back. “No!”

Timmy struggled. He clawed at Kurt's hands, his legs flailed wildly at first, then with less force. Harlow watched in horror, a litany of pleas slipping from her lips, tears streaming down her face.

Timmy went still. “No!” Harlow screamed. “Timmy!”

Kurt straightened. He turned and faced her, an evil smile twisting his lips. “Your turn, little princess.”

He and Monica dragged her to the kitchen. Harlow told herself to fight, but terror had leeched her of her ability to do more than beg. Monica forced her right hand out over the white porcelain of the chipped and stained sink.

“Ready or not, here I come.”

Harlow caught the glint of metal. Some sort of cutters or clippers, she realized, a scream rising in her throat.

He found her hand, closed the cutters over her right
pinkie. First came the pain, hot, blinding. Then the
pop
of bone being snapped in two. The white sink turned red.

Harlow's vision blurred, then faded to black.

 

Pain emanated from Harlow's bandaged hand and up her arm in fiery waves. With each crest, a bitter, steely taste filled her mouth, all but choking her. She bit down hard on her bottom lip to keep from crying aloud. She had to be quiet. Absolutely still. Kurt and the others thought she was asleep, knocked out by the pain medication Monica had given her. The medicine Harlow had only pretended to take.

The wave passed and Harlow experienced a moment's respite from the agony. Tears flooded her eyes, tears of horror. Of hopelessness. With the emotion came another wave of pain. Light-headed, on the verge of passing out, Harlow struggled to breathe. She couldn't pass out now. She couldn't give in to the pain. Or the fear. Not if she wanted to live. Her parents were making the drop tonight. She had heard Kurt talking. He'd told the other two he would let her go when he got the money.

He was a liar. A filthy bastard liar. He'd killed Timmy even though the boy hadn't caused any trouble. Sweet little Timmy. All he had wanted was to go home.

Dirty bastard was going to kill her, too. No matter what he promised. She might be only thirteen, but she wasn't stupid—she had seen all three of their faces.

Harlow eased herself off the cot, careful not to cause the springs to squeak, and crept across the matted carpet to the door. She pressed her ear to it. Kurt was speaking, though Harlow couldn't make out exactly what he was saying. It involved her. And the pickup.

It was happening tonight.

Harlow hurried back to the cot, lay down and closed her eyes. She heard the click of the doorknob being twisted then the soft whoosh of the door opening, of someone crossing to stand beside her.

Once again the door hadn't been locked. Why would they lock it? They thought she was in a deep, drug-induced sleep.

Her visitor bent over the bed and Harlow realized it was the old woman, Sis. Harlow could tell it was her by the way she smelled—of roses and baby powder, sweet scents that only partially masked the gross smell of cigarettes.

Sis leaned closer. Harlow felt the woman's breath on her face and fought to lie perfectly still, to not recoil.

“Sweet lamb,” the woman whispered. “It's almost over now. Once Kurt has the money, everything will be all right.”

He had left to make the pickup. Time was running out.

“I couldn't stop him before. He was angry…he… Your parents shouldn't have defied him. It's their fault. They're the ones—” Her voice thickened. “I did the best I could. You have to understand, he…”

You didn't do the best you could. You could have saved Timmy, you old witch. You made such a fuss over him but you didn't do a thing to save him. I hate you.

“I'll be back.” The woman pressed a kiss to Harlow's forehead; it was all Harlow could do to keep from screaming. “Sleep sound, little princess. It'll be over soon. I promise.”

The woman exited the room, closing the door behind her. Harlow listened intently for the telltale click of the lock turning over.

It didn't come.

She cracked open her eyes. She was alone. Carefully, heart thundering, terrified of making a sound that would alert the old woman, she sat up. Too quickly. Dizziness assailed her and she grabbed the edge of the cot for support. She held herself perfectly still, breathing deeply through her nose, fighting to clear her head.

The dizziness passed, but still she remained motionless. She collected her thoughts. From what she had been able to ascertain over the past few days, she was being kept in a small, relatively isolated house. She hadn't heard sounds of traffic or passersby; nobody had rung the doorbell. In the morning she had heard the twittering of birds and twice at night the lonely howl of a coyote.

What if she couldn't find anyone to help her? What if she got lost? What if the same coyote she heard howling found her and tore her apart?

Act or die, she reminded herself, trembling. Kurt intended to kill her. At least if she ran she would have a chance.

A chance. Her only chance.
Harlow climbed out of the bed, swaying slightly as she stood. She pressed on anyway, creeping toward the door. She inched it open. The room beyond appeared to be empty. The TV was on, sound muted. A cigarette burned in the ashtray on the arm of the easy chair, a curl of acrid-smelling smoke wafting toward the ceiling.

She had to go now. She had to run.

Harlow reacted to the thought, darting toward the front door. She reached it, fumbled with the dead-bolt lock, then grabbed the handle and yanked it open. With a small, involuntary cry, she stumbled out into the dark, starless night. And began to run. Blindly. Sobbing. Across scorched earth, through a thicket. She pitched
headlong into a ditch, then clawed her way out and back to her feet.

And onto a deserted road. Hope exploded inside her.
Someone, there had to be someone…

As the words made their way through her head, a car crested the hill ahead, its headlights slicing through the darkness, pinning her. She stood frozen, trembling, too weak and exhausted to even wave. The lights grew closer; the driver blew his horn.

“Help me,” she whispered, dropping to her knees. “Please, help me.”

The vehicle screeched to a stop. A door opened. Footsteps sounded on the pavement.

“Don't, Frank,” a woman begged. “What if—”

“For God's sake, Donna, I can't just… Oh my God, it's a kid.”

“A kid?” The woman emerged from the car. Harlow lifted her head and the woman caught her breath. “Dear Lord, look at her red hair. It's her, the one they're searching for. Little Harlow Grail.”

The man made a sound of disbelief, then apprehension. He glanced around them as if suddenly realizing he could be in danger.

“I don't like this,” the woman said, obviously frightened. “Let's get out of here.”

The man agreed. He scooped Harlow up, his grasp strong but gentle. “It's all right, it's going to be all right,” he murmured, starting for his vehicle. “You're going home. You're safe now.”

Harlow shuddered and slumped against him, though even as she did, she knew she would never feel safe again.