Frozen (Detective Ellie MacIntosh) (11 page)

The smell got stronger. Enough to make him stop walking, fishing pole in hand. It came from his right, which was puzzling because the lake was that way and he could see nothing washed up on the shore …

The odor came from the boathouse.

He realized it in one of those crystalline moments where the world feels suspended, distant and dreamlike. Bryce stood there, unmoving, and even as his brain rejected the possibility of the source, he
felt
it. Nothing earth-shattering, nothing even poignant or frightening, just a horrible sense of inevitability.

With robotlike stiffness, Bryce set down the bait bucket, dumped the cooler on the ground, and carefully propped his fishing pole against a tree. The location of the door on the rotting structure required he step onto the rickety dock, but the boards under his feet were surprisingly solid and he noticed the door hung open an inch or so, listing on rusty hinges.

This close, the odor was indescribable.

Dead raccoon, he told himself. Or a beaver maybe, swimming in under the bay for the boat and getting trapped inside. Only, how did it get trapped? If it could swim in, it could swim out, couldn’t it? Besides that, the door was ajar enough to be pushed open, even by a fairly small animal.

God, it had to be something bigger. The stench was so strong, nauseating …

Had it been mid-July and hot and humid, he could only imagine it, for even now with the temperature hovering in the midforties and a cool breeze whispering by it was horrific.

There was nothing to
make
him look inside. Even as he reached for the door to ease it open, the insidious thought filtered through. He’d smelled something decaying while out fishing. So what? That wasn’t a crime, was it? A person wasn’t required to investigate a noxious odor.

But he
couldn’t
ignore it. He wasn’t perfect, but he didn’t think he was a coward, and walking away would be morally wrong as well as an act of cowardice.

Go ahead. Just do it. Maybe you’re being ridiculous. Maybe it’s harmless, a dead carp, or …

Bryce opened the door.

The body lay in a drunken sprawl in the corner, right next to the boat slip. She’d been dumped in facedown, and what Bryce saw was the outstretched arm, hanging over the edge of the wooden platform, and her disheveled hair and rumpled clothing. There was a run in her nylon stocking, running obscenely up the swollen, discolored flesh of her leg and he could see the pink edge of her underwear because her skirt was hiked up on one side.

The putrid odor as much as the horrifying sight drove him back, and he almost fell into the lake he moved so quickly, letting the door go. He caught his balance barely before toppling into the freezing water, the scene of woods and peaceful lake giving a surreal feel to the smell and grisly vision imprinted now on his brain, probably forever.

Dear God.

He managed to stumble off the dock and moved back along the edge of the water until he could take a deep breath of clean air. He was shaking, hot, and then cold, and he sat down on a fallen log for a moment, just to try and collect himself. In the annals of bad vacations, this one just garnered first place.

He’d looked in the boathouse. If he was going to back away from the situation, he should have turned and walked away before he’d opened that door. His fingerprints were going to be there. On the latch at least. Had he touched anything else?

He
had
to call the police.

They weren’t going to believe this any more than he did.

No, he was wrong. They were going to believe it even less, he knew it with dismal certainty.

The woman had been blond. It wasn’t Melissa.

Chapter 8

The structure looked cold, lonely even, set back from the road by a long lane. He went on foot, past the old wood pile, his feet dislodging piles of leaves, maybe even leaving prints in the damp soil, but it hardly mattered.

Not yet.

It was quiet, still, the silence reverent. The Hunter took his time, his approach stealthy as he reconnoitered the area. It helped to know the lay of the ground, to understand the flow of the landscape. Like an artist, he thought in terms of images, in possibilities, in flights of fancy, in dreams.

He could imagine the kill. It was the best part of it, because the reality was always more rushed than what he wanted, more visceral, more primitive.

It was a shame really, that it couldn’t last longer.

*   *   *

There was a
small natural meadow to the left and Ellie noted thick woods beyond. The sky had reddish streaks as the sun began to set, and the air had taken on a late October chill. Rick stopped behind Grantham’s expensive SUV, killed the engine, and both of them got out.

Bryce Grantham waited, half sitting on the bumper of his car. In the fading light, his face was drawn, and there was no doubt when he straightened and stood, his eyes looked odd. Hollow almost.

He seemed tired and resigned. The light from the sunset touched his thick dark hair with crimson glints. Without preamble, he said, “I don’t care how this sounds. I’m not going to lie to you. I thought about not doing this.”

A strange way to start a conversation with the police.

She put her hands into her pockets. It was really getting downright cold. “I’d appreciate if you don’t lie to us at all, Dr. Grantham. Do you mind explaining just what you thought about not doing? Your phone call wasn’t exactly informative.”

That was the truth. Her cell had rung just as she and Rick were pulling into the parking lot of the county courthouse and when she’d answered and heard Grantham’s voice, she’d been surprised.

I think I’ve discovered something pertinent to your case.

Talk
, she’d said.

Come see for yourself, Detective, if you don’t mind. Here are the directions.

Grantham just shook his head. He wore jeans that hugged his long legs and a navy windbreaker. The evening breeze ruffled his dark hair attractively over his brow. He looked like one of those beautiful men you saw in catalogues modeling outdoor wear; except instead of flashing a killer white-toothed smile he seemed gray around the edges and tense. “Do you have a flashlight? You might need it.”

“Yes.” Rick said. “But mind telling me just what we’re doing here?”

“Get the flashlight and just follow me,” Bryce said. “It’ll be easier.”

“Follow you where?” Rick asked bluntly, refusing to move. His voice held a reflection of Ellie’s own mixed feelings. Confusion, suspicion, and an underlying hint of excitement. Tramping off through the woods with a possible suspect in a serial murder case wasn’t that great of an idea probably, but he wasn’t armed that she could see—they were—and they’d radioed in their location and who they were going to be with when they arrived.

If Bryce Grantham was dangerous, Ellie at least didn’t think he was a fool. Besides, she had a feeling, a gut instinct, the case was about to turn. It wasn’t just the call, but his demeanor.

Something sure as hell was wrong.

“It’s about a half a mile, I’d guess,” Grantham said and started walking off in the direction of the woods. A startled bird whirled out of the underbrush as he passed, but he didn’t even flinch.

Rick muttered something and went to get the flashlight from his car. He and Ellie glanced at each other, and then followed, tramping through dead weeds and grass in the other man’s wake. The sound of them walking seemed loud in the stillness. Her nose was cold, and Ellie hunched her shoulders in her jacket. The air smelled like winter, empty and forsaken.

Once they gained the trees it was shadowed and there wasn’t really a path, so they weaved through the trunks of pine and birch, stepping over sticks and other debris. There was a decent-size lake ahead, she saw, the water dark and glassy. No cabins, no lights.

Grantham led them along the edge until they came to a small sandy beach. There was a dock and boathouse, obviously neither of them in use any longer as both were falling apart and so weathered they looked ghostly in the dying light of day. A soft-sided cooler, a minnow bucket, and a fishing pole were scattered around a fallen log.

Grantham turned and said hoarsely, “Look in the boathouse.”

Even as he spoke Ellie caught it, the first whiff of something she unfortunately recognized. A strange sensation stirred in her stomach. “We’ve got a body,” she said tersely. “Give me the flashlight, Rick.”

He obeyed, handing it over without a word. Ellie ran the rest of the way across the sand, clambering onto the dock. The door to the boathouse hung open, but it was dark inside and she flicked the switch of the flashlight, the powerful beam catching gray, damp warped wood as she swung it toward the floor. That smell was undeniable and when she saw the corpse she fought to not recoil, though she’d probably seen worse. At least this woman’s face wasn’t visible.

She’d never—ever—get used to it. Ellie thought that said something about her as a person.

But they had, at last,
a body
.

It was time now, though, to assume her detective persona. If she was going to help the victim get justice, she had to be professional. Analytical.

Even if inside she was … sad. Just so very sad.

Blond hair, blue skirt … it fit the description she had memorized. Margaret Wilson. It was an educated guess. Patricia Wells had disappeared in July. As bad as this body smelled, it wasn’t almost four months old. At a glance there were no blood stains, no visible weapon left behind, no obvious trauma, but she wasn’t about to go in there and possibly contaminate the scene. They’d waited too long for this.

“Oh, Christ,” Rick said in a strangled voice behind her.

“Margaret Wilson. Look at what she’s wearing.”

“Smells too bad to be her. This is too new.”

“Has to be. Call it in,” Ellie said in a voice that sounded strangely detached. “We just got our break. Let’s get the crime scene unit here to inspect every single inch of the area. We both know if this is Margaret Wilson, she didn’t get here on her own. We need the coroner. Maybe we can even get a cause of death on scene.”

“I’m not walking back to the car and leaving you here with Grantham.” Rick put his sleeve over his nose. In the waning light, his eyes looked watery. “No way. I’ll call the sheriff on his cell and let him organize what we need.”

Ellie backed away, wiping her hands on her jacket even though she hadn’t touched anything. “Sounds like an idea.” She glanced over to where Grantham’s lean figure sat on the fallen log, his hands clasped between his knees. “I’ll go talk to him.” She added on a breath, “I admit I didn’t see this coming when he called.”

“Who could? If this is a coincidence, it’s one hell of a long shot. Vegas would have a ball with this one. Same guy takes one of the victims home and then he finds another in a case we can’t break to save our lives?”

“I know.” Ellie puffed out a breath and added quietly, “I think he knows too.”

She left Rick there, scrolling through his phone, and gained the little beach, walking slowly over to where Grantham sat. He watched her approach, his face inscrutable in the thickening dark. She was afraid the killer was cunning. She was sure she was correct. Just how smart was the perp? Hopefully not as intelligent as the man sitting in front of her.

Unless he
was
the killer.

She agreed with Rick. Such a connection with two victims in just a few days was a bit much. Ellie cleared her throat. “I see why you said you almost didn’t call it in.”

His dark brows lifted a fraction at her dispassionate observation. “I thought you might.”

“You’ve been through this before, so do you mind telling me how you came to be here and find the body, Dr. Grantham?”

His expression was resigned. “I came here fishing. This property belongs to a friend of my family. I fished for a while down the shore there”—he pointed—“and wasn’t having much luck. It was also starting to get cold. I walked over here because the spot still had some sun. Then I noticed the smell.”

“So you looked in the boathouse?”

“I couldn’t see anything else dead around here and it’s so strong.” He muttered, “Trust me. I didn’t really want to look. I told myself to just walk away.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Bryce glanced at the boathouse. Rick now stood a good way from it on the beach, talking on his phone. His voice sounded heavy. “Those missing women … they have families.”

“Did you touch anything? Move the body?”

He stared at her and gave a muffled laugh that held no mirth. “Touch it? You must be joking. I doubt you could pay me to touch a decomposing body, Detective. All I did was open the door. It was more than enough, believe me. I can only imagine what my nightmares will be like now.”

She did believe him. Or at least
that
part of his story. They had that in common anyway. Her nightmares would also reflect black water, that lopsided boathouse, and the grisly contents …

Rick knelt in the sand and picked up the cooler. He looked at Grantham, who still sat on a fallen birch tree, his profile limed by the dying light. “Do you mind?”

“Mind what?”

“Can I take a look?”

“Go ahead.” Grantham gave him an incredulous look and Ellie didn’t really blame him. “If what’s left of my lunch is interesting, help yourself. What on earth do you think you’ll find in there?”

“At the moment, I find everything about you interesting, sir, if you want the truth. The number-one point of my interest is your ability to locate a victim hidden in an isolated place. The sheriff’s department’s detectives, and even DCI, haven’t been able to pull that off in seventeen months.”

“A dubious honor at best,” Grantham muttered. “This is
not
how I want to attain my fifteen minutes of fame.”

Rick unzipped the pack. It probably wouldn’t help anything, but they had nothing else to do at the moment, it was there, and Grantham had just elevated his suspect status in a big way. Ellie stood and watched in the descending darkness, wrapped in her dark coat.