Frozen (Detective Ellie MacIntosh) (4 page)

“Nineteen,” she muttered out loud. “Christ. Nineteen.” She was thirty-one and wouldn’t have given up one single day.

It was two-thirty. She’d have nice circles under her eyes in the morning. Oh wait, it
was
the morning. Correction, she’d have circles under her eyes in a few hours when she got up to go on duty.

The furnace clicked on with a small swoosh of sound, the rain more of a gentle patter now. Maybe it would let up before daybreak anyway.

Ellie rose and stretched, flicked off the television, which she hadn’t watched, and went down the hall to her bedroom. Sometimes lying there and closing her eyes worked if she waited long enough.

And sometimes it didn’t.

At four she was still half awake, restless, her mind working, strange dreams drifting in and out as she dozed off. Dark woods, wet leaves, and the metallic smell of blood; she could feel the slippery and hot glide on her skin …

She jerked back into full consciousness.

With a clammy sheen of sweat making her pajamas cling to her body, she decided that maybe having insomnia wasn’t so bad after all. At least there were no nightmares when you were awake.

Then she thought about those three missing women and knew she was wrong.

The nightmares were there all the time.

Chapter 3

When he was five years old his father had given him a small pocket knife. He still had it. Carried it in his pocket at all times. It was strange how such an insignificant gesture could turn a person’s life in an unexpected direction. Though he tried to not equate that event with anything except what it appeared to be on the surface—a gift from father to son—he sometimes wondered about it.

Knife. Blood. Death …

Symbolism was not to be discounted when it came to the human psyche.

Maybe that was why he’d taken the knife out and used it the first time.

Though by then, he had to admit, it was all over.

*   *   *

Bryce sat at
the table by the long windows and watched the sun come up.

He’d woken early, made coffee—it was a little stale from the grounds being months old in the can on the counter, but better than nothing. The rain had moved on toward the Canadian border and the morning was pretty, the lake shining steel gray, a light wind rippling the surface of the water. The cabin sat up high on a hill, surrounded by birch in their ghostly splendor, stately elms, hemlock, and a scattering of white pine. Winding mossy steps led down the steep hillside to the dock, the latter now raised on a hinge with a winch to keep it out of the mangling grip of the ice for the winter. The solitude was complete, nothing moving anywhere except for the gentle lap of the water on the rocky shore.

In the Land Rover he had about a dozen books he’d been waiting to read, and he’d made a vow to himself when he’d decided to come north that he would write, read, and relax for the next couple of weeks. This last project had been a tough one. He deserved some time to sit with his feet propped up.

But he was not interested in starving to death. It was seventeen miles or so back to town, but he knew there was a little café there, and Hathaway’s—a true old-fashioned general store where you could buy everything from minnows to roofing nails to ice cream. He could pick up some essentials until he decided to drive into Tomahawk and do some real grocery shopping.

So he changed into jeans and a clean shirt, brushed his teeth with bottled water he’d brought along in the car, and drove off toward Carney.

The sound of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony about sent him off the road, the sudden break in the silence unexpected enough he swore and jerked the wheel.

What the hell?

It took a moment before he realized the music was coming from somewhere in the region of the floor of the SUV on the passenger side.

A phone, he realized. Not his phone either, for not only was the ring different from what he had programmed but he patted his jacket pocket just to be sure and the weight of his cell was there, small and square.

He found a small turnoff and pulled his car into a patch of dying goldenrod, the ground still sodden from the rain as he got out. It made him glad he’d worn boots instead of his expensive shoes. He went around the vehicle, opened the passenger door, and bent to try and locate the source of the noise, which had stopped. He spied the cell phone on the edge of the floor mat, almost under the seat.

It had to belong to Melissa. He remembered she’d been leaving the message for the tow company as she’d gotten into his car, so maybe that was when she’d dropped it, or maybe it had just fallen out of her pocket.

He weighed it in his hand. It wasn’t a bad excuse to see her again, which he wouldn’t mind. Almost as if it was meant to be. Besides, she was probably half frantic without it, especially since she didn’t even have her car. In his experience most people couldn’t function without their cell phones—he sure couldn’t—and obviously someone had just tried to get in touch with her, maybe even the towing company. He got back into the Rover and pulled out onto the pavement again as he headed toward the road that snaked off the county highway to her rental cabin.

Fifteen minutes later, as he tried to judge just where exactly she lived, Bryce slowed the car to a crawl, searching for the driveway. It had been pitch dark, wet, and nothing looked particularly familiar, but finally he spotted the dip of a drive, and through the leafless branches the roof outline of a small cabin, almost invisible from the road.

Yes, this was it, or so he thought, but in the light it was all different, though he was reassured by the gouge of fresh tire tracks going up the muddy drive. His tires splashed through standing puddles of water as he turned in.

The place was small, neat, with weathered siding and a stone chimney. There were brilliant scarlet and yellow wet leaves plastered to the shingles on the roof and the drapes were still drawn. Bryce glanced at his watch. It was only about eight-thirty and a Saturday morning. Did bird-watching grad students sleep in on weekends or was her research project a seven-day-a-week job? He hesitated to wake her, but on the other hand, she no doubt wanted her phone back. Without it she was literally stranded.

He got out, slammed the door, and walked around to where a small set of wooden steps led to a miniscule porch that had a pot of long-since-withered ferns sitting by a wooden screen door. It opened with a protest of rusted hinges and he knocked.

No answer. The morning was chilly and his breath blew puffs of steam. Bryce shoved his hands into his pockets and waited.

Nothing stirred inside that he could hear. He tried again, resisting the urge to lean over and look through the slight part in the curtains in the window next to the door.

He knocked again a little bit louder.

It was possible, of course, she was out working on her project. He could just leave the phone on the stoop, he supposed, but he hated to do that because it wasn’t cheap and electronics didn’t always do so well when left outside in the damp of late Wisconsin October.

She couldn’t have gone far without the Jeep. He glanced around, wondering where she’d go on foot. Birds, he realized, were everywhere.

He went down the steps, looking around at the slender stands of trees crowding the narrow drive, and wasn’t sure quite what to do. He could go ahead and go to town, do his shopping, and then come back and try and catch her …

It was at that moment he saw the shoe.

And the blood.

*   *   *

The swirl of
blue and red lights on a quiet Saturday morning was all wrong, Ellie thought as she pulled up, seeing the wash of revolving color against the white scarred bark of the slender birches. The first police officer to step forward was a square-shouldered, square-jawed blond man, a silver deputy’s badge pinned to his jacket, his familiar face set. “Could be we’ve got another one,” he said by way of greeting as she got of her car.

Not quite what she wanted to hear. The lack of sleep made her eyes gritty. “Fill me in.”

Rick Jones nodded once. “Got an emergency services call from a man who says he gave a woman a ride home from a bar last night. She left her cell in his car and he came here to return it. No sign of her, but we do have blood, a pair of shoes, and it looks like she might have been dragged off into the woods. He says she was a grad student from UWM studying birds or something.”

“How’d he know that?”

“They had a couple of beers at the local tavern. She told him.”

“Did he know her before?”

“According to him, no.”

“Show me.”

Rick motioned to where an officer stood and she walked over, saw the discarded shoe and dark splotches on the leaves. She wanted to cry, right then and there, but it wouldn’t do this possible victim any good. Instead she swallowed hard and straightened. “I think I see why he called it in. However the blood got here we know it must have happened after the rain stopped, which was about midnight. That’s a start.”

“He found her other shoe too, in a small stream about a couple of hundred or so yards from here. That’s when he says he really started to get the feeling something might be wrong.”

The investigator in her went on full alert. Usually the blood alone would send a normal citizen straight to his phone. “Why did he go out that far? Did he say?”

“Thought she might be out doing whatever people who study birds do. He walked around a little in the woods, saw more blood, and then found the other shoe.”

“Where is he?”

“Over there. Name is Grantham. I took his statement, but I figured you would want to interview him.”

“Good call.” It was cold and Ellie tugged her gloves from her pocket. “Do we know anything about this guy?”

“No outstanding warrants. No record. I ran his plates. He’s some kind of freelance computer software designer.”

“All right. I’ll talk to our Good Samaritan and you keep me informed on how soon we can get more officers here to start searching the woods. I don’t want another Margaret Wilson.”

Rick looked at her. His nose was red from the cold and his eyes were somber. “No one does.”

“What about tire tracks?”

“If there were any, he probably ran over them when he pulled in. According to our witness, her vehicle is still probably sitting in front of the tavern. No sign of a break-in either, but the door was unlocked, which seems unlikely considering all the current media focus.”

That didn’t sound good. A heavy weight had already settled in her chest anyway. Having instincts wasn’t always an advantage. “Okay.”

The man who had called in stood by the side of an expensive SUV, hands in his pockets. Tall, athletic looking, maybe midthirties or so, she noted, and visibly tense, his head bowed a fraction. He wore a denim shirt under his jacket, jeans, and his boots were new. When she approached he turned to watch her, his gaze steady.

Would I let him drive me home from a bar?
she asked herself. She could see where a young woman might be tempted, but as a police officer, no way in hell would she let anyone get her alone with what had been happening in this county lately.

“You are Mr. Grantham?” She didn’t offer her hand but just looked at him.

“Yes.”

“I’m Detective MacIntosh. It’s cold out here and I have a few questions. Shall we sit?” She motioned at his vehicle.

“That’s fine.”

The man came over and opened the passenger door for her. Ellie glanced at him sharply but he wasn’t being obsequious that she could see; he didn’t even seem to register the polite gesture. It was automatic, not calculated. She nodded and climbed in, taking in a quick survey. Not a smoker, at least not in his car, the only odor one faintly of coffee, probably from a cup still sitting in the holder on the driver’s side, and maybe a hint of spicy cologne. Bryce Grantham went around and got in also, his features set.

Dark hair curled around his face and the shadow of a one-day beard emphasized the line of his jaw and the height of his cheekbones. If it wasn’t for his dead pallor, he would be a good-looking guy, but right now he was pasty and looked like he might just pass out. The grazing of whiskers stood out against his skin in stark contrast.

“I could see if anyone has some water,” she said quietly.

He shook his head. “No, not necessary. I’m just a little rattled.”

“I can understand that,” Ellie murmured. “Not a great way to start out the day. Care to tell me exactly what happened?”

“I’ve already—”

“I know, sir, but let’s go over it again.”

The curtness of her voice clearly stopped him. But he cooperated. He outlined in a measured voice that he’d stopped in at the Pit Stop the night before and about collided with a young woman in the doorway, ended up inviting her to have a beer with him, they’d talked, eaten some pizza, and when her car wouldn’t start, he’d taken her home.

Here. Where the other participant in his impromptu date didn’t appear to be, but a bloody shoe lay in the driveway and another one in the woods where even now officers were preparing to start a search. He claimed he didn’t even know her last name.

After he finished, she sat there, thinking it all over. “When did you realize she’d left her phone in your car?”

Dark eyes regarded her blankly. She had the feeling he was thinking of something besides her question. It took a moment. “Someone tried to call her. I about drove off the road when it started ringing out of the blue.”

Not for the first time, she wondered if she was too sensitive for the job because she could imagine all too clearly the moment the young woman realized she was not just without transportation in this remote place, but without any form of communication either. Ellie knew it would leave a sick knot in the pit of her stomach.

She had one there now, wondering if they had another victim.

Jones had noted the man said he wrote computer software programs. She’d pursue that later. “I’m going to need your address here besides the one in Milwaukee.”

“Loon Lake.” He attempted a smile. “The only inhabited cabin right now. Third drive off Pine Lane.”