Impulse

Hazard, Wyoming, is a quiet mountain town where there's snow on the ground from October until June, the wind blows all the time, and nothing much ever happens. But that's all about to change. Because, just when the wind suddenly stops, a killer comes to Hazard—a hunter as deadly and primal as evil itself. 

When Sheriff Will Bridger sees the murdered teenage girl, it's the worst scene he's ever witnessed. But there's worse to come. Much, much worse. While the nights grow longer and the winter snow gets deeper, the violence intensifies. As does the blazing passion between Will and late-night radio host Faith Prescott. Harboring secrets as potentially dangerous as his own, Faith knows all too well the dark side of the human heart. She can help Will. If he'll only let her. 

It won't be easy, though. The man who was once the boy raised by wolves is no ordinary serial killer. Fortunately, Will Bridger is no ordinary cop.

If night has a thousand eyes, it has as many fears.

—Marlo Blais

Go, stalk the red deer o’er the heather,

Ride, follow the fox if you can!

But, for the pleasure and profit together,

Allow me the hunting of Man—

The chase of the Human, the search for the Soul

To its ruin—the hunting of Man.

—Rudyard Kipling

PROLOGUE

I
t was the wind that woke him. Or,
more precisely, a sudden hush as startling in its silence as the crack of a rifle shot shattering a dark and moonless night. When you lived on the rooftop of America, which Hazard, Wyoming, population 2,642 was—didn’t the Chamber of Commerce even proclaim its status on the welcome sign at the city limits?—you lived with eternal wind.

Night and day it roared like a freight train, wailed like a banshee, screamed like a horde of insane berserkers. It hurled itself over the winter landscape, turning snowfields into a violent sea, creating churning swells that swiftly transformed vehicles, cattle, and the occasional foolhardy human into lumps of frozen white.

The same wind that ripped away tree limbs, fence lines, and peeled trailer roofs open like sardine cans also tore apart hope, love, and dreams, hurling them into the Big Sky land of Montana, across the high plains to the Dakotas, and beyond. A geography professor at Wind River Colle
ge had published a paper assert
ing dust from ancient buffalo bones had been found as far away as the Highland peaks of Scotland. Not a single person in northwestern Wyoming doubted the claim.

But every so often, just when even the most optimistic soul was ready to put a bullet into his skull to end his misery, the wind would stop.

Just like that.

As if God, or Fate, or whoever the hell controlled the weather in this wild, isolated part of the world had hit the pause button.

Unlike those lesser beings, who'd stumble out of their homes, confuse
d and grumpy, snarling and snap
ping like feral animals being too early awakened from a deep winter’s sleep, the man who’d once been the boy raised by wolves was not confused by the wind’s sudden and silent cessation.

He’d been waiting for it.

Planning for it.

And now, with bloodthirst singing in his veins, he was ready.

1

Savannah,
Georgia

September 26

S
avannah may be the hostess city of
the South, but police detective Will Bridger would’ve bet a month’s pay that The Rising, named after Ireland’s Easter rebellion, and situated in a neighborhood so foreboding that even stray cats didn’t wander the alleys at night, would never show up on any of the city’s glossy tourism brochures.

It was a blue-collar, working-class bar down on the docks, where “Danny Boy,” rather than Southern soul, played on the jukebox; Guinness, Harp, and Jameson were the drinks of choice; and patrons came, not to socialize, argue about sports, and chew the fat, but to get quickly, lethally drunk.

“Remember,” Will instructed his partner as they walked across a parking lot packed with rusting pickups and motorcycles, “if you order one of those froufrou girly-man drinks in here, you could get us both killed.” From the Confederate flags flying in the back windows and the bumper stickers announcing don’t blame US, WE VOTED FOR JEFF DAVIS and
YANKEE HUNTING PERMIT
, Will figured the faded
KISS MY REDNECK ASS
T-shirt he was wearing beneath his Harley-Davidson leather vest would fit right in.

Grayson Lowell snorted. “I’d like to see you tell Hemingway a daiquiri is a girly-man drink.”

“That’d be a little difficult to do.” Broken glass from beer bottles and discarded syringes crunched beneath Will’s boots. “Since the guy’s dead. Which is what we could be if you screw things up.”

“Christ, we’ve been partners for the past ten years. Name one time I screwed anything up."

“How about the time Big Eddie Falcone came after us with half the wiseguys in town because you nailed his new stripper?”

“Danielle wasn’t a stripper. She just happened to be working as an exotic dancer while studying for her master’s in psychology. Tuition’s not cheap, and dancing pays better than waiting tables.”

It was Will’s turn to snort his disbelief. “Yeah, that’s what they all say.”

“She’s currently a professor at The Citadel,” Gray countered mildly. “And how the hell was I supposed to know that Big Eddie had his eye on her?”

“You should’ve detected it. That’s what we detectives do.” Will tapped his nose. “Detect stuff. Admit it, you let the little head do the thinkin’ for the big head and it didn’t give a flying fuck about consequences.”

“Like you’ve never followed your dick into strange territory.”

Will couldn’t deny it. But it wasn’t like he met all that
many respectable women in his line of work. Hadn’t he and Gray spent the past two days and nights talking to pimps, whores,
meth dealers, crack addicts, car
jackers, fences, gun dealers, and every other Lowcountry lowlife?

And, here’s a surprise, they hadn’t run across a single Sunday-school teacher in the bunch.

Though there had been one woman
…

Don’t go there. Best to keep the incident still known around the station house as Bridger’s Major Fuckup in the past, where it belonged. Bygones.

Got any more snazzy platitudes
,
Bridger?
a voice in the back of his mind taunted.

“Well, women shouldn’t prove any problem tonight.” He shook off the mocking voice, along with the unwanted memories, and pushed open the heavy door. “Not in this place.” Any female who dared show up in The Rising without a Special Forces escort risked getting gang-raped on the pool table.

A thick, blue, acrid cloud lay heavily over the room that smelled of stale beer and bad blood. Bottles, mugs, and glasses lowered to tables and eyes turned in their direction as they walked into the bar. Two guys still wearing a paste-white prison pallor were shooting pool at the far end of the narrow room; the taller of the two, who’d shaved his head as smooth as the cue ball, made the simple act of rubbing talc into the end of his stick appear menacing.

The smoke-filled air was edgy with a nuclear, deep- seething violence. It wasn’t so long ago that a good
many of The Rising’s patrons would have been wearing sheets, cone-shaped hats, and getting liquored up in the bar before a fun-filled night of cross burning.

Since the damn Yankee government had taken away their recreation, there tended to be a lot of pent-up hostility simmering just below the surface.

Except for an Irish tenor extolling the rifles of the IRA from the jukebox, the room was suddenly so hushed you could've heard a pin hit the sawdust- covered floor sticky with spilled beer.

The bartender was watching television. NASCAR was running at the Brickyard and even with the sound muted it must’ve been one helluva exciting race because the guy didn’t turn around to acknowledge them.

“Hey, buddy," Will said to the guy’s broad back. “How about a couple whiskeys over here. Make ’em doubles. With Dixie chasers.”

The bartender didn’t turn around. “Ain’t got no Dixie. Quit carryin’ it when they started brewing that goddamn satanic Voodoo piss. This here’s an Hibernian bar. We got Harp and Guinness on draft. You wanna drink with the devil, go hang out with the queers in one of them back-door fag joints.”

“Gotta like a tavern with st
rong conservative, faith-
based values,” Will said agreeably.

He decided not to point out the dichotomy between the bartender’s refusal to stock a brew that had been targeted by the religious right, and the leering devil, surrounded by flames, tattooed on the hulk’s biceps.

He flashed his best good ole boy grin and slapped a twenty onto the bar. “I’ll take a pint.”

“Pull one for me, too.” Gray reached into the pocket of his jeans, pulled out a thick roll of bills he made sure everyone could see, and took another twenty from beneath the rubber band.

For such a big man, the guy moved fast. A meaty hand with
F.U.C.K.
inked on the knuckles shot out; the money disappeared beneath the counter.

“So, where’s your sign?” Will asked as the bartender drew the pints.

“What the hell sign you talkin’ about?” White foam spilled down the side of the glass, sloshed onto a bar covered with white rings, and went ignored.

Generations of initials and suggestions, each more obscene than the last, had been gouged into the wood. Will traced the outline of one carved design with the index finger of his free hand; being the hotshot detective he was, he deduced the backward swastika hadn’t been carved by a Rhodes Scholar.

“The sign saying the customer is always wrong.”

The bartender’s eyes, close-set and glaring, narrowed. A vein the size o
f a night crawler pulsed danger
ously at his temple. “You don’t like it here, why don’t you get your fuckin’ ass outta my bar?”

Will tossed back the whiskey. “’Cause, I’m lookin’ for a guy. Thought you might’ve seen him.” He took a long swallow of Guinness to get the taste of the rotgut out of his mouth.

“Haven’t seen any guy.”

Of course not. No one ever saw anything or anyone in places like The Rising.

‘This guy’s from out of town.” Will placed another twenty next to the change the bartender had returned from the first one. “Name’s Jose Montero. Kind of medium height, black hair, brown eyes, talks with a Latino accent.”

“Beaners ain’t welcome here,” a guy two stools down from Will growled in a cigarette-roughened voice. He had a pack of Camel unfiltereds rolled up in a T-shirt that looked as if it’d last been washed sometime during the first Bush administration. “Especially greaser dopers.”

Will lifted a brow. “Did I say anything about dope?” Montero was a hit man for the Mexican Mafia—a gang heavily involved in drugs, extortion, and prostitution—who used murder as a means of discipline.

Last week Will and Gray had learned from a Pagan motorcycle-gang informant that Montero was responsible for the recent disappearance of a fifteen-year-old runaway from Maryland who’d last been seen panhandling on the waterfront.

“The city’s gettin’ overrun with damn wetbacks lookin’ to muscle in on the rackets.” The bartender reached beneath the bar and pulled out a Louisville slugger. “So, either you’re looking to do business with the guy”—the dark stain on the fat end of the bat looked suspiciously like old, dried blood—“or you’re cops.”

“Fuck that!” Gray was off the stool like a moon shot.
“Do we look like fuckin’ cops, hoss?” he demanded, sounding a lot more like a pissed-off Texan than the Back Bay Bostonian Will knew him to be.

“You’ll have to excuse my friend,” Will said smoothly when those thick
F.U.C.K.
fingers tightened around the bat’s base. “He’s got a bit of a short temper.” That was an understatement.

“Short dick, too, I’ll bet,” a guy down the bar suggested with a gravelly laugh.

“At least I can find mine,” Gray shot back. He raked a dangerous, stiletto-sharp look over the jokester, whose belly strained against a black Carolina Panthers T-shirt. “Without having to lift up five hundred pounds of lard.”

Shit. Will heard chairs scraping away from tables. In some joints, the occupants of those chairs would be trying to stay out of trouble.

Not in The Rising.

Thing could turn real ugly real fast.

He wasn’t the only on
e picking up those edgy vibes. “
You’d best be gettin’ your pal outta Dodge,” the bartender snarled. “While you boys still got two good legs to walk out on.”

“If you’re not careful,” Will drawled, “y’all are gonna lose your reputation for Southern hospitality. Let’s go,” he said to Gray without taking his eyes from the Hulk.

“Hell. Just when I was starting to have a good time.”

Will knew Gray’s heavy sigh was only partly feigned. Everyone on the squad knew that despite his patrician
roots, Detective Grayson Lowell enjoyed a brawl as much as the next guy.

Will reached beneath his vest and pulled out the black Glock he’d tucked into the back of his jeans. He felt the stir of animosity ripple over the bar and knew that he was not the only man in the place carrying. Which was why he’d decided to show the pistol.

Since half the goons in the place were undoubtedly in violation of parole, he figured that now that he’d upped the stakes, just in case he and Gray were cops they’d wait for him to make the first move. Which he had no intention of doing.

Yet.

“I told you the guy wasn’t going to be in there,” Gray muttered as the heavy oak door slammed closed behind them. “The scum of the gene pool hang out in The Rising.”

“The guy we’re looking for kills people for a living,” Will reminded his partner. “Besides, we gotta check them all. Drug dealing and prostitution are like politics in that they make for strange bedfellows.” No one had followed them out. So far, so good. “And that Pagan did say the word on the street is that the Mexican Mafia’s looking to hook up with Kerrigan.”

Joseph Kerrigan, who owned the bar through one of a dozen of his companies, also ran a string of adult bookstores. He was connected, with fingers in organized crime pies—drugs, porn, money laundering, and bookmaking—all over the South.

“Like that’s gonna happen.”

Will didn’t think so, either. But years of police work had taught him that anything, including Montero’s snatching that girl as a donation to Kerrigan’s rumored new sex-slave business, was possible.

They’d nearly reached the Mustang the SPD had actually sprung for when he spotted two guys standing beside a black SUV. One was making a rock fashion stat
ement in a black, Metallica, burn
ing-skull T-shirt; the other wore an olive green Che Guevara shirt cut off at the sleeves.

“Think that might be our guy?” Will asked quietly.

Gray followed his gaze. “Could be. He matches the description.” Right down to the patch of the Mexican flag with the eagle-and-snake insignia on the shirt’s sleeve. As they watched, a small package changed hands. “Bet you they’re not trading baseball cards.”

“Could be just some lowlife wantin’ to get high.”

“Could be. And if we bust ’em, we could end up spending the rest of the night doin’ paperwork.”

At that moment, the guy in the Metallica shirt looked up. Then cursed in Spanish, loud enough to be heard over the buzz of the neon sign. Then they both took off running like rabbits. In opposite directions. “You go after Che. I’ll take Metallica,” Will said.

“Got it.” Gray pulled his own pistol from the calf holder beneath the flared jeans and took off, chest out, head back, just like when he’d been a near-world-class sprinter on the Harvard track team.

Metallica ran across the street and turned down an alley that ran behind The Rising.

Will followed, the heels of his boots hammering the cobblestones. Why the hell hadn’t he worn his Nikes?

Oh, yeah. Because it was hard to pull off a motherfucker rapist-biker act in squeaky new sneaks.

Fortunately, the alley was a dead end.

Unfortunately, Metallica wasn’t ready to throw in the towel. He vaulted a six-foot wooden fence without so much as missing a step.

Will followed.

“Police!” he shouted.

Which, big friggin' surprise, only made the guy run faster, his arms pumping like pistons as he cut across a courtyard lit by a flickering orange gaslight, knocking over a wrought-iron table and chair to slow his pursuer down.