A Cold Dark Place

Chapter Seven

One week before the tornado, 2:45 PM, Des Moines, Iowa

Miranda Collins parked her Silver BMW sedan in front of her expansive redbrick home. The house overlooked the pale green waters of Des Moines's lazy Raccoon River. That quiet Sunday, when the chill of winter had been decidedly chased away with the promise of an early spring, she doubted there was a prettier place in the world. The sun's rays wove their way through the leafy overhang of the only elms in all of Iowa to survive the Dutch Elm disaster of the 1930s. It was among the most desirable neighborhoods in the city. Droplets of light fell over the lawn and cobblestone walkway to the ten-foot leaded-glass doors that led inside the turn-ofthe-century Tudor-style home that Miranda shared with her husband, Karl, and their son, Aaron. She threw her Coach bag over her shoulder and hooked her fingers into the loops of plastic grocery bags holding the ingredients for tonight's dinner chicken, button mushrooms, shallots, and a decent bottle of Bordeaux. She knew better than to buy the cheap stuff.

"Cooking wine should never be anything less than what you'd imbibe from a Baccarat glass," Karl had said a time or two. He was only half-kidding, and Miranda had learned not to repeat the remark because it made him seem like such a snob. And a snob he could be.

He's a proctologist, for goodness sake, she thought. He's a success, of course, but bottom line he's no neurosurgeon. What he knows of wine he's learned from the pages of Wine Spectator or what I've told him.

An attractive woman with symmetrical features and dark brown hair that had been artfully streaked gray by nature, Miranda balanced the sacks of groceries on her hip as she reached with her key for the doorknob. Her charm bracelet with its collection of miniatures revealing a happy life dangled from her wrist. A baby carriage. A typewriter. Books. Miniature maps of Washington and California. A tiny Space Needle replica had been placed next to the Eiffel Tower and the St. Louis Arch. She considered each memento a keystone in her life.

The measly pressure of her inserting the key made the door move inward. It wasn't locked. It wasn't even shut. It only alarmed her for a second that DJ, the cocker spaniel that had been an unwelcome birthday gift from her son, might have gotten outside. If he hadn't, he'd have been at the door like a rocket to greet her. The dog saw every shadow through the glass as an opportunity for escape.

"Karl? Aaron? DJ got out!" she called from the foyer. Her heels clacked against the marble flooring as she moved from stone to carpet.

No one answered.

In turning to go down the hall toward the kitchen, Miranda noticed several reddish spots on the surface of the oriental rug that she'd purchased from a street vendor in Iran before the shah lost power. Miranda had been a correspon dent for a network affiliate and the carpet, with its intricate pattern of green, cream, and pink, was the one souvenir she'd allowed herself.

"What?" she said softly. It looked like the dog had gotten into something. She set the groceries on the floor and touched the red spot with her fingertips. Wet. She rubbed the stain between her fingers.

"Karl!" she screamed. "Aaron!" She stared at her hand. The red liquid wasn't dye. It wasn't tomato sauce. She knew in an instant that it had to be blood. "Guys! Where are you?"

Miranda started for the kitchen. Her heart threatened to burst through her chest. She knew she was hyperventilating, but in her horror and worry she did not know how to stop herself. Slow down. Get a grip. The phrases meant to give her strength and composure only got in the way of her real thoughts. Her sense of smell picked up the odor of something that had burned. It was a wisp of a scent.

"What happened here?" she asked aloud. "Where are you?"

She turned in to the kitchen and gasped.

Then, as if a curtain had hurriedly been closed by the cruelest of unseen hands, everything went completely dark.