Ice Cold

24

WHEN JANE, GABRIEL, AND SANSONE PULLED UP AT THE ACCIDENT site, they found the search team already waiting for them at the side of the road. Jane recognized Sheriff Fahey and Deputy Martineau, as well as that old crank Montgomery Loftus, who owned the land and greeted the new arrivals with a grudging nod. At least this time, he wasn’t brandishing a rifle.

“Did you bring the items?” asked Fahey.

Jane held up a satchel. “We took a number of things out of her house. There are pillowcases and some clothes from her laundry hamper. It should be enough to give them the scent.”

“We can hold on to these?”

“Keep them. As long as it takes to find her.”

“This is the logical place to start.” Fahey handed off the satchel to Deputy Martineau. “If she managed to survive the crash and wandered away, they may be able to pick up her scent down there.”

Jane and Gabriel moved to the edge of the road and looked down at the ravine. The wrecked Suburban was still wedged there, its charred surface now covered with snow. She did not see how anyone could have survived this accident, much less walked away from it. But Maura’s luggage had been in that vehicle, so it was only logical to assume that Maura herself had been riding in the ill-fated SUV when it plunged off the cliff. Jane tried to imagine how that miraculous survival could have happened. Perhaps Maura was thrown from the vehicle early and landed on soft snow, saving her from incineration. Perhaps she’d wandered away from the wreckage, dazed and amnesiac. Jane scanned the rugged terrain and felt little optimism that they would find Maura alive. This was why she had not informed Daniel Brophy about their return to Wyoming. Even had she been able to penetrate the wall of seclusion that now cloaked him, she could offer him no hope of a different outcome, no possibility that this search would change the ultimate answer. If Maura had been in that Suburban, she was now almost certainly dead. And all they were here to do was find the body.

The dogs and searchers began their hike down to the wreckage, pausing every few yards as the dogs sniffed the area, seeking the scent they’d now been primed to follow. Sansone moved down with them, but he stood apart, as though aware the team considered him an outsider. And no wonder they did. He was a man of few smiles, a dark and unapproachable figure to whom past tragedies seemed to cling like a cloak.

“Is that guy another priest?”

Jane turned to see Loftus standing beside her, scowling down at the invaders on his property. “No, he’s just a friend,” she said.

“Deputy Martineau told me you came with a priest last time. And now this fella. Huh,” Loftus grunted. “Interesting friends she had.”

“Maura was an interesting person.”

“So I gather. But we all end up the same way.” He yanked down the brim of his hat, gave them a nod, and started back to his pickup truck, leaving Jane and Gabriel alone at the edge of the road.

“He’s going to take it hard when they find her body,” said Gabriel, staring down at Sansone.

“You think she’s down there.”

“We have to be prepared for the inevitable.” He watched as Sansone moved steadily down the ravine. “He’s in love with her, isn’t he?”

She gave a sad laugh. “You think?”

“Whatever his reasons for being here, I’m glad he came. He’s made things a lot easier.”

“Money usually does.” Sansone’s private jet had whisked them straight from Boston to Jackson Hole, sparing them the ordeal of scrambling for flight reservations, waiting in security lines, and filing the paperwork to pack their weapons. Yes, money did make things easier. But it doesn’t make you happier, she thought, looking down at Sansone, who appeared as somber as a mourner as he stood beside the wrecked Suburban.

The searchers were now moving around the vehicle in ever-widening circles, clearly not picking up any scent. When at last Martineau and Fahey started hiking back up the trail, carrying the satchel with Maura’s belongings, Jane knew they’d given up.

“They didn’t pick up anything?” Gabriel asked as the two men emerged onto the road, both breathing hard.

“Not a whiff.” Martineau tossed the satchel into his vehicle and slammed the door.

“You think too much time has gone by?” asked Jane. “Maybe her scent’s dissipated.”

“One of those dogs is trained to find cadavers, and he’s not signaling anything, either. The handler thinks the real problem is the fire. The smell of gasoline and smoke is overwhelming their noses. And then there’s the heavy snowfall.” He looked down at the search team, which was starting to head up toward them. “If she’s down there, I don’t think we’re going to find her until spring.”

“You’re giving up?” said Jane.

“What else can we do? The dogs aren’t finding anything.”

“So we just leave her body down there? Where scavengers can get it?”

Fahey reacted to his dismay with a tired sigh. “Where do you suggest we start digging, ma’am? Point out the spot, and we’ll do it. But you have to accept the fact this is now a recovery, not a rescue. Even if she survived the crash, she wouldn’t have survived the exposure. Not after all this time.”

Searchers clambered back onto the road, and Jane saw flushed faces, downcast expressions. The dogs seemed just as discouraged, tails no longer wagging.

The last one up the trail was Sansone, and he looked the grimmest of all. “They didn’t give it enough time,” he said.

“Even if the dogs did find her,” Fahey quietly pointed out, “it won’t change the outcome.”

“But at least we’d know. We’d have a body to bury,” said Sansone.

“I know it’s a hard thing to accept, that you don’t have closure. But out here, sir, that’s the way it sometimes is. Hunters have heart attacks. Hikers get lost. Small planes go down. Sometimes we don’t find the remains for months, even years. Mother Nature chooses when to give them up.” Fahey glanced up as snow began to fall again, as dry and powdery as talc. “And she’s not ready to give up this body. Not today.”

HE WAS sixteen years old, born and raised in Wyoming, and his name was Julian Henry Perkins. But only grown-ups-his teachers, his foster parents, and his caseworker-ever called him that. At school, on a good day, his classmates called him Julie-Ann. On a bad day, they called him Fuckface Annie. He hated his name, but it was what his mom had chosen for him after she’d seen some movie with a hero named Julian. That was just like his mom, always doing something loopy like calling her son a name no one else had. Or dumping Julian and his sister with their grandfather while she ran off with a drummer. Or, ten years later, suddenly showing up to reclaim her kids after she’d discovered the true meaning of life, with a prophet named Jeremiah Goode.

The boy told all this to Maura as they slowly made their way down the slope, the dog panting after them. A day had passed since they’d watched the fires burning in Kingdom Come; only now did the boy feel it was safe for them to descend into the valley. On her boots, he had strapped a pair of makeshift snowshoes, which he’d crafted using tools scavenged from conveniently unlocked houses in the town of Pinedale. She thought of pointing out to him that this was theft, not scavenging, but she did not think he’d appreciate the difference.

“So what do you want to be called, since you don’t like the name Julian?” Maura asked as they tramped toward Kingdom Come.

“I don’t care.”

“Most people care what they’re called.”

“I don’t see why people need names at all.”

“Is that why you keep calling me ma’am?”

“Animals don’t use names and they get along fine. Better than most people.”

“But I can’t keep saying hey you.”

They walked on for a while, snowshoes creaking, the boy leading the way. He cut a ragged figure, moving across that white landscape, the dog huffing at his heels. And here she was, willingly following those two wild and filthy creatures. Maybe it was Stockholm syndrome; for whatever reason, she’d given up any thoughts of fleeing from the boy. She relied on him for food and shelter, and except for the initial blow on the head that first day, when he’d been frantic to keep her quiet, he had not hurt her. In fact, he’d made no move to even touch her. So she had settled into the wary role of part prisoner, part guest, and in that role she followed him into the valley.

“Rat,” he suddenly said over his shoulder.

“What?”

“That’s what my sister, Carrie, calls me.”

“That’s not a very nice name.”

“It’s okay. It’s from that movie, about the rat who cooks.”

“You mean Ratatouille?”

“Yeah. Our grandpa took us to see it. I liked that movie.”

“I did, too,” said Maura.

“Anyway, she started calling me Rat, because sometimes I’d cook her breakfast in the morning. But she’s the only one ever calls me that. It’s my secret name.”

“So I guess I’m not allowed to use it.”

He walked on for a moment, snowshoes swishing down the slope. After a long silence, he stopped and looked back at her, as if, after much thought, he’d finally come to a decision. “I guess you can, too,” he said, then continued walking. “But you can’t tell anyone.”

A boy named Rat and a dog named Bear. Right.

She was starting to get into the rhythm of walking on snowshoes, moving more easily, but still struggling to keep up with the boy and dog.

“So your mom and sister were living here, in the valley. What about your father?” she asked.

“He’s dead.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Died when I was four.”

“And where’s your grandpa?”

“He died last year.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated automatically.

He stopped and looked back. “You don’t need to keep saying that.”

But I am sorry, she thought, looking at his lonely figure standing against the vast background of white. I’m sorry that the men who loved you are gone. I’m sorry that your mother seems to drop in and out of your life whenever it suits her. I’m sorry that the only one you seem able to count on, the only one who stands by you, has four legs and a tail.

They descended deeper into the valley, entering the zone of destruction. Coming down the ridge, they had caught whiffs of the stench from the burned buildings. With every step they took, the damage appeared more horrifying. Every house had been reduced to blackened ruins, the village devastated as completely as if conquerors had swept through, intent on erasing it from the face of the earth. Except for the creak of their snowshoes, the sound of their breathing, the world was silent.

They came to a halt next to the remains of the house where Maura and her companions had sheltered. Tears suddenly clouded her vision as she stared at charred wood and shattered glass. Rat and Bear moved on down the line of burned homes, but Maura remained where she was, and in that silence she felt the presence of ghosts. Grace and Elaine, Arlo and Douglas, people whom she had not particularly liked, but with whom she had bonded nevertheless. Here they still lingered, whispering warnings from the ruins. Leave this place. While you can. Looking down, she saw tire tracks. This was the proof of arson. While the fires were raging, melting the snow, a truck had left a record of its passage pressed into the now frozen mud.

She heard an anguished cry and turned in alarm. Rat dropped to his knees beside one of the burned houses. As she moved toward him, she saw that he was clutching something in both hands, like a rosary.

“She wouldn’t have left this!”

“What is it, Rat?”

“Carrie’s. Grandpa gave it to her and she never took it off.” Slowly he opened his hands and revealed a heart-shaped pendant, still attached to a strand of broken gold chain.

“This is your sister’s?”

“Something’s wrong. It’s all wrong.” He rose to his feet, agitated, and began digging into the charred remains of the house.

“What are you doing?” asked Maura.

“This was our house. Mom’s and Carrie’s.” He pawed through the ashes, and his gloves were soon black with soot.

“This pendant doesn’t look like it was in the fire, Rat.”

“I found it on the road. Like she dropped it there.” He pulled up a burned timber and with a desperate grunt heaved it aside, scattering ashes.

She looked at the ground, which was now down to bare mud after the heat of the fire had melted the snow cover. The pendant might have been lying here for days, she thought. What else had the snow hidden from them? As the boy continued to attack the ruins of his family’s house, tearing at charred boards, searching for scraps of his lost mother and sister, Maura stared at Carrie’s pendant, trying to understand how something that was cherished could end up abandoned under the snow. She remembered what they’d found inside these houses. The untouched meals, the dead canary.

And the blood. The pool of it at the bottom of the stairs, left to congeal and freeze on the floorboards after the body had been removed. These families didn’t just walk away, she thought. They were forced from their homes with such haste that meals were left behind and a child could not pause to retrieve a treasured necklace. This is why the fires were set, she thought. To hide what happened to the families of Kingdom Come.

Bear gave a soft growl. She looked down at him and saw that he was crouched with teeth bared, his ears laid back. He was looking up toward the valley road.

“Rat,” she said.

The boy wasn’t listening. His attention was focused on digging into the remains of the house where his mother and Carrie had lived.

The dog gave another growl, deeper, more insistent, and the scruff of his neck stood up. Something was coming down that road. Something that scared him.

“Rat.”

At last the boy looked up, filthy with soot. He saw the dog, and his gaze snapped up toward the road. Only then did they hear the faint growl of an approaching vehicle, making its way into the valley.

“They’re coming back,” he said. He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the cover of trees.

“Wait.” She yanked free. “What if it’s the police, looking for me?”

“You don’t want to be found here. Run, lady!”

He turned and sprang away, moving faster than she thought possible on snowshoes. The approaching vehicle had cut off their easiest route out of Kingdom Come, and any trail up the slope would leave them fully exposed to view. The boy was fleeing in the only direction left to them, into the woods.

For a moment she hesitated; so did the dog. Nervously, Bear glanced at his departing master, then looked at Maura as if to say What are you waiting for? If I follow the boy, she thought, I could be running away from my own rescuers. Am I so thoroughly brainwashed that I’d willingly stick with my kidnapper?

What if the boy is right? What if Death is coming down that road for me?

Bear suddenly took off running after his master.

That was what made her finally choose. When even a dog had the sense to flee, she knew it was time to follow.

She chased after them, her snowshoes clacking across the frozen mud. Beyond the last burned house, the mud gave way to deep snow again. Rat was far ahead and moving into the woods. She labored to catch up, already out of breath as she frantically kicked up powder. Just as she reached the trees, she heard the sound of a dog barking. A different dog, not Bear. She ducked behind a pine and looked back at Kingdom Come.

A black SUV pulled to a stop among the ruins, and a large dog jumped out. Two men emerged, carrying rifles, and they stood scanning the burned village. Although they were too far away for Maura to make out their faces, they clearly seemed to be searching for something.

A paw suddenly landed on her back. With a gasp, she turned and came face-to-face with Bear, his pink tongue lolling out.

“Now do you believe me?” whispered Rat, who was crouched right behind her.

“They could be hunters.”

“I know dogs. That’s a bloodhound they got there.”

One of the men reached into the SUV and pulled out a satchel. Crouching beside the hound, he let it sniff the contents.

“He’s giving it the scent,” said Rat.

“Who are they tracking?”

The hound was moving now, wandering among the ruins, nose to the ground. But the smell of the fire seemed to confuse it, and it paused beside the blackened timbers where Maura and Julian had earlier lingered. As the men waited, the dog circled, trying to catch a whiff of its quarry while the two men fanned out, searching the area.

“Hey,” one man yelled, and pointed to the ground. “Snowshoe prints!”

“They’ve spotted our tracks,” said Rat. “Don’t need a dog to find us now.” He backed away. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

He was already moving deeper into the woods, not looking back to see whether she was behind him, not caring that his snowshoes were clattering through underbrush. The hound began baying, pulling in their direction.

Maura chased after the boy. He moved like a panicked deer, shoving through branches, scattering snow in his wake. She could hear the men in pursuit behind them, shouting to each other, and the bloodhound’s excited howling. But even as she scrambled through the woods, the debate still raged in her head. Am I running from my own rescuers?

The rifle shot answered her question. A chunk of wood exploded off the tree near her head, and she heard the bloodhound baying closer. Terror blasted new energy into her bloodstream. Suddenly her muscles were pumping wildly, legs thrashing ahead through the woods.

Another rifle shot exploded. Another chunk of bark splintered off a tree. Then she heard a curse, and the next shot went wild.

“Fucking snow!” one of the men yelled. Without snowshoes, they were sinking, mired in the drifts.

“Let the dog loose! He’ll bring her down!”

“Go, boy. Get her.”

Fresh panic sent Maura plunging ahead, but she could hear the bloodhound gaining on her. On snowshoes, she could outpace her human pursuers, but she could not outrun a dog. In desperation, she scanned the trees for a glimpse of Rat. How had he gotten so far ahead? She was on her own now, isolated prey, and the hound was closing in. The snowshoes made her clumsy, and the undergrowth was too thick here, clawing at the frames.

Ahead, she saw a break in the trees.

She burst through a tangle of branches, into a broad clearing. In a glance she took in the skeletal beams of three new houses, frozen in mid-construction. At the far edge of the clearing, an excavator was parked, its cab almost buried beneath snow. Beside it stood Rat, frantically waving at her.

She started toward him. But halfway across, she knew she would not outrun the bloodhound. She heard it crash through the underbrush behind her. It landed like an anvil against her shoulders and she pitched forward. She put out her hands to break her fall and her arms sank in elbow-deep snow. As she landed, she heard a strangely metallic clunk beneath her, felt something slice right through her glove and into her hand. Sputtering, her face coated in icy powder, she struggled to push herself up, but debris shifted away beneath her weight, and she floundered, as helpless as if trapped in quicksand.

The bloodhound wheeled around and leaped at her again. Weakly she raised an arm to protect her throat and waited to feel teeth sink into her flesh.

A flash of gray suddenly soared past, and Bear collided in midair with the bloodhound. The yelp was as startling as a human shriek. The two dogs thrashed and rolled, ripping at fur, their growls so savage that Maura could only huddle in terror. Red spatters stained the snow, shockingly bright. The hound tried to pull away, but Bear gave him no chance to retreat, and again dove straight at him. Both dogs tumbled, plowing a blood-smeared trench through the snow.

“Bear, stop!” commanded Rat. He came into the clearing, clutching a branch, ready to swing it. But the bloodhound had had enough, and the instant Bear released him, the hound fled back toward the truck, crashing through underbrush in his panic to escape.

“You’re bleeding,” said Rat.

She tore off her soaked glove and stared at her lacerated palm. The slice was clean and deep, made by something razor-sharp. In the churned-up snow, she saw scraps of sheet metal and a jumble of dull gray canisters, dredged up by the dogs when they’d thrashed and rolled. All around her were snow-covered hummocks, and she realized she was kneeling in a field of construction debris. She looked down at her bleeding hand. Just the place to pick up tetanus.

A rifle blast jolted her straight. The men had not yet given up the chase.

Rat pulled her to her feet and they plunged back into the cover of woods. Though their tracks would be easy to follow, the men pursuing them would not be able to keep up in deep snow. Bear led the way, his bloodstained fur like a scarlet flag waving ahead of them as he trotted deeper into the valley. Blood continued to stream from Maura’s sliced palm, and she pressed her already saturated glove against the wound as she obsessed irrationally about bacteria and gangrene.

“Once we lose them,” said Rat, “we have to get back up the ridge.”

“They’ll track us back to your shelter.”

“We can’t stay there. We’ll pack as much food as we can carry and keep moving.”

“Who were those men?”

“I don’t know.”

“Were they from The Gathering?”

“I don’t know.”

“Goddamn it, Rat. What do you know?”

He glanced back at her. “How to stay alive.”

They were climbing now, moving steadily up the ridge, and every step was a labor. She did not know how he could cover ground so quickly.

“You have to get me to a telephone,” she said. “Let me call the police.”

“He owns them. They just do what he wants.”

“Are you talking about Jeremiah?”

“No one goes against the Prophet. No one ever fights back, not even my mom. Not even when they-” He stopped talking and suddenly focused his energy on attacking the ridge.

She halted on the slope, out of breath. “What did they do to your mom?”

He just kept climbing, his anger driving him at a killing pace.

“Rat.” She scrambled to catch up. “Listen to me. I have friends, people I trust. Just get me to a telephone.”

He paused, his breath clouding the air like a steam engine. “Who are you going to call?”

Daniel was her first thought. But she remembered all the times when she could not reach him, all the awkward phone conversations when others were listening in, and he had been forced to speak in code. Now, when she needed him most, she did not know if she could count on him.

Maybe I never could.

“Who is this friend?” Rat persisted.

“Her name is Jane Rizzoli.”