by Anne Frasier
A person.
Lying in the snow, half-wrapped in plastic, facedown. The white hair . . . Not many people had hair that color.
He dropped and rolled Jude to her back, pressing two fingers to her neck to check for a pulse.
Alive.
Blood, stark against her ashen face, her lips blue. She was wearing her black down coat, escaped feathers stuck to blood on the outer shell. Where she was injured, he had no idea.
He panned the light down her body. The plastic that had caught his attention turned out to be a shower curtain with butterflies on it, attached to her waist with silver duct tape.
She groaned and said, “Snow’s warm.”
People often claimed to feel warm shortly before freezing to death. “It’s not, believe me.” He couldn’t worry about her injuries now. Grabbing her hands, he tugged her upright. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.” She released a sharp cry of pain as he looped her arm around his neck.
Adrenaline and dehydration were driving concentrated toxins through his veins; he felt a rush of weakness and another wave of nausea. The sound of the plastic was deafening and disorienting so near his ear. But she was on her feet, leaning heavily against him. He ripped the curtain from her. Side by side, with his support, they staggered awkwardly into the beam of the car lights like a couple of aliens. Behind them, the freed shower curtain drifted away, then snagged in the cornstalks. It was evidence, but right now Uriah’s only concern was getting Jude out of the cold and to a hospital. She was doing surprisingly well, moving forward at an awkward if steady pace, which led him to hope her wounds were superficial.
“Who did this to you?”
“Nanette Perkins.” The words were faint and delivered on an exhale. “Not sure why.”
He had his suspicions, but he’d share them later.
“Do you smell smoke?” she asked.
They looked toward the house and flinched just as a window shattered and flames shot skyward. He didn’t know how she did it, adrenaline probably, but she broke away and ran toward the building. Uriah took off behind her. At the kitchen, she turned the knob and threw her shoulder against the door. “The boy’s in there.”
Using the end of his flashlight, Uriah broke a small pane of glass, reached in, and tripped the lock as Jude swung the door open and stumbled inside. Flames danced and crawled across the ceiling, the heat alone lethal. Just as Uriah realized they had to run, the ceiling crashed and a wall of fire roared at them like something alive, the sound deafening.
Instead of turning around, Jude moved deeper.
Uriah lunged after her, grabbed her by the arm.
She might have shouted no as she wrenched away. He dropped his flashlight, looped one arm around her waist, and physically lifted her off the floor. She flailed, trying to get free. Under normal circumstances, she might have been able to kick his ass, but he’d taken her by surprise, and she was injured.
Coughing, both of them close to being overcome by the flames and lack of oxygen, he turned and ran. She was tall but fairly light. Through the doorway, yards from the building, unable to carry her farther, he let her feet touch the ground, bracing himself for the second she turned, which she did, intent on going back inside.
He tripped her.
She kicked him.
He grabbed her foot and dragged her away from the house, past the dilapidated fence and into the snow-deep driveway. The heat from the house was unreal, like standing inside a blast furnace. Paint on the fence bubbled. He pulled her upright again while recognizing the acceptance and defeat in her face. But he wasn’t going to let her go. With a firm grip on her arm, they ran. Two yards, then ten, moving not as fast as he would have liked because of Jude’s injuries. Behind them the house exploded, the concussion throwing them to the ground, knocking his breath away.
Smaller explosions continued, flames shooting several stories into the air, illuminating the area. Fiery pieces of the building fell from the sky. Smaller pieces sizzled as they hit the wet ground. Around them, snow rapidly melted, looking like time-lapse photography, until they were surrounded by water. Black smoke rolled and billowed, filling the air with a toxic odor of noxious fumes. The house cracked and popped, walls collapsing and crashing to the ground.
CHAPTER 55
They’d failed him.
It would be too easy to blame Child Protection Services, but Jude hadn’t put up a fight. She’d let the boy walk out her apartment door when she knew it was the wrong thing to do. Why hadn’t she grabbed him, told them no? She should have done that. She should have stuck up for him; she should have fought harder.
Beside her, lying on his stomach, Uriah pulled out his phone and called 911, reporting the explosion. He told the operator who he was. “I need an ambulance stat.”
That must not have gone well, because he barked, “I know the road is closed. Use snowplows and get people out here now.”
She wasn’t aware of his movement, but suddenly he was standing over her, his hand extended. She took it and he helped her up. Right now, she felt no pain from the stab wounds. Everything seemed like a dream. She turned and looked at the addition, where the kennel had been. A raging inferno.
No, the pain she felt was a different kind of pain, something deep, beginning in her chest and moving to lodge in her throat, the surroundings and this moment to be forever embedded in her brain. The heat, the smell, the sparks from the house swirling into the dark sky, mixing with falling snow. Even under the groan and pop of the building, she heard a sob and marveled that such anguish could come from her. Unexpected words followed, words that had no conscious thought behind them, yet managed to contain unarguable truth. “This world. This awful world.” It felt as if they were pressing a finger to a dike. Maybe it was time to run and let the dike break.
One sob was followed by another, all control gone. She felt Uriah’s hands on her shoulders, felt him wrap his arms around her and pull her close, his touch gentle, careful, maybe due to her wounds, or maybe because he knew she might not want such intimate human contact. But she leaned into him heavily and cried in a way she hadn’t cried since she was a kid and her mother had died, the kind of tears that came from a place nobody should ever visit, and certainly no place a person should have to remain.
It was impossible to know how long they stood there, because grief had no regard for time. The clock in her head and heart had stopped once she knew the boy was dead, even while she felt baffled by the depth of her reaction. At some point, she pulled away from Uriah, able to stand upright on her own as her frail acceptance of the boy’s death and the veil of numbness it brought kicked in. There were things that needed to be done. She had to think about what was next.
Where was Perkins?
Had she set the fire? It seemed obvious. Most likely to cover her tracks. She noted that Uriah’s car was still there, not far from the barn, headlights on. The snow around it had melted.
“Your car.” Her voice sounded strange, and she realized her ears were ringing from the explosion. Where was her clunker? Hadn’t she parked it in front of the house? Perkins must have taken it.
“I left the headlights on when I spotted you in the field.”
She took a few steps toward it, watching the falling debris floating from the house, pieces carried to the sky by the heat, then released to drift dreamily to the ground. She wondered how much damage this night would do to their lungs, not caring about herself but worrying about Uriah and his compromised immune system.
She spotted something between the house and car.
While Uriah spoke on the phone again, making demands, sounding intimidating, putting out a BOLO on Nanette Perkins, alerting the police within Minnesota and beyond, Jude forced herself to move forward, toward the object, her feet like lead until she stopped in front of it.
The stuffed panda she’d carried into the addition to give to the boy.
Without taking her eyes off the bear, she said, “Uriah.” He didn’t answer. She reached blindly
behind her, as if fumbling for support or grasping for him even though he was far away and still on the phone.
Dizzy, she bent and almost pitched forward, but managed to slam a foot down and catch herself. Like a drunk, she swooped up the stuffed animal. It was wet and muddy from the melting snow. Being upright didn’t help her light-headedness.
With an uneven gait, she walked toward Uriah’s car, almost directly into the headlights.
And then something strange happened.
Like a page out of a horror novel, the engine revved and the car shot forward. Jude staggered back, ice and snow from the rapidly moving car plastering her coat and pelting her face. She shouted Uriah’s name. His back was to her, phone to his ear, the sound of the burning house drowning out everything, including Jude’s warning cry, as the vehicle raced straight for him.
CHAPTER 56
Uriah leapt out of the way at the last moment, then ran after the vehicle as Jude replayed the episode in her mind. Yes, Nanette Perkins had been behind the wheel. She was sure of it. No sign of the boy, but the stuffed animal gave her hope that he was inside. After all, Perkins had claimed to love him.
The car roared toward the main road, away from the detectives and the burning house. When it seemed the woman was going to evade them, a pair of headlights appeared, coming down the lane from the other direction. Not the emergency vehicles they were expecting, but a white SUV. Police, Jude hoped as she moved as quickly as her injuries allowed.
The vehicle pulled to a stop, sliding sideways, effectively blocking the car’s escape. Uriah moved closer, gun drawn, one arm straight out, one bent. Between the converging headlights and the burning house, the scene was lit like a stage. Just when it seemed things couldn’t get any more perplexing or feel more off-script, Paul Savoy stepped from the SUV. He was dressed for the weather this time in a heavy jacket, gun braced, using his open door as a shield.
Definitely not golfing in California.
I might have to visit the Twin Cities again soon.
Maybe it was her injuries and exposure to the cold, but his presence made no sense. What had she missed? How did he know anything about Nan and this place? Had he been in touch with Uriah or someone at Homicide? That must have been it. He’d come to town, and he was here providing needed backup. Unorthodox behavior, but in this situation, not unwelcome. He’d stopped the car that might have the boy inside.
“Get out! Now!” When there was no response from the escape vehicle, Savoy shouted his command again. The driver’s door swung wide and Perkins stepped out, her back to Jude and Uriah, her body silhouetted by the headlights. Before either detective could make a move, Savoy took unexpected action and fired three shots. Perkins crumpled to the ground.
Had she drawn on Savoy?
Confused, Jude limped to the front of the car in time to see Uriah roll the woman to her back. A weapon fell to the snow. Jude’s gun. Perkins had been shot in the head three times. Undeniably dead, but Uriah checked for a pulse.
“You saw her. She drew on me.” Savoy tucked his weapon in his jacket, splaying his hands on his hips, breathing hard, his face red, adrenaline rushing through him.
Jude didn’t wait to hear his explanation of how he was even there. She swung around and opened the passenger door of Uriah’s car. And immediately spotted the boy curled on the floor.
Her heart stopped, then started again when she saw he was breathing. Fortunately, Perkins was lying too near the vehicle for the boy to see her. Jude hoped he’d been on the floorboard the whole time.
“Hey there.” She slid into the passenger seat, touching his shoulder. He moved enough to look up, then clambered out of his hiding spot. She ignored the pain and pulled him into her arms and held him tight. “You’re such a brave little guy.”
“I’m a boy.”
“Yes, you are.” She gave him the wet stuffed animal. He grabbed it with both hands as Uriah and Savoy stood in the headlights, talking over the body. Savoy glanced up, blinded as he looked into the car, his face illuminated.
The boy tensed. “Mean man,” he stated with no emotion.
Jude’s heart dropped. He must have witnessed the shooting after all.
“I don’t like when the mean man comes to our house.”
Her thoughts tripped. “Your house?”
“He hurts Nana. He’s a mean man.”
“You’ve seen him before tonight?”
He nodded.
“How many times?”
“Don’t know.”
“More than once?”
He nodded again and hugged the stuffed animal. “He hurts Nana and makes her cry.”
And there it was.
Jude wasn’t sure how Savoy and Perkins were connected, but now she understood why he’d flown all the way to Minnesota. Not for closure, but to insinuate himself and find out whether their investigation might expose him. The files he’d hand-delivered weren’t supposed to give them any pertinent information, but rather were intended to mislead and draw them away from focusing on links between the two dead boys.
“I want you to get on the floor like you were before,” Jude told the boy. “There you go. Just curl up with your bear and wait. Stay down until I come back.” He was exhausted, barely able to remain awake, so he didn’t argue. But then he always did what he was told.
She stepped out of the car and closed the door.
Uriah looked up, possibly to suggest she get back inside and wait for the ambulance. His words never came. He saw her face and knew something was wrong. She glanced at Savoy, then back to Uriah and gave him an almost imperceptible nod. Her partner’s eyebrows lifted, not enough to alert Savoy, but enough to transmit his limited understanding of the situation.
Savoy was the new enemy.
Jude walked closer until the three of them stood over the body. Weakness washed through her, and she had to lean against the fender. “There was no need to kill her.”
“She had a gun.”
“My gun, and I suspect she didn’t even draw it.” The weapon might have slipped from Perkins’s coat pocket. “My guess is she was coming to you for help. My guess is you killed her to keep her quiet. What’s going on, Savoy?”
“That’s ridiculous. You’re out of your mind.” To Uriah. “She’s out of her mind.”
“She’s probably more sane than both of us put together.”
Jude appreciated his support, but she highly doubted the validity of his words.
Another wave of dizziness hit her. She straightened and pulled in a painful breath, attempting to clear her head. The house behind them had settled into a steady roar, but suddenly another explosion rocked the car.
The boy screamed, and the blast wave pitched Jude forward. A second later, fingers yanked her hair, and Savoy jerked her against his chest, the barrel of his gun digging into her temple.
“Keep your distance!” Walking backward, Jude glued to him, Savoy shouted to Uriah. “It’s been over for a long time,” he said. “You need to understand that.”
“What’s been over?” Jude asked. The cots, the boys who were so similar . . . It had the hallmarks of human trafficking, but she wanted to hear him say it.
“I’ve done good things since then. You know that. You saw my record. I have a wife and kids. Grandkids.”
“Put your gun down,” Uriah said. “We’ll listen to what you have to say. And people will take into account that you aren’t the person you used to be.”
Jude felt Savoy tense and knew he’d made a decision. “Uriah!” She shouted the warning as Savoy turned his gun and began firing. Her partner dove to the ground. Hot shell casings, one after the other, bounced, hitting Jude in the face. The air filled with the scent of gunpowder. Her knees buckled, but Savoy jerked her back up, using her body to shield his.
She blinked but couldn’t see Uriah. Blackness crept into the edges of her vision, blocking out the flaming house. She wasn’t sure if the roar was external or internal. Now the gun barrel was pressed to the back of her head
, the metal warm from the expelled bullets. Uriah might be dead, and Savoy was going to kill her. What would happen to the boy? Savoy would kill him too and drive away. Nobody would know he’d been here tonight or had ever been involved.
And she was the only person standing between him and the child.
The passenger door to Uriah’s car creaked open and the boy stepped out. “Jude?”
The arm around her neck relaxed a fraction, just a shift of a biceps muscle. Surprise was the only thing she had going for her. She dropped straight down into a squat, then shot up, slamming her head against Savoy’s chin with the force of a battering ram, knocking him backward, the next shot from his gun exploding a foot from her ear. Barely taking a breath, she spun around, grabbed his arm, and slammed it against the top of the open SUV door. She felt a snap and heard his scream of pain as the weapon dropped from his hand.
And then Uriah was there, appearing unscathed, his wool coat covered in snow. He knocked Savoy facedown on the ground and pressed a foot to his spine. From the distance came the faint sound of sirens.
“About time,” Uriah mumbled.
Jude kicked Savoy’s gun across the ground, out of his reach. The dome light in the SUV was on, illuminating the interior. In particular, a shape in the far back. Jude circled, opened the lift door, and pulled a blanket free to reveal Gail Ford, three holes in her forehead, just like Nan. His plan had been to silence them all. He’d almost succeeded.
She returned to the boy, who was standing in the same spot. She guided him away from the scene. “Come on. Let’s get back in the car.”
They got inside, and the boy curled up on her lap. She put an arm around him, leaned her throbbing head against the seat, and closed her eyes.
