Maura blinked as wind swirled snow into her eyes. She looked up as flakes began to fall, as fine as dust. The snow landed on her face like cold needlepricks. The dog emerged from the hovel and waded across to lick Maura’s bare hand. His tongue left slick trails that cooled and chilled her skin. He seemed to be asking to be petted, and she laid her hand on his thick fur.
“If you want to freeze to death out here,” the boy said, “I can’t stop you. But I’m going in.” He looked at the dog. “Come on, Bear.”
The dog went stock-still. Maura felt the fur on the back of his neck suddenly bristle as every muscle in his body seemed to tense. Turning toward the trees, Bear gave a low growl that sent a chill whispering up Maura’s back.
“Bear?” the boy said.
“What is it?” she asked. “Why’s he doing that?”
“I don’t know.”
They both stared into the night, trying to see what had alarmed the animal. They heard the wind, the rustle of the trees, but nothing else.
The boy began to strap on a pair of snowshoes. “Go inside,” he said. Then he and the dog walked off into the woods.
Maura hesitated only a few heartbeats. Much longer, and she would have been left too far behind to locate them in the dark. Heart thumping, she followed.
At first she could not see them, but she could hear the creak of the snowshoes and the thrashing of the dog through the underbrush. As she moved deeper into the woods, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she began to make out more details. The looming trunks of pines. And the two figures moving ahead, the boy striding purposefully, the dog leaping to clear deep snow. Through the trees ahead, she saw something else: a faint glow that was gauzy orange through the falling snowflakes.
She smelled smoke.
Her legs were wobbly from the effort to keep up, but she kept struggling ahead, afraid to be left behind, wandering and lost. The boy and dog seemed tireless and they kept moving, covering what seemed like endless ground as she fell farther behind. But she would not lose them now, because she saw where they were headed. They were all being drawn to that ever-brightening glow.
When at last she caught up, the boy was standing very still, his back turned to her, his gaze focused down on the valley.
Far below them, the village of Kingdom Come was ablaze in flames.
“Oh my God,” whispered Maura. “What happened?”
“They came back. I knew they would.”
She stared down at the twin rows of flames, as orderly and regular as military campfires. This was no accident, she thought. Those flames did not spread from rooftop to rooftop. Someone had deliberately set the houses on fire.
The boy moved to the edge of the cliff, so close to the drop-off that for a panicked moment she thought he was about to leap off. He stared down, hypnotized by the destruction of Kingdom Come. The seductive power of fire trapped her gaze as well. She imagined the flames licking at the walls of the house where she had sheltered, turning all to ash. Snowflakes fell, melting on her cheeks to mingle with her tears. Tears for Doug and Arlo, for Elaine and Grace. Only now, as she watched the fires burn, did she truly believe they were dead.
“Why kill them?” she whispered. “Grace was only thirteen—just a girl. Why?”
“They do whatever he wants.”
“Whatever who wants?”
“Jeremiah. The Prophet.” On the boy’s lips, the name sounded more like a curse than a name.
“The man in the painting,” she said.
“And he shall gather the righteous. And lead them all to hell.” He shoved the fur-trimmed hood off his head, and she could see his profile in the gloom, his jaw squared in anger.
“Whose houses were those?” she asked. “Who lived in Kingdom Come?”
“My mother. My sister.” His voice broke and he lowered his head in mourning for a village that was now engulfed in flames. “The chosen ones.”
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.
“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?”
Rizzoli & Isles [08] Ice Cold Page 19
