PRAISE FOR BARBARA NICKLESS
“A stunner of a thriller. From the first page to the last, Blood on the Tracks weaves a spell that only a natural storyteller can master. And a guarantee: you’ll fall in love with one of the best characters to come along in modern thriller fiction, Sydney Rose Parnell.”
—Jeffery Deaver, #1 international bestselling author
“Beautifully written and heartbreakingly intense, this terrific and original debut is unforgettable. Please do not miss Blood on the Tracks. It fearlessly explores our darkest and most vulnerable places—and is devastatingly good. Barbara Nickless is a star.”
—Hank Phillippi Ryan, winner of Anthony, Agatha, and Mary Higgins Clark awards and author of Say No More
“Both evocative and self-assured, Barbara Nickless’s debut novel is an outstanding, hard-hitting story so gritty and real you feel it in your teeth. Do yourself a favor and give this bright talent a read.”
—John Hart, multiple Edgar Award winner and New York Times bestselling author of Redemption Road
“Fast-paced and intense, Blood on the Tracks is an absorbing thriller that is both beautifully written and absolutely unique in character and setting. Barbara Nickless has written a twisting, tortured novel that speaks with brutal honesty of the lingering traumas of war, including and especially those wounds we cannot see. I fell hard for Parnell and her four-legged partner and can’t wait to read more.”
—Vicki Pettersson, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of Swerve
“The aptly titled Blood on the Tracks offers a fresh and starkly original take on the mystery genre. Barbara Nickless has fashioned a beautifully drawn hero in take-charge, take-no-prisoners Sydney Parnell, former Marine and now a railway cop battling a deadly gang as she investigates their purported connection to a recent murder. Nickless proves a master of both form and function in establishing herself every bit the equal of Nevada Barr and Linda Fairstein. A major debut that is not to be missed.”
—Jon Land, USA Today bestselling author
“Blood on the Tracks is a bullet train of action. It’s one part mystery and two parts thriller with a compelling protagonist leading the charge toward a knockout finish. The internal demons of one Sydney Rose Parnell are as gripping as the external monster she’s chasing around Colorado. You will long remember this spectacular debut novel.”
—Mark Stevens, author of the award-winning Allison Coil Mystery series
“Nickless captures you from the first sentence. Her series features Sydney Rose Parnell, a young woman haunted by the ghosts of her past. In Blood on the Tracks, she doggedly pursues a killer, seeking truth even in the face of her own destruction. The true mark of a heroine. Skilled in evoking emotion from the reader, Nickless is a master of the craft, a writer to keep your eyes on.”
—Chris Goff, author of Dark Waters
“Barbara Nickless’s Blood on the Tracks is raw and authentic, plunging readers into the fascinating world of tough railroad cop Special Agent Sydney Rose Parnell and her Malinois sidekick, Clyde. Haunted by her military service in Iraq, Sydney Rose is brought in by the Denver Major Crimes unit to help solve a particularly brutal murder, leading her into a snake pit of hate and betrayal. Meticulously plotted and intelligently written, Blood on the Tracks is a superb debut novel.”
—M.L. Rowland, author of the Search and Rescue Mystery novels
“Blood on the Tracks is a must-read debut. A suspenseful crime thriller with propulsive action, masterful writing, and a tough-as-nails cop, Sydney Rose Parnell. Readers will want more.”
—Robert K. Tanenbaum, New York Times bestselling author of the Butch Karp-Marlene Ciampi legal thrillers
“Blood on the Tracks is a superb story that rises above the genre of mystery . . . It is a first-class read.”
—Denver Post
“Nickless’s writing admirably captures the fallout from a war where even survivors are trapped, forever reliving their trauma.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Part mystery, part antiwar story, Nickless’s engrossing first novel, a series launch, introduces Sydney Rose Parnell . . . Nickless skillfully explores the dehumanizing effects resulting from the unspeakable cruelties of wartime as well as the part played by the loyalty soldiers owe to family and each other under stressful circumstances.”
—Publishers Weekly
“An interesting tale . . . The fast pace will leave you finished in no time. Nickless seamlessly ties everything together with a shocking ending.”
—RT Book Reviews
“If you enjoy suspense and thrillers then you will [want] Blood on the Tracks for your library. Full of the suspense that holds you on the edge of your seat, it’s also replete with acts of bravery, moments of hope, and a host of feelings that keep the story’s intensity level high. This would be a great work for a book club or reading group with a great deal of information that would create robust dialogue and debate.”
—Blogcritics
“In Blood on the Tracks, Barbara Nickless delivers a thriller with the force of a speeding locomotive and the subtlety of a surgeon’s knife. Sydney and Clyde are both great characters with flaws and virtues to see them through a plot thick with menace. One for contemporary thriller lovers everywhere.”
—Authorlink
ALSO BY BARBARA NICKLESS
Blood on the Tracks
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 by Barbara Nickless
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503943384
ISBN-10: 1503943380
Cover design by Cyanotype Book Architects
To Nelle Anderson Stafford, who gave me her love of words.
CONTENTS
WHAT CAME HOME WITH HIM
DAY ONE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
DAY TWO
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
DAY THREE
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
TWO WEEKS LATER
CHAPTER 32
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
WHAT CAME HOME WITH HIM
Her husband brought home little from the war.
His rucksack, worn to a pale softness by desert winds. Two Silver Stars. A Bronze for valor. A promotion. A set of white creases etched around his eyes from squinting into an unforgiving sun. He came home with a slight drag in his right foot that on bad days required a c
ane.
But he came home.
And that, along with his newfound joy in his wife and children, made Samantha Davenport feel like the luckiest woman alive.
But there was a darker side to what Ben Davenport brought home from the war.
Nightmares. A tendency to startle. A fixed determination to drive more slowly than traffic or road conditions warranted. The occasional flare of temper followed by a long evening drinking whiskey and then a silence sharp as a suicide’s knife.
Now and again he had such a faraway look in his eyes that she didn’t know how to reach him.
At those times, Samantha wondered if her husband had really come home at all.
Ben Davenport’s youngest child didn’t care about any of this. Daddy was Daddy, and eight-year-old Lucy loved him with her entire being.
That Friday, at five minutes till seven, Lucy went into the kitchen where her mother stood browning meat at the stove. In the Davenport household, family dinner was nonnegotiable. No matter how crazy things were. No matter how much Lucy’s brothers grumbled about having to eat late or eat early or eat fast—whatever the night’s schedule required. No matter how tired their dad was or if the dog had been sick or if one of the kids had a project due for school. Their mom traveled a lot, but when she was in town, they ate together.
Precisely as the big hand on the clock ticked onto the twelve, the garage door rattled open outside and an engine rumbled as a car pulled in.
“Daddy’s home!” Lucy cried and went to crouch behind a chair at the dining table. It was part of the game.
A minute later, her father came through the kitchen door on a wave of heat, carrying with him the smell of sun-crisped grass and baked asphalt. He tossed his briefcase on a chair, set his sunglasses on the counter, and grinned at his wife.
He was a big man—six feet three and wide across his chest. His hair was military short, his face kind but serious—even, Lucy had noticed, at birthday parties and barbecues.
“Like an oven out there,” he said.
Her mother leaned away from the stove to kiss him. “They’re saying more rain tonight.”
“Thank God.”
His fingers brushed her shoulder before he turned away to rummage through the refrigerator. He emerged with a green bottle, popped off the top, and took a long drink.
“How was work today?” Lucy’s mother asked. She asked the same question every night. Sometimes Lucy heard something in her mother’s voice. Something sharp but hidden, like a needle lying forgotten in the carpet.
“Let’s see. We got in an order of office supplies. The Internet went down for two hours. Emily brought kimchi for lunch. You ever smell that shi—stuff? Makes your eyes water. All the usual excitement.”
She set down the spoon. “Dull as a butter knife, is what you mean.”
Her father took a long drink. “It’s fine, Sam.”
“Fighting is part of you. I know you miss it.”
Those words, Lucy somehow knew, were the needle sliding in.
Her father put down his beer and touched her mother’s cheek. “Not half as much as I missed you guys while I was over there. I’m good, Sam.”
Samantha Davenport turned her face into her husband’s palm, and he pulled her close. They stayed like that for a moment, their skin flush in the evening light. They made Lucy think of the statue in France, the one they’d seen last summer at the museum. The Kiss. As if nothing existed but the two of them. As if that was the way it should be.
Then her father stepped back. Smiled. “And your day, my beloved?”
Her mother picked up the spoon again. She was tall, with long, dark hair and brown eyes a magazine writer had called soulful. She was a famous photographer who took pictures of mothers and children. Her photos of Lucy and her brothers hung all over the house.
“Cranky babies,” her mother said. “Fretting mothers. I did get up to the factory, took more shots for next month’s gallery opening.”
“And no weird guy lurking in the background?”
Her eyebrows came together in that way that made Lucy think of bird’s wings. “Nothing. Jack didn’t see anything, either. Maybe I’m just paranoid.”
Her dad nodded, but not like he agreed with her. Lucy thought her mom’s assistant was mostly okay, but she was pretty sure her dad didn’t like him at all. “You packed and ready to go?”
“Pretty much. Four a.m. is going to come too early.” She gathered her hair in a fist and lifted it off her neck. “I’m going to miss you, Ben Davenport.”
He took her hands in his, freeing her hair, and pressed his nose into the long strands. “Where are the boys?”
“Upstairs, doing their homework.”
“Then it’s just us.” He put his arm around her.
“Daddy!” Lucy cried.
Her father winked at her mother. “Did you hear a mouse?”
“Daddy!”
“There it is again. That little field mouse. I thought we shooed it away.”
“I didn’t hear anything,” her mother said, smiling.
“Dad-dy!” This time Lucy stomped her foot.
Her dad lowered his gaze until his eyes met Lucy’s.
He winked.
Lucy lifted her chin and held up her book. “It’s time, Daddy.”
Her mother folded her arms, but not in an angry-mom way. “You two have twenty minutes until dinner.”
In the library—it was really the family room, but Lucy and her father called it the library—Lucy grabbed Bobo and waited until her dad had turned on the lamp and seated himself in his favorite chair. Then she clamored into his lap and curled against his chest, her stuffed monkey tucked into her own lap. Her father carried the heat of the day, like a stray bit of sun in the air-conditioned house. He smelled of the office—papers and stale air but also cigarette smoke and a whiff of grease. The grease said he’d been in the yard with the trains that day.
“You had peanut butter for lunch,” she said.
“Satay,” he answered as he opened the book. “Chicken with peanut sauce. Much better than kimchi. Now where were we?”
His chest rumbled beneath her ear as he read. The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Her favorite. Not least because her mother had named her after the little girl in the book, Lucy Pevensie. Lucy, who was brave and honest and good.
Outside, through the western windows, clouds gathered. July was the time for thunderstorms in Colorado, her mother had told her. “It might storm while I’m in New York,” she’d said. “But don’t be afraid. It’s just God rearranging the clouds.”
Lucy watched the sky darken while her father read aloud about the white witch. She could see their reflection floating in the glass. The window was a magic world; it held both the inside of the house where she and her father sat and the outside where the trees had begun to lash. Far away, a train whistle blew. Her father loved the trains. That’s where he worked now that he wasn’t a soldier anymore, writing a book about the railroads. But the sound of the whistle always opened up something in Lucy that was far away and sad.
A silver thread of lightning shot down from the sky. Lucy shivered.
Her dad paused in his reading. “The train?”
“No,” she said, wanting to be brave. “And not the lightning, neither.”
She sat on the shiver, squeezed it until it went away. Then she lifted her head and pointed toward the window. “Could we go there?”
Her father followed her gaze. “Outside? Sure, after dinner. We can go for a walk once the storm has passed.”
She shook her head. “No. Look. See us in the window?”
Her dad sat up, shifting her on his lap, and squinted toward the glass. “I do, Lucy.”
“And you see the trees, too?”
“I do,” he answered gravely. He always took her ideas seriously. But she could feel his smile.
“It’s a magic place,” she said. “An in-between place. Like the wardrobe.”
“What would we do there in the wind
ow, Lucy Goose?”
At the use of her nickname, she looked into his face. Her father hadn’t called her Lucy Goose since she started kindergarten. Now she was a big third grader.
“We’d find things,” she said. “Special things. Like Lucy did in Narnia.”
“I’d like that, Lucy Goose.”
She looked back down, hugged Bobo. “Does Mommy have to go?”
“Only for a few days.” He tilted her chin up. “What’s bothering you?”
But Lucy shook her head. She was always seeing things. That’s what her teachers said. “I’m not afraid.”
A shadow cut the light from the kitchen.
“The spaghetti is ready, you two,” her mother said. “Come and eat.” She went to the bottom of the stairs and called up for the boys to come to dinner.
Her dad eased her off his lap, set her on her feet. “Shall we dine together, milady?”
She took the arm he offered. “Of course, milord.”
Dinner was the usual rambunctious affair. Noisy in the bright kitchen as rain slapped the windows, her brothers talking over each other in their eagerness to tell their parents everything that had happened that day in their summer science camp. They were big kids, twins who would be starting middle school next year.
Brian was halfway through a story about making balloon rockets with straws and string when his flailing hand caught the pitcher and sent it flying.
Juice went everywhere. Her mother stood to grab rags while her dad and Brian knelt and began gathering the broken shards. Her parents didn’t get mad about stuff like this. They just took care of it. Lucy had been to friends’ houses, seen how different it was.
In the midst of all this, the doorbell rang.
“One of you kids get that,” her mother said.
But now the boys were arguing over who had knocked over the pitcher. Lucy stood and walked out of the kitchen toward the hall. As she rounded the corner, the light from the kitchen fell away and the front door emerged from the darkness. Through the window next to the door, evening light fell soft. The storm was gone, and a single star shone in the sky.
Far away, another train blew its whistle. Lucy paused in the hall, one hand pressed flat against the cool texture of the wall, one foot lifted as if afraid to touch down.
Dead Stop Page 1
