by Unknown

KYLIE BRANT
Previously in The Mindhunters Series:
Waking Nightmare
Waking Evil
Waking the Dead
Deadly Intent
Deadly Dreams
Deadly Sins
Secrets of the Dead
Copyright 2015 Kylie Brant
All rights reserved.
Edited by Mary Theresa Hussey
Cover art by Middle Child Marketing, LLC
ISBN:
978-0-9906607-1-2
For my readers, with thanks
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Sometimes I can get lost in the research for a book, and this time around that’s exactly what happened. Once again many generous souls stepped forward to help fill the voids in my knowledge. A huge round of thanks is owed to Christine Buckley, who arranged for the oncology answer; my favorite (retired) coroner, Chris Herndon, who is never too busy to answer dead body questions; Floyd County Supervisor Mark Kuhn for replying to my county government queries; Dusty Rolando, for descriptions of the Upper Peninsula, and Joe Collins, who knows more about weapons than I can fathom.
DNA questions were ably handled by Blaine Kern, Chief Forensic Consultant / Laboratory Director, Human Identification Technologies. When I listen to him I realize I should have paid more attention in science class!
Doug Boyle, trapper extraordinaire, answered all fur harvesting and trapping questions, of which there were many. Doug had but one request—that he not be made the villain :) You’ll have to judge for yourselves whether I honored that request.
A big thank you to Sheriff Robert Hughes, Alger County, MI for taking the time to answer my endless questions about the job and procedures, with a few hypothetical murder questions thrown in along the way. Much appreciation for continuing to answer follow up emails entitled ‘just one more thing…’
I can’t thank you all enough. As usual, any errors are the author’s alone and undoubtedly due to not asking the right questions.
Chapter 1
The frigid air slashed like razors in her throat, turned to flame in her lungs. Keira Saxon focused on the repetitive muscle activity. Kick. Stride. Glide. Kick. Stride. Glide. She’d hit the zone thirty minutes ago. When she’d stopped thinking about the twinge in her knee. The knot between her shoulder blades. Moved past thoughts of the havoc a jailer’s long-term absence was having on scheduling. Her skis cut through the gauze of winter white, and for an all too brief period exertion wiped her mind as blank as the fresh snowfall. No worries. No memories. No grief.
The ribbon of smoke was a smudgy thread against the stone gray sky well before her dad’s house came into view. She still thought of it as his, even nine months after his death. He’d built it for his new bride nearly forty years earlier. It had taken only three years for his wife to tire of it, and of him. It had been another four before she’d left, with their only child in tow. And yet when Keira thought of home, it was this cabin, with its circle of towering pines that she longed for.
Slowing, she took both poles into one hand so she could push the goggles to her forehead. Her tracks from where she’d left the porch nearly an hour ago had been obliterated by a set larger and wider. Snowmobile. The tread mark from the machine ran close to the front steps of the home. And the size twelve boot prints leading up and back from the front door were definitely not hers.
The nearest of her neighbors was four miles away, and none of them were the type to show up unannounced. She didn’t even notice the item on the porch until she was directly in front of the steps.
A small red and white cooler. The same color and type that her dad had used to pack a lunch in on the rare occasions he had enough free time to go fishing or hunting. A twin to the one he’d taken with him on the day he died.
Nerves jittered in her belly. Carefully she stepped over the track from the vehicle and leaned her poles against the balustrade before unstrapping her snowshoes and toeing out of them. Climbing the steps, she skirted the new footprints to squat before the cooler. Recognition slammed into her when she saw the familiar black writing on the handle, done in bold strokes with a marker: D. Saxon. Danny Saxon. Sheriff of Alger County, Michigan for thirty-two years before his death. Deputy for ten years before that.
She took the handle in one gloved hand while she pressed the button to open it with the other. Vapor quickly formed as the cold air met the pink item inside. Keira reared back. She’d been present at enough autopsies to know it was an internal organ of some type, although badly damaged. What she didn’t have the expertise to determine was whether the organ was human or animal. Her gaze rested again on the name printed on the cooler before she surged to her feet.
Running down the front steps, she made her way to the garage. Alger County had gotten six fresh inches of snowfall last night, which slowed her progress. It took her two tries to punch in the code to open the garage door. Distantly Keira realized her hands were shaking. She fired up the snowmobile inside that got as much use as the pickup in the Michigan winters and took off, following the vehicle tracks that looped around the front of her property and through the perimeter of pines, to the denser woods beyond.
There were three hundred miles of snowmobile trails in Alger County, thousands in the Upper Peninsula, but she wasn’t on one now, and Keira’s speed reflected that reality rather than the urgency that was pulsing through her veins. There could be any number of obstacles hidden beneath the drifts, so she followed in the other vehicle’s path to avoid them. As the trees crowded in around her, she reduced speed even more. That didn’t prevent her from brushing too near a drooping pine branch weighted with several inches of fresh snow. When it dumped down her back, Keira grimaced and gave a shake. Despite the layers she wore, a trickle of ice snaked down her spine.
The five acres of the property overlooked Lake Superior shoreline to the northwest and bordered the Hiawatha National Forest on the south. She’d never tried to ride the sled on the densely wooded land, but she’d hiked it often enough. There were paths crisscrossing the property that she knew as well as the back of her hand. With a flicker of unease, she recognized that whoever had left that cooler on her porch seemed to know her property equally well.
When the path she was following zigzagged to a groomed snowmobile trail, she realized she was in the forest. The trail was maintained seven times a week, and although it hadn’t been plowed today, the base was significant, even for February. Given its proximity to the Great Lakes, northern Michigan received about two hundred inches of snowfall yearly. Winter tourism was big business here.
But it hadn’t been a tourist who’d left that item outside her door.
After ten more minutes of following the curves and turns of the track, she slowed the vehicle before cutting the engine. The early morning scene was eerily still. A cardinal’s trill split the silence. An older model black and gray Polaris sat motionless in the center of the path thirty feet in front of her. Woods hugged either side of the trail. Boot prints led from the sled into the dense firs to the right.
Keira’s nape prickled. Had the vehicle run out of gas, causing its owner to take off on foot? Or was its driver hiding in the woods, waiting for her?
That sort of paranoia had served her well on the streets of Chicago. However, Michigan’s Upper Peninsula was differentiated from the city in more than mere miles. The bulk of crime here was theft, drugs and assaults, in that order. Leaving a cooler with dubious contents on her porch didn’t even rank on that list.
Except for the fact that it had belonged to a dead man.
Keira pulled off her gloves as she dism
ounted, leaving them on the seat. Pulling the key out of the ignition, she unzipped her pocket, slipping it inside as she approached the other sled. Circling the vehicle, she lifted the hood, reached her hand toward the engine. Still warm. It could have been here for ten minutes or so, but not more than that. She unzipped the pocket of her coat, pulled out her cell, and checked for reception. The signal flickered between one and two bars. Not exactly promising, but better than she’d get once she was further in the woods. She took a couple pictures, noting the lack of license plate on the sled. She sent the photos to Phil Milestone, her undersheriff, and then followed up the act with a phone call.
“Yeah, Phil, you at home?” She scanned the tree line to her right. Silvery birch trunks glittered intermittently among the denuded trees and pines. The prints disappeared between a cluster of fat firs.
“You’d better hope I’m at home since I’m standing here bare-assed naked.” Milestone’s voice was more than a little cranky. “Just got out of the shower. What do you want?”
She smiled. She’d known the older man since she was nine and he’d been something of an honorary uncle. None of the others on her staff would dare be nearly as familiar with her, even the ones she’d known for years. They were still feeling out their new sheriff. Trying to get a handle on how similar—or different—she was to Danny. Keira wasn’t yet sure herself.
“I sent you a couple of pictures. Have Hank compare it to any reports we’ve gotten on stolen sleds, would you?” She stopped, squinting at a distant flash of color through the trees. Unable to make out the source, her attention reverted to her undersheriff as she gave him a brief run-down of the events of the morning.
There was a moment of silence. Then, “Could see someone stumbling across the cooler and returning it. Wasn’t at the scene where the…where Danny was found. You sure it’s his?”
“Hard to mistake that scrawl.” Trying to make out anything in that knot of foliage was futile. She couldn’t see more than five feet into the thickly wooded border. The vegetation would lessen somewhat once she was a hundred yards inside it. And the snow would make her quarry easy enough to track.
“Wrote like a third grader.”
A puff of vapor formed as the quick laugh of agreement escaped her. “That he did. And someone being neighborly might fill it with baked goods before returning it. Maybe turkey or venison. Pretty sure whatever’s in it isn’t edible.”
“You trailing ’em?” The older man was wide-awake now, his earlier grousing tone alert. Businesslike.
“Got as far as mile marker 36 on the Hiawatha trail behind my place before he abandoned the sled.”
“Might be a she.”
“Don’t know too many shes around here with size twelves, but it’s possible, I guess. Tracks lead into the forest. I’m going to take a look.”
“Watch yourself.”
She disconnected, slipped the cell back into her pocket and unzipped her coat enough to reach inside it. Withdrawing her weapon from her shoulder harness, she scrambled off the trail and looped around the cluster of pines the tracks had disappeared into. If the sled’s driver were waiting in the cover of those trees, she wasn’t about to walk up on him.
The forest interior was more shadowy than the trail had been. Given the look of the sky, the sun wouldn’t be making an appearance anytime soon. Even so, the footprints were easy to pick up leaving the pines near the trail. Weapon in hand, she followed them for another ten minutes until they disappeared into another row of firs.
She halted, squinting to discern any movement in the trees. This copse wasn’t as dense as some of the others. By angling just a few yards to the left, she was able to make out a trail of prints leading out of the trees before her. Without a second thought, she walked into the pines. And moments later realized her mistake. As she drew closer, she could see that the prints were deeper. Not as distinct. Someone had walked out of the group of trees. And then turned and retraced his steps.
Instinct had her whirling. There was a blur of movement to her right. The whiz of a long object cutting through the air. Throwing herself sideways, she squeezed off a shot before something made contact with her head and everything went black.
_______
The cardinal’s song was the first thing she heard when her eyelids began to flutter. The sound was difficult to pick out from the cacophony in her brain. With a supreme burst of effort, she managed to open her eyes. Sitting up proved much more difficult. Once she attained an upright position, Keira cursed, long and fluently.
Memory returned sluggishly. She turned her head sharply to look around, the movement amping up the din in her brain. But there was no one in sight. A stout stick rested in the snow several feet away. The top of it was bloodstained, presumably from its contact with her head. Her gun was inches away from her freezing fingers. Keira got to her knees, hissing in a breath when her vision grayed. After it had cleared, she reached for the weapon, brushed it off made sure the barrel was clear before replacing it in the holster. She paused a moment to take stock, then prodded gingerly at the area above her right temple. Her fingers came back bloody. No shock there. She didn’t need a tactile investigation of the second large lump on the back of her head. Both injuries sang a duet of pain that reverberated in her skull. It took more effort than it should have to rise to her knees, then, unsteadily to her feet.
She swayed a moment as she scanned the area. There was a muddled mess of footprints only inches from where the battle had taken place. None pointed away from the area, so she figured her assailant had headed back toward the sleds. As she began following them, her gaze sharpened. Tiny cast off drops of scarlet could be seen here and there next to the footprints. Blood. A grim sense of satisfaction filled her. Not enough to collect for later testing, but at least her attacker hadn’t gotten away unhurt.
The satisfaction dissipated somewhat when she arrived at the trail. Her gloves were lying on the path, but both machines were gone. The bastard had taken her sled.
_______
“You look like shit.” Dr. Tony King, Munising Clinic’s newest general practitioner, drew on gloves and reached into the cooler Keira had brought. Since he was doing her a favor, she resisted the urge to punch him. Knowing his words were true didn’t lessen their sting. She’d spent the walk back to her place calling and alternately wheedling and bullying him into making time for her ahead of his patients. Alger County didn’t have its own coroner or morgue. But King had done a rotation in pathology for the medical examiner in Lansing, an experience he constantly talked about. She figured he might know just enough to answer her questions.
“And people wonder why you haven’t married.” Her tone was caustic. She and the man didn’t have the best of relationships. Perhaps because he’d gotten word that she’d dubbed him King Prick shortly after he came to town. “A sweet line like that, women should be flocking.”
“I know, right? The position remains open for qualified candidates.” He laid the pink tissue on a counter he’d covered with sterile paper in one of his exam rooms. Fetching a magnifying glass, he added, “In case you’re hinting that you’d like to audition for the job. You can start tonight.”
It was probably her imagination that the man’s presence notched the pounding in her head to jackhammer levels. The three Tylenol she’d swallowed earlier hadn’t made an appreciable dent in her headache. Not for the first time she found herself missing Doc Ressler, the former owner of the practice and one of her father’s oldest friends. The man had retired six months earlier, and King had replaced him. Keira met the man only once before requesting that her medical files be transferred to a women’s clinic in Marquette.
“I need you to identify the organ—it is an organ, right? And tell me if it’s human or not.”
“Yeah, you said when you called, along with your usual pleasantries.” Since he was closely inspecting the contents from the cooler she didn’t respond. No use antagonizing him even further before he gave her some answers. “Where the hell
did you get it? Looks like a twelve-year-old tried a resection with a pen knife.”
Her cell vibrated, and she moved to the hallway to answer it. “Hey, Pammy.” The younger woman constantly had Keira reconsidering whether to require uniforms for her dispatchers. The only thing that had prevented her so far was that they rarely met the public. Which was a good thing, since Pammy’s style was somewhat schizophrenic. Currently, she was going through a Goth phase, which was preferable compared to the punk look she’d sported last month. Keira had known her since she was a little kid. The woman was sharp, which earned her some latitude.
“Your sled has been found, in what has to be the world’s shortest investigation in history.”
“Where was it?”
“It was left a mile inside the forest entrance on County Road 62. Tow kit still attached. Hank found it when he went to join Phil. Radioed it in. You didn’t answer so I called. He said they’ll dust it for prints, but…”
Yeah, but. The guy was likely wearing gloves, because of the weather. Prints were a long shot. DNA wasn’t. “Tell them to check it for bloodstains.” There hadn’t been enough to collect for lab testing, but maybe her assailant had bled more freely on her sled while he was attaching the towlines. Hearing an exclamation from the examination room, her attention fractured. “Keep me posted.” Abruptly she disconnected and returned to find King staring at the sample she’d brought with horrified fascination.
“What?” She rounded the table to join him, peering more closely at what she was now certain was an organ of some sort. “Do you know what it is?”
“I had a cat once during residency.” When King sidled a bit closer, Keira shot out an elbow to keep him at a distance. “It used to bring me disgusting things. Dead mice. A snake once, even. This little gift of yours tops that big time.”
Useless to spend a futile moment longing for the days Doc Ressler had worked here. “Get to the point, King. Is it human?”
