Coming of Winter

by Tom Threadgill

  COMING OF WINTER BY TOM THREADGILL

  Published by Lamplighter Suspense

  an imprint of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas

  2333 Barton Oaks Dr., Raleigh, NC, 27614

  ISBN: 978-1-946016-55-3

  Copyright © 2018 by Tom Threadgill

  Cover design by Elaina Lee

  Interior design by Karthick Srinivasan

  Available in print from your local bookstore, online, or from the publisher at: ShopLPC.com

  For more information on this book and the author visit: www.tomthreadgill.com

  All rights reserved. Non-commercial interests may reproduce portions of this book without the express written permission of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas, provided the text does not exceed 500 words. When reproducing text from this book, include the following credit line: “Coming of Winter by Tom Threadgill published by Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas. Used by permission.”

  Commercial interests: No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by the United States of America copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trademarks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only.

  All scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com. “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™.

  Brought to you by the creative team at Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas:

  Eddie Jones, Darla Crass, Brian Cross, Judah Raine, and Stephen Mathisen

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Threadgill, Tom.

  Coming of Winter / Tom Threadgill 1st ed.

  Printed in the United States of America

  for Janet

  the smartest decision I ever made was to let you catch me

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing is work. I learned that quickly after I tried to pen a novel for my wife on our 30th anniversary. When I proudly showed her the first few pages of that book, the expression on her face told me all I needed to know. When your own wife struggles to find something nice to say about your writing, you know it’s time to get serious. Fast-forward several years, many writing conferences, tons of instructional books and gobs of edits, and you have the final product in your hands.

  Several people provided invaluable assistance along the way. Thank you to the good folks at Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas who held my hand through each step of the publication process.

  To my agent, Linda S. Glaz, I hope the headaches have been worth it. You listened to me whine, cry, and pout my way to this point. Your encouragement and commitment got us here. Thanks for keeping the faith!

  Finally, thanks to Janet, my wife, who never stopped believing, even after my early efforts. I didn’t make our 30th anniversary, but I did beat our 40th. Deadlines are meant to be flexible, right? I love you, babe. Always have. Always will.

  Oh, and I should wrap this up by telling you this novel has nothing to do with that first attempt at writing a book. Not even I would give my wife a novel about a serial killer for our 30th anniversary. I’m not that dense. Everybody knows serial killer books are for the 35th anniversary.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  A Gift for You

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  CHAPTER ONE

  The tub grinder’s twenty-four steel hammers each swung more than five hundred times per minute, converting the hay bale—and Catherine Mae Blackston—into cattle feed. Shreds of both spewed onto an already six-foot-high mound of steamy, soggy, and nutritious bovine dinner. Mason Miller used the front loader of his tractor to drop another bale into the rotating contraption. The racket dulled as the hammers bit into the thick mass of organic material, wet from the late January rain common in west Tennessee. At nearly nine feet high, the machine could spit out twenty or thirty tons of mulched product per hour. Overkill for what he needed, but they didn’t come much smaller. He waited until the device chewed the hay below the lip of the tub, then
hopped out onto the muddy ground.

  An oil-spotted canvas duffel bag lay beside the grinder, a freebie from the farm co-op. He dropped to one knee and removed a work glove. The frosty ground soaked his jeans, but he was a farmer. Cold or hot, wet or dry, the work had to get done. He reached inside the bag, being careful not to peek, and let his fingers dance through the contents. After baking so long, most of the bones were on the verge of falling apart. Their collagen gone, the skeletal remains were as brittle as those sand dollars the boys found in Panama City last summer. He grabbed a couple of the bigger bones and held them up for a better look.

  A rib and the left femur. Or maybe the right. Much easier to identify them when Catherine was still alive—or at least in one piece. A shame to waste them, but he couldn’t exactly toss these to the dogs. Proper disposal might save complications later.

  He shook his head and sighed. Stupid. In the beginning, he’d taken what he needed and left the rest of the body where it lay. What was he thinking? Why leave anything for someone to find? This way worked better. It was like the signs in the parks said. Take nothing but photos and leave nothing but footprints. Except of course, he tried not to leave footprints and didn’t need any pictures. He kept everything he wanted close by and recycled the rest.

  One knee popped as he stood, eliciting a grunt followed by a chuckle. If the joint ever needed replacing, at least he knew where to find another one. He tossed the bones into the grinder and jumped back into his tractor.

  A gust of icy wind scattered chaff from the pile and blew a murky cloud toward him. He closed his eyes and leaned out the open door, letting the particles peck his face. The earthy scent of wet hay, mingled with the barest touch of Catherine, enveloped him. He tilted his head back and savored the weightlessness within himself.

  He loved it all. Rising early and working the soil, tending the livestock and the crops. It was an honest day’s work a man could be proud of.

  A peek at his watch told him it was almost noon. No need to quit working. The boys would be here soon enough with lunch, most likely racing to see who would get there first. Ten-year-old Lucas had five years and a foot-and-a-half on his younger brother, but he sometimes let Andy win. And even when he didn’t, he made sure to keep it close. Good boys. Both were quick learners too, always willing to help around the farm. He was truly blessed to have such a wonderful family.

  He glanced toward the house, hidden a few acres away behind a rise. The boys would be here in a couple of minutes, out of breath and begging to drive the tractor. He’d sit behind them and eat his meal while they took turns steering. Just like his father had done for him.

  Nurturing the bond between his family and his land was the best part of being a farmer. Things like teaching the boys to treat their mama and their heritage with respect. Not being afraid to get their hands dirty and work long, hard hours to achieve success. The simple joys of a clean life.

  Mason closed his hand around some bones and grinned. Lunchtime. Maybe Paula would send out leftovers from last night’s barbecue. He had a sudden hankering for ribs.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The plastic clock’s hollowness bored its tick-tick-tick directly into Jeremy Winter’s brain. The Bureau’s shrink said he had anger management issues. That his temper could flare without warning. No kidding. With not much to do except listen to the seconds tick by, anyone’s blood would start boiling. He chucked a pen at the clock, leaving a tiny blue ink spot and divot on the freshly painted white wall. The writing instrument landed on the carpet next to two other pens and a pad of yellow sticky notes.

  Anger management issues. When did everything become an “issue” instead of a problem? Didn’t matter anyway, as long as he got clearance to work. “Employee bears watching,” the psychiatrist had noted. Well, watch away.

  Twenty-three years as a Special Agent with the FBI and this is how they reward him. Moved from D.C. to St. Louis, his coworkers and girlfriend Maggie left behind. Reassigned from tracking serial killers to working white-collar crime. Dropped in a sterile office with a new desk, a fake plant, and not enough pens. And no explanations. What the Bureau wants, the Bureau gets.

  And they wondered about his anger issues. Forty-seven’s too old to try to understand the moronic decisions made by government lifers who’d made a career out of making sure the right form was used at the right time and ... whatever. He sighed and flexed his shoulders to relieve the tension. It didn’t make sense.

  He’d been fresh off a successful capture on the West Coast. The Boxcar Butcher (as the media named him) rode trains across the country, hopping off whenever he felt like it to rob and kill in remote areas. Lived in the victims’ homes until he grew bored, then jumped back on the rails. He’d murdered a dozen they knew of, and likely more of his victims were waiting to be found.

  So sure, why let Jeremy finish his job? Why not ship him halfway across the country and reassign him to a desk? A perfectly logical decision by a bunch of idiotic—

  Deep breath.

  He took a sip of his lukewarm coffee and slapped the creamy white mug down hard enough to slosh a few drops on the desk and floor. Good. Stain it up. He guzzled the remaining java and dropped the cup into the bottom drawer. No way the cleaning crew was going to wash that thing again. A quick rinse every week or two was all the mug needed. More than that and the ceramic would never get a chance to soak up the flavor.

  The phone on his desk beeped, interrupting his thoughts and bringing him back to the present. Phones should ring, not beep. Too early for Maggie’s call, and she’d phone on his cell anyway. Doubtless another real estate agent with a “Welcome to St. Louis. Can I show you around?” call. No clue how they’d got his name and number, but if the Bureau had a Realtor’s resources, most of their cold cases could be solved overnight. He pressed his lips together and glanced upward before snatching the phone.

  “Agent Winter,” he said, eschewing the “Special” prefix. Nothing special about sitting behind this desk.

  “Hey, G-man. How are ya?”

  G-man. No one had called him that since Afghanistan a dozen years ago. The voice sounded familiar, kind of gravelly with a nasal whine. He closed his eyes and kneaded his forehead, trying to recall a name, or at least a face. Nothing came. “I’m good,” he said. “I’m sorry. Who am I speaking with?”

  A snicker came through the phone. “You don’t remember me? I’m hurt.”

  Jeremy blew a blast of air out his nostrils and squeezed the phone. “Who is this?”

  “Okay, okay. This is Randy. Randy Clarke. Been a long time.”

  Randy Clarke? Why was he calling? They’d never been friends, barely even acquaintances. Two guys in another world. What happened there stays there. Isn’t that what the commercial says? Except it doesn’t stay there. The FBI psychiatrist’s report—which Jeremy wasn’t supposed to have seen but, hey, that’s why it was good to have friends everywhere—said most of his anger stemmed from his time overseas. Brilliant. And the shrink undoubtedly made ten times what he did. “Yeah, it’s been a few years. How are you, Randy?”

  The man cleared his throat. “Um, that’s why I looked you up. I could use your help.”

  Jeremy leaned back, closed his eyes, and waited for his heart rate to slow. “What kind of help?”

  “The kind that involves the police. I need to find someone.”

  If he wanted law enforcement included, at least it’s legit. Probably. You never knew. “What’s going on, Randy?”

  “It’s my ex-wife. Ex number three to be precise. I can’t find her. She hasn’t been answering her phone, so I called some of her neighbors and they said they haven’t seen her for a while. Her car’s gone too.”

  Jeremy scratched the back of his neck. “That doesn’t mean anything. Maybe she went on vacation or something.”

  “It’s been over a month, and the last two alimony checks haven’t cleared. Last time I was a couple of days late she called the cops on me. Wanted to send me to jail over eighty-three dollars.
”

  Jeremy dragged the side of his shoe across the battleship-gray carpet. Guess they couldn’t find a gloomier color. Likely, a trillion-dollar government study said it would hide stains while improving morale. Wrong and wrong. “That what this is about? Alimony?”

  “No, well, kinda. I mean, if she doesn’t want the money and isn’t gonna call the cops on me, then sure, I’d like to quit making payments. But I’m telling you, something’s wrong.”

  He rubbed his palm across his forehead. “Listen, if you’re that concerned, talk to the local police and let them look into it. If there’s anything suspicious, I’ll do some digging.”

  “I did talk to them and they told me there was nothing they could do. They checked out her house and said everything looked okay. Talked to a few people at her job too but didn’t find out anything. They said that maybe she wanted a change. Maybe she did, but she didn’t say anything to me.”

  “Sure, sure. Did they put her vehicle in the system in case anything turns up?”

  “Yeah, but they’re not looking. Said if they find her, they’ll let me know. In other words, go away. How long do I have to wait before I can stop sending the checks?”

  Jeremy rummaged through a drawer to find something to write on. Never any notepads or pens when you needed them. “That’s a question for your divorce attorney.”

  “Yeah, but he charges me if I call him.”

  I can understand why. “Tell you what. I’ll make a phone call and see what I can find out. Honestly, this kind of stuff happens all the time. People decide they want to get away for a while. Maybe start over. You’d be surprised how many folks simply walk away from everything they own for whatever reason.”

  “Thanks, G-man. I really appreciate it. And you’ll let me know what you find out?”

  “Sure thing. Give me a day or two. Now, who are we looking for?”

  “I suppose you’ll want her full name, huh? Everybody calls her Kate, but her given name is Catherine Mae Blackston. Catherine with a C and M-A-E. She lives in Huntingburg, Indiana. That’s little ways from Jasper, if you know where that is.” He gave her address and social security number.