A Wicked Snow

by Gregg Olsen

The first two agents boarded the plane and went to the woman, who was bent over reading the in-flight magazine. A Baileys Irish Cream sat on the console next to her. Bauer came up close behind them. He felt his gun in his waistband. Ready, should he need to draw it.

  Just as he prepared to tell the woman she was under arrest, she looked up and smiled.

  It wasn’t her. Bauer knew that in an instant when his eyes met the woman’s puzzled gaze. The wheels were in motion, and there was nothing he could do about it. Headed for her daughter’s in Tacoma, Washington, a retired teacher from Homer, Alaska, received the shock of her life as two other agents rushed back behind her.

  “Oh, my God,” she called out in complete horror, knocking over her Baileys. “One of them has a gun!”

  A couple of passengers screamed, and one of the flight attendants accidentally triggered an inflatable life preserver to fill with air. Bauer and the other two pulled the terrified woman from the plane as fast as they could, but in the end she wasn’t Claire Logan.

  Not even close.

  Epilogue

  The crew of the Katya, a rusty, oil-leaking Russian trawler, was preparing to drop gill nets five miles off the Alaskan coast when a deckhand spotted a twenty-four-foot fiberglass Bayliner bobbing on the surface of an unusually tranquil Pacific. It was the first week in September. From fifty yards out, it appeared the out-board motor was off and the small boat was adrift. It rose and fell like a yo-yo. Katya’s captain, a short man with a sunburned pate, cut his engine and ordered two of his crew to tie up to the Bayliner and check it out. The fishermen assumed the small white boat had been a dinghy for a larger pleasure craft.

  In the sputtering noise of a stopping engine, one of the men, a kid no more than seventeen, climbed into the boat and made a quick assessment that no one was aboard. In the corner, by the outboard, the boat’s canvas covering was slumped. A couple of inches of water floated paper cups and a pair of life preservers. The flotsam and jetsam were tragic testimony that whoever had been on that boat was probably dead. And given that the boat was in decent shape, it hadn’t been long since someone had been aboard. The next storm would smash the fiberglass to bits.

  He shouted to the others that no one was there. But as he turned around to return to the Katya, something made him go over to the canvas covering. He bent over and kicked the corner of the heavy, seawater-soaked fabric. A foot emerged, then a leg. He lifted it completely open.

  “Help!” he called out. “Someone’s here!”

  Under the sodden white canvas, he had discovered the nearly frozen figure of an elderly woman. She was crumpled into a ball and soaked to the skin. Her finger-tips were skim-milk blue. The kid bent down, his knee soaking up the seawater and felt for a pulse. Slight, but steady.

  On September 27, the Redhook Telegram, the daily paper for the “Outer Inland Empire” of British Columbia, ran a story about the Russian vessel’s remarkable discovery and rescue. Facts were scarce because the ship had been in disputed waters. The less said the better.

  MIRACLE AT SEA: Trawler Rescues Elderly Woman

  A 71-year-old grandmother was plucked from certain death when the crew of the Katya rescued her ten miles from Point Newton. Suffering from hypothermia, the woman, who asked that her name be withheld pending notification of her daughter, was treated on the trawler and admitted to Redhook Clinic for observation.

  She was released Monday, before search and rescue investigations could be completed. Her whereabouts are unknown.

  Special Agent Bauer drank his coffee as he read the small news article in his Portland office. Another field agent, who considered himself the ultimate newsreader, had clipped and faxed it to him. After reading it, Bauer crumpled it into a small ball and shot-putted it into the trash can by the door. It was possible that the woman described in it wasn’t her. It was hundreds of miles from Kodiak, and survival would have been highly unlikely. Claire Logan, Louise Wallace, whoever she was, was gone, and gone was good enough. Let her go, he told himself. Let her go.

  When she returned from Alaska, Hannah went straight to the basement lab in the Santa Louisa courthouse. From the bottom of her purse, she retrieved the broken piece of a china cup that she had picked up from the gazebo floor when she had argued with the cold-eyed woman she had once believed was her biological mother. Had once believed. The cup, creamy white and with a single green shamrock intact, had been wrapped in the discarded plastic covering from one of the motel drinking glasses. Hannah knew the technique left plenty to be desired, but this wasn’t a court case. It was personal. She wiped the inside of her own cheek with a cotton-tipped swab. She put the cup shard and the cotton swab in separate envelopes and took them to a lab across town that specialized in paternity tests.

  “Hi, Hannah,” said the counter girl, Carla, from behind a glass cage that ensured integrity for all samples, “Lab at County backed up again?”

  Hannah shook her head and smiled. “No,” she said, “this is personal.”

  The girl looked interested, but had been well trained. No questions were ever asked of any clients.

  “Okay. Call with results?”

  “Sooner the better.”

  “I’ll rush this for you.

  The next day the phone rang in the lab. It was Carla.

  “Hi, Hannah. Prelim and confirmation just came in. I don’t know if this is good news or not,” she said. “Both samples good. These two people definitely are related.”

  Hannah caught her breath. “Mother, daughter?” She could hear the sound of shuffling papers as Carla flipped back pages and read.

  “Nope. If you’re looking for a familial tie, markers say aunt/niece or cousins.”

  Hannah didn’t need to hear any more. “Destroy the samples, please, and thanks.”

  “No prob. Will do.”

  Hannah stared out the narrow window of her office door. It was quiet in the lab. She felt empty, and a little alone. Wheaton was right. She was nothing like her mother. Nothing at all. And probably because of that, she decided not to say anything to Ethan or Bauer or anyone. If she wasn’t her mother’s daughter, then she wasn’t going to be a sister to Erik and Danny anymore. There was, she thought, something wrong about leaving those boys alone—a second time.

  The night after she got the lab results, Hannah and Ethan Griffin made love. She held Ethan as tightly as she could and asked him to hold her with all of his strength. She had looked into the eyes of the woman she thought had given her life and she had seen nothing. No recognition whatsoever. No connection ran from one woman to the other. Nothing. But she was home, in the arms of the man she loved, while their daughter slept in the room next to theirs. Her life was her own. While Ethan held her, Hannah let go, too. Even if the rest of the world couldn’t, it no longer mattered. She let go of that night so long ago.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My thanks to fabulous agent Susan Raihofer of the David Black Literary Agency for saying, “You can do it”; to Kensington Publishing’s editor extraordinaire, Michaela Hamilton (“You did it”); and to my wife, Claudia, and our daughters, Morgan and Marta. Thanks for all the sage advice, savvy comments, and kindly nagging. My gratitude also to Kathrine Beck, Tina Marie Brewer, Susan Higgins, Julie O’Donnell, and Phyllis Hatfield, for their much-appreciated support along the way.

  Don’t miss Gregg Olsen’s next mesmerizing

  thriller…

  A COLD, DARK PLACE

  Coming from Pinnacle in Spring 2008!

  Chapter One

  Emily Kenyon was thrashed and she looked it. She pulled herself from her gold Honda Accord, picked up her purse, and walked toward the front door. She turned her tired gaze toward the end of Kestrel Avenue. The neighborhood of vintage homes was safe. Not one fish-scale shingle from the three-story painted lady across the street had been harmed. Not so much as a splinter. Emily could even hear kids playing a couple of doors down. Everything was as it had been. The only hint that the world had turned over was the slight scent of acrid smoke that w
afted through the air. It was faint—but enough of a reminder that across town, homes and cars had burned.

  It had been two days since the tornado pounced on a section of Briar Falls Estates two miles away. It came nearly without warning and left a jagged swath of destruction that stole the hard work of homeowners and gardeners in ten minutes’ time. Roofs had been peeled off, play sets and bicycles hurled into trees. There was no making sense of whose house had been spared and whose hadn’t. Destruction reigned on the west side of Hawes Avenue, while the east side was pristine. Across the street from a home that had been nearly ripped in two, a birdbath stood without a drop spilled.

  None had died. It was true that an elderly lady who had holed up in her bathroom had been hospitalized in bad shape. Emily expected that the woman, in her eighties, would survive despite her trauma. The lady was a fighter.

  Emily stepped into the foyer. As she set down her purse on an antique walnut console table, its contents shifted. Her detective’s badge holder slipped out; along with a pink lipstick she wished she’d used up and could toss. But she was thrifty, and though it didn’t really work with her dark brown hair and eyes, she’d wear it until it was gone. She scooted the badge and lipstick tube back inside the pouch and called out for her daughter.

  “Jenna? I’m home.”

  The scent of cinnamon toast and the emptied glass of milk on the counter indicated her daughter was somewhere in the house. Emily didn’t wait for a response.

  “I’m going to take a shower. Then let’s go out and get something to eat.”

  “Okay, Mom,” a voice finally came from down the hall. “I’m on the phone. I’ll talk to you when you’re out. I’m hungry. Take a fast shower!”

  Emily smiled. Jenna was seventeen, but still very much her little girl. It was just the two of them now. David had left for Seattle and had become a somewhat shadowy figure since the divorce was final. There had been a few dates with new men—even a fairly serious affair with a local lawyer. But Cary McConnell was too possessive and controlling, and Emily had had enough of that with her first—and only—marriage. He still called, but she avoided him whenever she could. That wasn’t easy. Cherrystone, Washington, was a town of less than 15,000. She was in the courthouse two or three times a week, and so was he.

  Emily snake-hipped out of her black skirt and unbuttoned her blouse and let it fall to the floor. She was slender, blessed with long legs and a figure that looked more twenty than forty, which she was approaching on her next birthday. She clipped her dark tresses in a ponytail and twisted the shower knob with the red H all the way to the left. The C she moved a quarter turn. The old pipes clanked and steam swirled. Emily liked hot water.

  “Pietro’s?” she called out before stepping inside the white and black tiled interior. “I’m thinking pizza.”

  Of course, she really wasn’t. She was thinking of the tornado and its aftermath. It had come in the darkness of Saturday evening, almost unexpected as twisters were rare in Washington State. Only a handful of damaging storms had been recorded there; the worst had been one that killed eleven near Walla Walla in 1952. The twister that came to Cherrystone on Saturday had howled in the darkness and snatched up all in its wake. Houses and cars were shredded as if in a giant steel-toothed blender. Almost two dozen homes were destroyed or seriously damaged. A few, sucked in the air like Dorothy Gale’s Kansas house, had risen above the pines and landed, not in Oz, but in a neighbor’s pasture. A dairy near the junction of Wayne Road and U.S. 91 had been pulverized to such a degree that it would take a magnifying glass to determine what color the barn paint had been on the splinters of siding, which had been flicked like balsa. The Winston Granary was flattened which meant already scarce jobs had instantly become even scarcer. Five trucks that had been carefully parked in a row after shift had been tossed to utter ruin. Power lines had been snapped like frayed jute. A semi had been lifted more than a hundred yards and slammed into a hillside.

  Emily tilted her head backward, a funnel of water pouring from the chrome fixture. Hot water, beyond a temperature most could endure, flowed over her naked body, sending the stress of the tornado, the worries of a long day, down the drain. Stepping from the shower, Emily wrapped a thick cotton towel around her torso. She bent over, wrapped a second one around her head, then flipped her hair back. She called once more to Jenna.

  “You never answered, honey. Is Pietro’s all right?” Again, silence.

  Steam swirled in the bathroom and she flipped on the fan. A moment later, she slipped on a terry robe and padded down the hall to Jenna’s bedroom—a space that had been hers when she was a girl. A rectangle of yellowed glue on the door revealed the spot were she’d once put up a NO BOYS ALLOWED sign to keep her little brother, Kevin, at bay. With each step, a memory. Through a knife-slit of light in the doorway, she could see Jenna typing out a message on her girly-girl pink Macintosh computer. Jenna was a petite girl, a little small for her age. Her stature didn’t diminish her, though; indeed, it only made her stand out. Long hair like her mother’s framed her delicate heart-shaped face. Her eyes were blue, the cool color of the Pacific. She tapped on the keyboard with frosted pink fingernails, chipped and ready for another mother/daughter manicure session in front of the TV with one of the Law and Orders on.

  Emily pushed open the door, startling Jenna, who looked up with a frozen smile.

  “Oh, mom, I didn’t hear you.” She closed the chat window and swung around to face her mother.

  “Are you up to no good?” Emily asked, allowing a smile to come to her lips, but deep down, the very idea of her daughter chatting with anyone was more than she could take. She’d seen the way perverts worked the keyboards of personal computers and stalked their prey, unsuspecting children in houses all across America.

  “Just talking with Shali,” she said. “And yes, we were up to no good. There’s a nice guy who wants to meet us at the Spokane Valley Mall next weekend. He says he looks like Justin Timberlake and Jude Law. Combined.”

  Emily sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing out the sateen spread.

  “He does, does he?” Emily said. She knew when her daughter was pulling her leg and she started to play along. “Maybe I could meet him, too?”

  Jenna shook her head. “Sorry, mom, but you’re too old for him. Shali and I are probably too old for him. He seemed to lose interest when we said we were old enough to drive.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Sick, I know.”

  “You know how I worry.”

  “And you know that you don’t have to worry about me. I know the drill. I don’t make mistakes. My mom is a cop, you know.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Emily shook out her hair. “I’m not going to dry this mess. Let’s get out of here and eat. I’m beat.”

  Jenna grinned. “Okay. Jude Timberlake can wait.”

  With that, Emily returned to her bedroom, and put on a pair of faded blue jeans and a cream-colored boat- neck sweater. She looked in the mirror and gave herself a once over.

  “Not bad for almost 4-0,” she said, loud enough for Jenna to hear, which, of course, she did. “Maybe this Jude Law look-alike of Jenna’s would be interested in an old chick like me.”

  Jenna appeared in the doorway and put her hands on her hips.

  “You’re disgusting,” she said, a smile widening on her pretty face. “Shali and I had him first.”

  Twenty minutes later they were sitting in a maroon and black vinyl booth at Pietro’s, the only place in Cherrystone that made pizza that didn’t taste like it came from the frozen food section of the Food Giant. Emily was grateful that her daughter had outgrown the “cheese-only” topping option for something a little more adventurous—pepperoni and black olives. Emily ordered a beer and Jenna nursed a soda.

  “You know, you don’t need to order diet cola, honey.”

  Jenna swirled the crushed ice with a pair of reed-thin plastic straws. “You mean I’m not fat? Yeah, I know. But I’m hedging my bets. I’ve seen t
he future. Look at Grandma Anna.”

  “Jenna! That’s not nice.” Emily tried to act indignant, but Grandma Anna was her ex-husband’s mother, and it was true that she had thick thighs. “Besides, your body shape is more from my side of the family.”

  Jenna drew on her straws and nodded. “Thank God.”

  The pair sat and ate their pizza, but the mood shifted when the conversation turned to the storm. “We are lucky. All of us. The tornado ravaged those homes on Hawes, but no one was killed.” Emily swallowed the last of her beer, regarding the foamy residue coating the rim of the schooner. “I don’t use the word lightly, you know, but it was a bit of a miracle, really.”

  “I know. Shali and I were talking about that,” Jenna said. “Now you know that Jude Law Timberlake is not real. Nice fantasy, though.”

  Emily managed a faint smile. “I’ll say.”

  Emily Kenyon was a homicide detective, not an emergency responder, but Ferry County was so small that when the storm hit she immediately reported to work to do what she could. She had to do something. Anything. She’d grown up in Cherrystone and it was her town. Always would be. The house on Kestrel Avenue was her childhood home. Her parents, who had died in a car accident, had left the family home to Emily and her brother. Since only one could live there, Emily bought out Kevin with savings and took a small mortgage. The house, with its bay windows and high-pitched roofline, was the reason she returned to Cherrystone. Not the only reason. Her divorce from David, a surgeon with a quick wit and an even faster fuse, was the other. The divorce made him mad. Emily made him mad. The world was against him. Cherrystone was about as far away as she could go. Leaving a detective’s position in Seattle wasn’t easy, but the move was never in doubt. It had been the right thing.