The Dead of Winter (A Piper Blackwell Mystery Book 1)

by Jean Rabe

  “Iraq, in the Alpha Company Brigade, part of an MP Battalion. I had a lot of ‘downrange’ assignments. It was dangerous as all-crap, IED exposure, household searches, Taliban threats. Shot during one household search. Same night I pulled out a miracle, saved my commanding officer and four other soldiers by routing an ambush and killing a group of insurgents.”

  “On your own?”

  “Yeah,” she admitted, the memory and the Purple Heart crystal clear in her mind. “Yeah, on my own. I was scouting. Hell yeah. I made sergeant in two and a half years, got some medals. My commanding officer called me a ‘hot runner,’ said I’d go far.” She paused and traced the outside of Conrad’s card. “I was up for another promotion and had a choice of assignments.”

  “But you found out about your dad.”

  She nodded.

  “Good that you came back for him,” Randy said.

  “These cards aren’t going anywhere. They’ll be here in the morning. Go home, Randy, get some sleep.”

  “Okay, Boss.”

  Eleven

  The sheriff was a little spit of a thing, not much more than five feet tall, and not particularly pretty, he’d thought the first time he spotted her. Thought the same thing when he’d seen her in the quick stop in Fulda a little while ago. She’d looked right at him when he was buying gas, sent goose bumps down his back. She’d looked at him a mite too long for comfort when she was sitting there eating that drippy oriental food.

  He didn’t like her looking at him.

  Did she know something?

  Had he left something behind inside the house? His gloves? He’d misplaced a pair of gloves recently. Had he left them there? No, he couldn’t have. He’d been so very careful.

  This new blood in the sheriff’s department was a bad thing. Someone so young, fresh out of the military, she’d have lots of energy, might dig in and really try to solve the murders, like she had something to prove. Women were always trying to prove something, weren’t they? Oh, not that the Jew deputy wouldn’t be trying, but he was old and was probably more interested in retirement plans. He wouldn’t try as hard as the woman. That new blood? That was bad bad bad news. Thinking about her had sent more goose bumps.

  He’d paid cash for his gas, pulled out of the station that the slant-eyed guy shouldn’t have bought, and then he waited in a nearby driveway to see where the little sheriff was going. Years back, you used to be able to order corndogs and pretzels at that quick stop, good old American fare. Tasty food you could eat on the road while you were driving, one hand on the wheel, the other holding your lunch. Not that garbage you had to sit at a table to eat because of the rice and noodles and drippy sauces. Couldn’t eat that in your ride without making a mess.

  He’d had to wait longer than expected, but eventually she came out, scraped off her car, and pulled away. She hadn’t noticed him following; he’d stayed pretty far back, watched her park in the Delaney driveway and go right into the house like she owned the place. What was she looking for? Hadn’t they been through the house enough, all those deputies? Hadn’t they been to all the neighbors’ houses, too? He’d driven up and down the county road, wasting his gas, sometimes stopping in the driveways, backing in so he could watch the Delaney place. The little sheriff had spent more than an hour in there this time.

  Must have found something.

  Maybe knows something.

  New blood is bad blood. Bad to the Bone, George Thorogood; Bad Love, Eric Clapton; Bad Company by the band with the same name; Bad Reputation, Joan Jett—he really liked that one; Born Under a Bad Sign, Cream; Bad Moon Rising, Creedence Clearwater Revival—his favorite but way too old, really. He kept up the song-name game in his head for a while.

  “Fuckin’ Bad Blood, Taylor Swift,” he said. The sheriff was younger than Taylor Swift. “Dead blood.”

  She’d finally come out, so he followed her again; she headed out of town, not that there was much to the town. Fulda was a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it bulge along the road. That gave him the notion—make her a spot along the road. Kill the little sheriff, and kill whatever ideas and determination were filling up her little brain, destroy whatever pointed the finger at him. Make it look like an accident. After the first two, killing had come easy. This weather…it’d help.

  It was snowing fiercely.

  Wasn’t supposed to snow this hard in Southern Indiana, was it? He’d remembered winters with only traces of snow, it all so thin you could see dead grass poking through. But the snow was working to his advantage, and so he didn’t complain much. It covered the metal on his truck, disguising it, iced things up, and he didn’t turn on his headlights; lights would have made it all seem less creepy. He liked the notion that he was being creepy, like some perverted dude in a thriller movie. All he had to do was focus on her glowing red taillights, shining all pretty through the snow like Rudolf’s nose…noses. The image of two reindeers sprung into his head and he tamped down the Christmas song that threatened to come out. No Christmas songs after Christmas.

  She was easy to follow with her pretty little Rudolf noses glowing through the snow. He’d kept a good distance back until she was well past the last house in Fulda, was in an area of fields and barns and snowdrifts, it all looking as dark as night.

  He’d made a game of it at first, bumping her car, easing back, watching that Taurus shimmy clumsily like one of those overweight dancers at the nudie bar he frequented. He’d wondered if he’d scared her…hoped he’d scared her. He’d wished he could have seen her eyes; then he’d know if she was really frightened. But another one of those blink-and-you’ll-miss-it-towns was coming up, and he hadn’t wanted her to get that far. So he’d rammed her car hard and watched the trunk pop. Rammed her again and saw the shimmy, spun her ‘round and came at her again, pushed her a little bit back toward Fulda. His stomach had rumbled then and made him think about dinner. He’d grab a couple of burgers somewhere, no ketchup or mustard. He liked them plain.

  Another nudge and he nearly had her off the road.

  That’s it, he’d decided. Played too long. Finish her and get some dinner. Maybe she’d radioed for help, not that any was going to come in time to save her.

  Pressed the gas pedal again and banged into her car so hard that he shot off the road, too. But he was able to muscle the wheel just in time and keep the truck from going all the way down into the ditch. Saw her flip over and over and land out in the field, headlights all crooked. At least the siren had quit. He’d pulled back onto the road and thought about parking on the side, walking down there to make sure the little sheriff was dead, finishing her if she wasn’t.

  But it was cold and snowing like hell, and there was someplace else he’d needed to be, and she might have radioed for help, and help might be coming despite the shit weather. Couldn’t risk getting caught.

  She was dead, he’d been sure of it, a little thing like that would be crushed, flipping over and over.

  Dead dead dead. I Love the Dead, Alice Cooper; Living Dead Girl, Rob Zombie; Dead Flowers, the Stones; Dead Souls, Nine Inch Nails—that was a favorite.

  But if she wasn’t…just in case she wasn’t, he’d get her later. Wouldn’t be all that hard to figure out where she lived. Public records and all.

  So he’d kept going. All this snow…had to take advantage of it. People would be staying off the road, holed up all nice and cozy in their houses, wouldn’t notice him.

  He’d turned back around at a wide spot in the road and headed to the next blink-and-you’ll-miss-it-town. Had somebody there he needed to visit.

  Somebody who’d sent him a Christmas card.

  Twelve

  New Boston, or Huff as some of the locals called it, boasted two churches, a gas station that did not sell food other than peanuts and Twinkies, and a tavern that he stopped at, ordered two plain burgers to go, and downed an Uncle Jacob’s Stout.

  He ate the burgers in his truck while he let the engine run, keeping the defroster going so the snow wouldn’t cover the wi
ndshield…not wanting to get out and scrape again. It didn’t take him long; he was hungry and the burgers were tasty and had just the right amount of grease.

  The county road stretched down the middle of the bittyburg, and no one else was on it tonight. Some people still had their Christmas lights on, dimmed because of the snow, looking oh-so-pretty. He scouted for the last house on the right; it had lights on too, those icicle ones dripping down from the eaves, more lights twisting up a few of the trees. Magical like maybe Harry Potter lived there. Three snowmen in the front yard, a big one flanked by two small ones, hats and scarves on them, sticks for arms with mittens on the ends—he could see them easily because the front porch light was on, could tell they were real snowmen, not like the inflatable one in old woman Thornbridge’s neighborhood. Sammy’d gone all out decorating this go-round.

  He pulled in the driveway, all the way up to the garage at the back of the property, and went to the kitchen door. He knew it’d be open. Sammy never locked his doors. Who would in this itty bittyburg?

  “Saw you pull up!” Sammy was at the kitchen table, a stack of seed catalogs in front of him, one opened and a few items circled on a page. “Is your truck messed up? You get in an accident?” Radio was playing, an oldies station that sounded sweet.

  He loved music, but it was easy to get a song stuck in his head, started thinking about Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer again. Christmas is over, get a different tune, he thought. Sam, Olivia Newton John; Sam You Made the Pants Too Long, Barbra Streisand.

  “How ya’ doing, Sammy? Sam-I-am?”

  “I’m doing.”

  Sammy was short, about five and a half feet tall. He had curly black hair like an Italian ought to have, though Sammy was Polish. His wide, long nose didn’t seem to fit the egg-shaped face, and he had attracted only a few girlfriends when they were in school together—probably because of his less-than-average looks and him being so godawful short. But Sammy’d had one girl that’d stuck around for a while, married her. She’d been good at hemming his pants ’cause otherwise they’d be like the Barbra Streisand song.

  He’d went to Sammy’s wedding, bought the happy couple a blender. But the wife didn’t stick around for many years, probably took the blender with her.

  “I was passing by, Sammy Sammy Sammy, saw your lights on so I thought I’d stop.”

  Sammy pushed the seed catalog away. “What the hell are you doin’ out in this weather, man? You nuts? You could get yourself killed.”

  “Not likely.” He pulled out a chair and sat. The chair made a wincing sound; Sammy had junk furniture, needed some new stuff.

  “You’re getting snow all over my floor.” Sammy paused. “Want a beer?”

  He nodded, glancing through the open doorway off the kitchen and into the living room. Sammy had his little Christmas tree still up, but the lights weren’t on, probably only plugged them in when he was in the room and could enjoy it. A train set circled the skirt, but it wasn’t on either.

  “You decorated,” he said, nodding in the direction of the living room.

  “I did indeed. A lot ’cause I had the twins. It was my turn to have them for the holidays. Six years old, the age when they’re still playing with toys. Bought ’em dolls and shit like that, no clothes. They wanted toys. Spent too much money, but it was awesome. Made some snowmen in the yard to match the Christmas cards I sent out. You probably saw them out front, the snowmen. I took pictures.”

  “The kids sleeping?”

  Sammy shook his head. “Gone. But they left some stuff, some sweaters, and they forgot a couple of toys. I could’ve said something before they bopped out the front door, but I figured it’d give ’em a reason to come back, for the sweaters.”

  “Too bad. I would have liked to say ‘hello,’ at least to little Samantha. Your ex? Did she stay with you, too? For the holidays?”

  “Oh, hell no. She came and got ’em yesterday, ’cause I only had ’em a week. Her shop was closed yesterday, so it was easy for her. Took ’em back to Louisville.” Louisville came out ‘Loo-a-vool,’ like a native would say it. “Good thing, ’cause she wouldn’t be caught dead driving in this shit today, and I couldn’t keep the kids any longer anyway. And I sure as hell wouldn’t have wanted her to spend the night. Gotta be back to work tomorrow.”

  “Still on the three-to-eleven at the power plant?”

  “Sure. Where else am I gonna work? Don’t have enough acres just to farm. You know that.” Sammy looked under the table and scowled. “Melted all over my floor, the snow. Couldn’t’ve stomped it off, could you?”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’d cleaned the place up ’cause of the kids and ’cause I didn’t want Nicky to think I was some bum. The last few months we were together, she called me a bum all the time. All over my floor, that slop.”

  “Sorry ’bout that, I said.” But he wasn’t sorry. And it didn’t matter anyway; Sammy wouldn’t have to clean it up. He’d clean it all up nice and tidy himself before leaving. He had to admit the place smelled good, like cinnamon and cranberries, air fresheners or candles. Sammy was a real domestic. “Where’s that beer you mentioned? I could sure do with one.”

  “Oh, yeah. Okay. Only got one kind. Where you working?” Sammy got up and went to the fridge, tugged it open with one hand and reached in with the other, pulled out two cans, and shut the door with a hip check. “Budweiser. Good stuff. Good stuff for a good friend.” Sammy popped the top on his and started drinking, setting the other one on the table, and with his now-free hand folded the seed catalog and added it to the stack. “Soybeans this year. Can’t do corn every year, messes with the ground. So I’m gonna do soybeans. They’re easy. Gonna order me some peach trees, too, little ones, but I’ll put in a line of ’em and some will take. Figure I’ll let the twins help me plant them. They’d like that, dontcha think? Aren’t you gonna take your gloves off? It’s not cold in here.”

  “You still got that old spaniel?”

  Sammy shook his head. “Died over the summer. Cancer. I’m gonna get me another dog, though, come spring. Probably go to the shelter this time, rescue a mutt. Try something different than a purebred. Jake…remember Jake? He helped me fix the roof on my barn last summer and put in some kitchen cabinets. He works with some beagle rescue group hooked to the shelter, said he’d fix me up with one already housebroke. They get in beagle mixes mostly. But I told him I had to wait for the spring, and I might want a little bigger dog this time.”

  No you won’t be getting a bigger dog, he thought. Too bad about the spaniel, especially dying to cancer. Dogs shouldn’t die to cancer. But at least he wouldn’t have to worry about setting out extra food and water for it…in case Sammy went undiscovered for a while.

  “It’s not cold in here, really. Got the thermostat set at sixty-eight. Dad had put in a new furnace the year before he hightailed it to Florida. It heats all nice and even. So take your gloves off and stay a while. I got some DVDs for Christmas. We could watch one.”

  He grunted and fumbled with the can tab, almost impossible to open with gloves on, but he managed, tipped his head back and let half of the Bud slide down his throat in one swallow. Not as good as the Uncle Jacob’s he’d ordered at the bar, but it was cold and hit the spot and gave him the hint of a buzz. The burgers had made him thirsty. He’d sprinkled too much salt on them, probably had upped his blood pressure some points.

  “Didn’t get a Christmas card from you this year,” Sammy said. “Wondered if maybe you’d moved.”

  “Or died?”

  Sammy laughed. “You and me are too young for bucket kicking.”

  “That’s half true.” He finished the beer, got up and went behind Sammy, moving fast and reaching around his neck, squeezing hard. Sammy was strong, working at the power plant and in the field, not as easy a mark as the others, and put up a fight. Sammy tried to rise.

  He threw all his weight into keeping his friend in the chair, pressing his fingers in deeper, clenching his teeth as Sammy kicked out, stri
king the table leg and sending the seed catalogs flying. More stuff he’d have to tidy up.

  Sammy flailed back with his elbows, landing a blow, then his arms flapping, grabbing and punching, but not accomplishing much, probably not believing an old buddy would do this. Sammy tried to talk, but only beer spittle came out, coupled with a heaving sound that reminded him of a generator trying to fire up. Shit, he’d have to clean up the spittle, too. He strangled people because it was cleaner, no blood spray to contend with. This wasn’t going to be too tidy.

  “Just quit,” he told Sammy. “I’m making this quick, don’t want to hurt you, understand.” Just kill you. “And it’s your own fault, really. It’s your fault you’re getting a Christmas mug.”

  Sammy’s struggles were feeble now, followed by a spasmodic jerking like had happened with old woman Thornbridge. Sammy hadn’t been a third her age, and it had taken longer to kill him, maybe because he had a thick neck or because his lungs were younger.

  He wondered if that young sheriff’s body had been found. Running her off the road, her car flipping over and over, had put him in the mood to ice Sammy. If he hadn’t been all jacked up over the sheriff, Sammy’d still be breathing.

  And if it hadn’t been snowing so hard.

  Now it was going to take a good bit of work to set Sammy up just right, to match the Christmas card. Good thing this was the perfect night for it, the snow still coming down, people staying indoors. No house directly across from this one. Hell, if he hadn’t gotten all riled about the sheriff, and if it hadn’t been snowing like this, if the winter hadn’t been so…significant…Sammy would have lived through it.

  But this snow…perfect.

  And the snowmen…aces. Just the right number.

  It was like fate was saying, “Do Sammy in tonight, this year. Do it! Don’t wait until next Christmas rolls around.”

  Leaving Sammy slumped over the table, he took off his heavy shoes and set them at the back door, padding through the house, listening to the gentle wheezing of the floorboards—old house. Investigating, turning on lights here and there, glancing sadly in the spare bedroom with bunk beds and stuffed animals, and keeping his gloves on, he was having a good time.