Heart of Ice

by Gregg Olsen

  “You could gut a live deer in ten secs,” the clerk said, pausing for a gruesome punch line, “and she wouldn’t even feel it. It works almost like a zipper pull.”

  Michael nodded approvingly. “Nice, but no whetstone.”

  What he didn’t say was that he didn’t need a whetstone because he had no need to use the knife a second time.

  “OK, $24.97, with tax. Guns and knives are paid for here, not up front.”

  He put down a twenty and a five.

  When the clerk attempted to hand over the three pennies, he shook his head and pointed to the share-a-penny dish on the counter.

  “Put ’em in there.”

  He looked at his watch. Everything was right on time. Jenna Kenyon’s online schedule had her back in Cherrystone already.

  He was going to finish a job that he’d failed once before.

  The trauma of the McConnell shooting had taken its toll on Jason Howard. He’d never fired his weapon at a person before. He’d been interviewed for hours by men and women from the state who’d never faced danger head-on. Hitting a suspect with a bullet to save his life did not guarantee absolution. One investigator suggested that if Emily’s deputy had killed the serial killing lawyer, there’d be less of an investigation. Less concern.

  “No one would be screaming about his rights, if he was dead,” Chris told Emily as he went out the door for a couple of coffees. He’d stayed over a couple of days just to “make sure” she’d be all right.

  “Back in fifteen minutes,” he said.

  Emily never wanted him to leave. She knew just how much she loved him. If he asked her again, she told herself that she’d say yes.

  Shali Patterson’s car was in the shop, so she walked from her house over to the Kenyons’. She’d had that old VW forever, and knew that it was about time that she’d have to quit fixing it, and buck up and buy a new one. For their shopping trip that day, Jenna would have to drive her reliable but boring Honda Civic.

  A man approached Shali in front of the Kenyons’ big white Victorian.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi yourself,” Shali replied, never one to rein in her considerable flirting skills. He was a good-looking man, in jeans and a hoodie. Older than most of the guys she dated, but undeniably handsome with lively brown eyes and wavy black hair.

  “My car broke down,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “My cell’s dead and I have to use the bathroom. TMI, right?”

  Shali smiled. “That sucks. You can use my phone. My friend lives here and I’m sure you can use her bathroom. This isn’t the kind of neighborhood where we want guys peeing on the bushes.”

  “I didn’t think so,” he said, a bright, white smile across his face. “Thanks.”

  Shali knocked on the door and Jenna answered, looking quizzically at the man a step behind her best friend.

  “This is?” Shali said, looking back at the man in the hoodie.

  “Michael,” he said.

  Shali turned her gaze back at Jenna. “Michael’s car broke down. He needs to call Triple-A or something. More than that he needs to use a bathroom.”

  Michael shifted his weight from one foot to another once, then again. It wasn’t exactly the “gotta go” dance, but a subtle hint that there was a little urgency. He needed the bathroom now.

  “Stupid rental car,” he said. “I’m here checking out the real estate. Thinking about moving here. Your hospitality is amazing. This just might be the perfect town to bring my wife and kids.”

  “I’m Jenna Kenyon. You’ve met Shali.”

  He smiled, his white teeth perfect on the top, crooked like a busted fence on the bottom. “Nice to meet you. Thanks for helping out a stranger.”

  As he stepped into the foyer, Jenna noticed a bloom of water on the fibers of Michael’s sweatshirt pocket.

  “Looks like you’re springing a leak,” she said.

  He looked down sheepishly at his crotch.

  “Oh, not that!” Jenna said as embarrassment took over. Her face went red. “Your sweatshirt pocket.”

  He felt the damp bulge. “Water bottle,” he said, though he didn’t pull it out to tighten the cap.

  “I hate when that happens,” Shali said.

  He grinned.

  “Powder room’s down the hall,” Jenna said.

  Chapter Seventy

  Her phone was a sleeping cobra. She didn’t want to pick it up. Olivia Barton knew that it was the hardest call she’d ever make. She knew that by dialing the number of the Cherrystone Sheriff’s Department, she’d be ending the life that she had dreamed of as a child. She was going to snuff out all of it—the loving husband, the stable environment in which to raise their children, the pretty house with an orange tree in the backyard. There was no one to talk to about what she was thinking. She was alone, looking at that dangerous phone and the damage it would do. She had written down the phone number she found on the Internet. She picked it up and dialed.

  It rang and Gloria Bergstrom answered.

  “Cherrystone Sheriff’s office. Is this an emergency?”

  “Um. I want to speak with Emily Kenyon,” she said, her words constricted in her throat. “The sheriff, please.”

  “Is this about a criminal matter?”

  Olivia knew that it was, but what she said next wasn’t entirely a lie.

  “No, it’s personal.”

  “I’ll patch you through. Hang on.”

  “Sheriff Kenyon.”

  “Sheriff, my name is Olivia Barton.” Her voice faded like an echo.

  “Yes. Do I know you?”

  Olivia tried a second time. She knew every word she had to say, and she understood the urgency that came with it. “Sheriff, I think my husband might not be well. He might be a dangerous man.”

  She couldn’t bring herself to say serial killer, but it ran through her mind.

  “Are you safe right now?” Emily asked.

  Only because he’s not here. I think so. But your daughter isn’t.

  “Yes. I’m OK. I guess.”

  “Can I come to you? Where are you located?”

  “No, I’m calling from Garden Grove, California.”

  “All right. I must be missing something. Is there a connection to Cherrystone? Is your husband from here?”

  “No, he’s not. But I think he’s up there. I think he plans on killing again.”

  Emily opened a notepad, and took down Olivia Barton’s name, her husband’s, and other personal information. Although she could easily detect the genuine angst in the woman’s voice, she had serious doubts that anything she was saying was true. For all Emily knew, Olivia was a woman seeking revenge against a philandering husband. Or maybe just a crackpot with no real ax to grind? Calls like hers, less some of the drama, came in every single week.

  “All right,” she said, “tell me what you’re worried about.”

  “I’m worried that he’s come up to Cherrystone to kill someone.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Sheriff, I think he’s killed before. Maybe many times. I think that he…well, he might have killed a girl back east.”

  Emily hadn’t a clue where this was going. The woman on the line, this supposed killer’s wife, wasn’t being direct.

  “How do you know this?” she asked, firmly. “Did he tell you?”

  Olivia hesitated. “Oh, no. He doesn’t even know that I know. He’s been acting strangely and I’ve been trying to find out why.” She started to cry. Hard.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Barton. Please try to tell me what I need to know.”

  “He killed that sorority girl back east.”

  Even though the information was conveyed in the vaguest of terms, Emily knew who she was talking about. And it sent a shiver down her spine.

  “Sheraton Wilkes?”

  The line was silent.

  “Mrs. Barton, are you saying Sheraton Wilkes?

  A loud cry came, and a single word: “Yes.”

  Emily could feel h
er muscles tighten a little and her brow moistened. She brushed at the hair that grazed over her forehead. She wished she hadn’t blurted out the name. Perhaps she’d given the cue that the woman on the other end of the line needed to continue a false statement.

  “And you know this how?”

  Emily could feel Olivia Barton try to pull herself together.

  “I read some things on his computer,” she said, “but mostly I’ve put two and two together.”

  Oh, no. One of those women who watch Law & Order reruns by day and fight crime by night.

  Emily thought of the days of the Green River Killer investigation in Seattle. She hadn’t worked it, but as an investigator on the periphery of the case that chased the killer of dozens of Seattle-area prostitutes she knew of dozens of instances when a woman tried to pin the blame on a boyfriend or a husband.

  “I see. You said there was more than one victim. So you’re saying your husband is a serial killer?”

  Again, more tears. “Yes, I guess. I mean, he could be. I don’t know.”

  Emily didn’t want to make the same mistake twice. “Do you know who the other victim was?”

  “There were two others. Tiffany Jacobs and Lily Ann Denton. They were sorority sisters. Michael’s sister killed herself last summer. She’d been trashed by the Beta Zeta girls and, I guess, from what he told me and from what I’ve read on his computer…”

  When Olivia stopped, Emily pushed her to carry on.

  “Go on, please. What about Beta Zeta?”

  My daughter’s a BZ. She knew Tiffany, Lily Ann, and Sheraton.

  “I think he wanted to pay those three girls back. I know it sounds crazy, but my husband’s had a really bad past. His sister was everything. He feels those three girls caused his sister to kill herself.”

  She felt her office inhale and consume her. The room became small and dark. She knew those girls. She knew the connection they shared with her daughter.

  “Sheriff Kenyon, I’m calling you because my husband made a big mistake.”

  Emily drew a breath. “What kind of a mistake?”

  “He didn’t mean to kill Sheraton Wilkes.”

  No. No. No.

  Emily set down her pen and looked at the caller ID on her phone, hoping the call was coming from somewhere in Cherrystone and not California. The area code was 714. She wasn’t sure exactly where it was, but it was a call originating in California.

  “Sheriff, are you there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Jenna. Your daughter. That’s who he meant to kill. I’m so sorry. Please.”

  As the room constricted once more, Olivia Barton explained how her husband had been troubled by his sister’s death. Blame had somehow spun into rage. Rage became a vendetta of a kind of unimaginable evil.

  “My husband is ill,” she said. “He was a good man and a good father. I’ve found out things about him that I never knew. Things that explain maybe why he’s as sick as he is. I’m sorry. I just hope I’m not too late.”

  Emily felt a deep shudder of fear. Jenna and Shali were going to a movie later. Or were they going shopping? She really hadn’t paid any attention. On her trips back to Cherrystone, Jenna had tried to get in as much as she could in the way of visiting old friends.

  “Mrs. Barton,” Emily said, “I’m going to call Garden Grove PD and have them send someone to see you. This will be for your protection.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m so worried about your daughter. Michael has been stalking her online. He’s been reading her blog. He knows everywhere she goes. He’s supposed to be on a business trip, but his client told his boss he never showed.”

  “All right. I’m going to hang up now. Stay where you are. The local police will be there as soon as they can. This might scare your children, so if you have a place to take them, please do.”

  “I took them to my mother’s this morning. I’ve driven up and down the freeway trying to figure out what to do.”

  “You did the right thing,” Emily said. With that, she ended the call. She gave Gloria all of Olivia Barton’s information and told her to see if Garden Grove PD would send a car to the Barton residence immediately. She paced, wondering where Chris was with those stupid coffees. Her heart began to race.

  “I’m going after Jenna,” she told Gloria. “Tell Chris to meet me at the house.”

  Chapter Seventy-one

  Cherrystone

  Emily drove her not-so-agile Crown Vic as fast as she could. It was a kelly green blur. There were no sirens or flashing lights to alert Cherrystone pedestrians and drivers to get out of the way. It flashed through her mind that someone would see her run a red light and report her to the sheriff’s office. The local paper would have a field day with that one: SHERIFF KENYON “BRAKES” THE LAW was the inevitable play-on-words headline for an editor who could not resist a pun. But she didn’t care. She had a daughter in potential danger.

  She had tried Jenna’s cell phone and the landline at the house. No answer. That could mean one of two things. Either Jenna wasn’t at home, or she was in trouble and she couldn’t get to the phone. There was no way she wouldn’t have answered multiple attempts by her mother to reach her. The days of marathons of America’s Next Top Model or The Real World putting her into a TV-watching-zombie state were long since over.

  Please let her be safe.

  She dialed Chris’s cell number.

  “Hi, babe,” he said. “The coffee place across the street is closed. Pipes busted. I went—”

  She cut him off. “Chris, this isn’t about the coffee.” Her voice cracked with concern. “This is very bad. The Sorority Killer is after Jenna.”

  There was a crack in the reception and Emily worried that the service failed again. But Chris’s voice came back on.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “His wife called. His name is Michael Barton and he’s on some kind of revenge trip against the girls of Beta Zeta, Jenna’s sorority. She told me that her husband’s sister killed herself after she was dumped by the sorority. He blamed Tiffany, Lily Ann, and Jenna.”

  “What about Sheraton Wilkes?”

  Emily could feel her chest tighten as made a hard right turn on Orchard Ave. “An error. He thought that Sheraton was Jenna.”

  “Hang on. I’m coming.”

  “Chris,” Emily said, “Olivia Barton says her husband is already here. I’m on my way home now.”

  She passed a car that was unfamiliar to her. She knew every car on Orchard Avenue. Even as she sped by, she could see the car had come from a rental car agency, its familiar yellow decal displayed on a side window.

  Michael Barton faced the mirror as he had a thousand times before. His task was now far more complicated with Jenna and her friend being there together. He’d never had to kill more than one person at a time. Part of him, a very small part, liked the challenge of the scenario. The rush he had gotten from his compulsion was better than sex. If so, killing two at once would be a veritable orgy.

  He’d done everything right. He looked down at his fingertips. They felt hard and crunchy. He’d coated each one with superglue back in the motel. He’d leave no fingerprints in the bathroom of the house that was about to become the bloodiest of murder scenes—a nightmare of his own creation. Controlling two young women would be very difficult. He’d have to make a fast move for one, plunge the knife into her heart or slash her neck. It would have to be done with horrific and unexpected speed.

  Otherwise, the one left standing could run.

  He unzipped his fly and urinated into the bowl. He was careful to hit the center of the reservoir of water to make as much noise as possible. He wanted the girls to hear that he was actually doing what he’d said he needed to do.

  Instead, he was standing there, sucking up the courage to do what he had to do.

  For Sarah. For himself.

  He flushed the toilet and felt for his hunting knife. Razor sharp. He’d used it only once—to cut the landline that came
inside the Kenyon’s home—before Shali showed up.

  In a minute, everything would be over. He’d find relief. He’d go back to California. He’d never do this again. He knew he’d promised himself that before. But this time was different. It was the way it had to be.

  He opened the door to the hallway.

  Emily pulled into the driveway. Shali’s car wasn’t there. She hoped that meant that they’d gone off shopping in Spokane as they’d planned. Please be safe. Please be all right, she thought as she turned off the ignition and grabbed her gun.

  A thousand miles away, Olivia Barton opened the front door of her dream house in Garden Grove to find two police officers. Seeing them was concrete proof that the action that she’d taken to save a young woman in Washington State had truly closed the curtain on everything she held so dear. She knew the wheels were in motion.

  She let the officers inside.

  “No matter what he’s done,” she said, “there are parts of Michael that are so very good. I want you to know that. I love him. Our children love their father. He’s only partly a monster.”

  Chapter Seventy-two

  Michael Barton emerged from the powder room and found the young women waiting in the foyer. Jenna was by the door, which was still slightly cracked open. Cool spring air poured inside.

  “Thanks for the use of your bathroom,” he said.

  “No worries.” Jenna smiled. “That’s the kind of place Cherrystone is.”

  Shali held out her cell phone. “Use mine to make your call. I have unlimited minutes.”

  He reached over to take the phone with his left hand. The flash of a piece of metal—a knife—caught Jenna’s eye.

  She screamed. “What are you doing?”

  As if in slow motion, Shali turned her head and looked at Jenna, then back at Michael as he plunged the knife into her stomach. A pool of blood the size and color of one of Emily’s dark red dahlias formed. Shali gasped and slumped to the floor.