Snowy Misery (Alaska Cozy Mystery Book 7)

by Wendy Meadows

  Francis simply began singing as he taped Mrs. Raillings’ mouth shut and then taped her wrists and ankles to the kitchen chair. “There,” he said, “now I must make it appear that there are some very dangerous explosives lying around, huh?” Francis wandered over to the kitchen sink, opened up the cabinet under the sink, and pulled out bottles of cleaning supplies. “Perfect,” he grinned and went to work.

  As Francis got to work making his fake explosives, Sarah called Andrew. “No way,” Andrew objected as soon as Sarah informed him about the call from Mrs. Raillings. “I'm not locking myself in a jail cell with a killer on the loose. Why, he's liable to come in here and burn down the station with us in it.”

  “If you refuse to cooperate, he's going to kill Mrs. Raillings,” Sarah told Andrew in an upset voice. “Andrew, Francis is clever. He's planned out every move he's going to make long beforehand. Unless we comply...he's going to begin killing innocent people.”

  Conrad walked over to Sarah and took the phone from her. “Andrew, my name is on the list, too. Now listen to me. We have one hour. Call all the guys who aren't at the station and get them there. Get the guys who are at the station in a cell. That's an order. He says he’s watching the station and…I believe him.”

  “You're asking us to commit suicide,” Andrew objected. “Conrad, I respect you and I think you're a skilled detective—one of the best, to be honest—but there's no way I'm going to stick my guys in a jail cell. Besides, even if I wanted to, they wouldn't obey.” Andrew stood up from his office chair. “I've known the guys I work with all my life, Conrad. They have families. You have to understand that.”

  “I understand,” Conrad said feeling frustration settle into his chest. “Andrew, an innocent life is at stake here. We don't have a choice.”

  “Yes, we do,” Andrew argued. “I say we form an old-fashioned posse and get ourselves over to Claire's cabin and track down us down a rabid skunk.”

  “Mrs. Railings’ cabin is being rigged with explosives,” Conrad explained. “He could be lying of course, but we can’t take that chance. If we try to force our way inside her cabin...boom.” Conrad looked at Sarah and then down at the floor. “Andrew, this guy isn't playing around. Mrs. Raillings is only the first. He'll keep killing until we surrender.”

  “There's more of us than him!” Andrew yelled into the phone. “I don't like taking orders from a fruitcake, Conrad. I have a family to protect, for crying out loud, not just a town. In fact, my family is at the station with me right now.”

  Conrad knew Andrew wasn't going to order his men to lock themselves away in a jail cell. “At least call the guys down to the station,” Conrad pleaded. “We have to make it seem like we're complying.”

  “Okay, okay,” Andrew caved in. “I can do that. I'll call up Billy and Matthew and tell them to get their backsides down to the station ASAP. But you better know they're going to bring Millie and Rhonda with them, along with little William and Betsy Ann. And don't expect them to race down to the station either. They'll have to travel using their snowmobiles. Roads are pretty much impossible now. Old Richard has parked his plow for the night and gone home.”

  “I understand,” Conrad told Andrew. “I guess I'll use Sarah's snowmobile to get down to the station.”

  “Yeah,” Andrew said and snatched up a cup of coffee and drained it. “I...hey, I didn't mean to yell. Tempers are running high tonight. The phones haven't stopped ringing.”

  “Don't worry about it,” Conrad promised Andrew. “I'll see you in a bit.” Conrad hung up the phone. “I guess I better get going.”

  Sarah hesitantly nodded her head. “My snowmobile—”

  “I know where the snowmobile is located,” Conrad told Sarah. He walked over to the kitchen table, put on his black gloves and pulled on a black ski hat. “I'll call you,” he promised and then looked at Amanda. “Stay together, no matter what,” he begged.

  “You bet,” Amanda promised and then ran over to Conrad and hugged him. “Be careful.”

  Conrad hugged Amanda back and then, to his surprise, he saw Sarah walk over and wrap her arms around him. “I know,” he whispered, watching tears fall from Sarah's eyes. “I feel the same way about you.”

  “Brad is dead,” Sarah whispered and wiped at her tears. “But...he died long before he arrived here. I died long before I arrived here. I died the day I signed the divorce papers.” Sarah let go of Conrad. “I want this nightmare to end. I want to be happy again.”

  “I know,” Conrad whispered and then, to Amanda's complete shock and delight, he leaned forward and gently kissed Sarah. “I want to be happy, too. But first, we have a killer to catch.”

  “Go,” Sarah urged Conrad and walked him to the kitchen door. “Be careful, please.” Conrad opened the kitchen door, looked at Sarah, forced a smile to his face, and then vanished into the storm.

  “There he goes,” Amanda said staring over Sarah's shoulder.

  “I know,” Sarah said and forced her hands to close the back door. “Well, June Bug, you better make another pot of coffee and I'll get my thinking cap back on.”

  Amanda patted Sarah on her shoulder and began walking toward the kitchen counter. Then she froze. “Hey,” she said and spun around to face Sarah.

  “What?” Sarah asked.

  “The snowman outside...we haven't even talked about it.”

  Sarah bit down on her lower lip. “I was hoping we wouldn't.”

  “Love, that snowman is from your book,” Amanda exclaimed, “which means that Francis Clark knows that—”

  “Brad must have confessed my secret author identity,” Sarah told Amanda.

  Amanda watched Sarah look at the back door and then walk over to the kitchen window and look out into the storm. “I'm not sure why Francis built that hideous snowman...maybe he's telling me my life is going to end the way the killer wanted to kill the main character in my book?”

  “Or maybe,” Amanda pointed out, “the snowman is a distraction?”

  Sarah turned away from the window. “A distraction?”

  “Yeah, like the way he had you all knotted up in Los Angeles. Every person he killed was in no related to the next person...yet he forced you to believe that each of his victims was somehow connected.” Amanda measured out the grounds for a second pot of coffee. “Los Angeles, what if that crazy madman is playing the same game again?”

  Sarah considered Amanda's suggestion. “What if?” she asked herself and sat down at the kitchen table. “A killer always throws up smoke screens.” Sarah grew silent and allowed her mind to dive deep into Francis Clark's demented, evil mind. “What game are you playing, Francis? Why don't you kill me? Why play this game?”

  The howling winds answered Sarah.

  Francis eased out of Claire's cabin, put his skis back on, studied the storm, and began making his way toward town. Inside the cabin, Claire sat duct taped to a kitchen chair wondering what in the world to do. She concluded that being duct taped was better than being dead and eventually fell asleep out of exhaustion and fear.

  “Time to play with the cops, Detective Garland, and then I'll be back for you,” Francis said as he worked his way through the storm like a hungry monster crawling out from under a bed.

  When Francis reached town he ducked into an alley, removed his skis, and retrieved a black duffel bag he had hidden behind a trash can. The duffel bag was now covered with snow but Francis had no problem digging it out. He opened the duffel bag, brought out a grappling hook rope and looked up into the storm. He studied the roof belonging to a bakery and then threw the grappling hook rope skyward. The grappling hook landed on top of the roof and caught on the edge. Francis tugged on the rope to make sure it was secure and then climbed up with skill and ease. When his feet hit the roof's surface he walked forward and examined the front street and then studied the police station in the distance using a small pair of combat binoculars. “Perfect,” he said, spotting a man rushing into the station with his wife and son. “Perfect.”

&nbs
p; Francis lowered the binoculars, bent down, unzipped a black bag, and brought out an AR-15. He aimed his rifle at the front window of the police station and fired off three rounds. The front window exploded. Shrapnel went flying out into the storm. “Perfect,” Francis said again and put his rifle away. He then pulled out his cell phone and called the police station. Andrew picked up on the third ring. “That was a warning,” Francis hissed. “You have one hour to get everyone into a jail cell. If anyone tries to come out they will be shot and killed. I'll let anyone that might be arriving late enter the building without harm. Are we clear?”

  Andrew leaned up from behind his desk and saw Conrad crouched down beside his office door. “We're clear,” he said in an angry voice. “Why are you doing this? What has this town ever done to you?”

  “You have Detective Sarah Garland to thank,” Francis growled. “You have one hour before people begin to die. I'm being very kind so do not test me, cop.” He put his cell phone away and folded his arms. “Yes, this should do nicely,” he said in a pleased voice. “I'll stand here a few more minutes and watch just to make sure.”

  “We have one hour,” Andrew told Conrad and slammed the phone down on his desk. “He has us trapped.”

  “That's what he wanted all along and I fell right into the trap,” Conrad kicked himself. “He knew no cop worth his salt would lock himself in a jail cell.” Conrad stood up. “Francis Clark wanted to trap us in a building.”

  “Yeah, and none of my guys are going outside this building,” Andrew told Conrad. “One man is dead. I'm sure that killer outside will happily shoot anyone who attempts to leave.”

  Conrad studied Andrew's scared and upset voice. “We're not really trapped,” he said. “I can slip out of the basement window. The bullets came from the front street. I can slip out of the back.”

  “No way,” Andrew objected. “I'm not risking your life.”

  “Look,” Conrad said keeping his voice calm, “the basement window is barely big enough for a man to crawl through. Right now it's covered over with snow. If I'm careful, I'll be able to crawl out without being seen. The backside of the station house is dark except for the light over the back door. If I move fast I'll be able to get outside. Right now I'm certain Francis Clark is watching the front of the building. At least for the time being. After all, he's just one man, Andrew. He can't be in multiple places at once.”

  Andrew began to protest but when he saw the look Conrad was giving him he knew better. “I can’t stop you, Detective Spencer,” he said, “but I can warn you that the man waiting outside is a killer. You know that and I know that. And he seems to be too smart for his own good. If you go outside I can't be responsible for what happens to you.”

  “I understand.”

  Andrew shook his head. “You know I would go out with you, but I have my family here with me. They come first.”

  “As it should be,” Conrad tossed Andrew an understanding smile. “You're a husband and a dad before anything else.” And with those words, Conrad yanked open the office door, hurried out, and ran down a short hallway. “Have to hurry,” he grunted, reaching the door leading down into the basement. He snatched the door open and descended into a dark basement, deliberately leaving the basement light off. The basement smelled of old cardboard boxes, gunpowder, and fear. Cold, damp air struck Conrad's face as he maneuvered past a pile of boxes. “The shots came from across the street...he's on the roof of one the buildings. If I can get outside and swing around I might have a chance.”

  Conrad maneuvered to a small window at the back of the basement. The bottom of the window was covered with snow. “Good,” Conrad said and began trying to open the window. The window was frozen shut. “Come on...come on,” Conrad fussed as he strained to open the window, “open already.” But the window would not budge. Conrad wasn't in the mood to be delayed. He whipped out his gun and used the handle to break the windowpane, knowing the howling winds outside would hide the sounds of breaking glass. Snow began flooding in through the shattered glass and piling up on the dark basement floor. Conrad ignored the snow, cleared the glass around the edges of the frame, and then, with much difficulty, squeezed his body out through the small opening, pushing snow out of his way as he did. “Out,” he finally said, leaning up on his knees and looking around at the backside of the station. For a second he expected a bullet to come ripping through the storm at him. But when no bullet arrived, he knew that he was in the clear. “Hurry.”

  Conrad crawled to his feet and ran to the east corner of the station, peeked around the wall, and checked the front street. The street was dark and covered in deep snow banks. The buildings across the street were also dark, deserted and empty; one lone monster lurked among the buildings. “I need to swing around,” Conrad told himself, ignoring the punishing winds and heavy snow. He felt his body heat begin to drain away in the fierce winds and knew that he couldn't stay out in the storm for a long period of time without risking hypothermia. With that thought in mind, he worked his way back to the street behind the station and began moving west.

  As Conrad disappeared into the storm, Sarah and Amanda sat in the warm kitchen of Sarah’s cabin, discussing Francis Clark.

  “Francis told me to go back to square one,” Sarah told Amanda. “He said once I found the clue in murder one, I needed to move on to murder two.”

  Amanda nibbled on a cinnamon roll. “Okay, love,” she said, “I know about murder one and murder two. Tell me about murder three. Maybe if we re-evaluate all the murders we can find a pattern this rat might be playing with.”

  Sarah stood up and refilled her coffee mug. “The third victim was a man named Bob Frawls. Mr. Frawls was a sixty-two-year-old retired high school math teacher. The man was divorced, didn't have any family in the Los Angeles area, and as far as I could find out, really didn't socialize very much after he retired.” Sarah looked at the phone hanging beside the refrigerator. She wanted to call Andrew to see if Conrad had arrived safely at the station. “Mr. Frawls,” she continued instead of calling Andrew, “was a heavy drinker. He had been arrested four times for driving while intoxicated. Three times in his early twenties and once after he retired from teaching.”

  “How was he killed?”

  “Francis strangled him to death, stuffed his body in an alley, and left a second note that was meant to tie him to Nathan Miles and Shirley Denkills. And of course, because of protocol, I had to try and connect the man to the two previous victims, which was a complete waste of time and energy.”

  “Love, I'm guessing that madman left notes on all of his victims, right?” Amanda asked.

  Sarah nodded her head. “Yes.”

  “And you were in charge of connecting each victim together like a jigsaw puzzle.”

  “Yes,” Sarah said again. “I knew I was dealing with a serial killer and deep down I wasn't sure what steps to take. I couldn't find any lead that connected the victims together. The killings seemed random yet they were meant to somehow be tied together. Each victim was left in an alley...killed in different ways...at different times. I was at a loss. All I could do was continue investigating what clues I did have and trying to make any connection I could to get one step ahead of him.” Sarah stretched her back. She felt like she was trapped in a creepy Twilight Zone episode, the kind that kept looping through time over and over and over again. The shock of her ex-husband being killed was slowly wearing off. She felt her mind beginning to clear. Conrad's kiss had injected a healing medicine into her broken heart. “Pete was working on a case involving three gang killings. He was really tied up but helped me out when he could.”

  Amanda watched Sarah look down at her coffee mug with sad eyes. “Love?”

  “I wasn't spending much time at home with Brad,” Sarah confessed. “I was spending every waking moment interviewing people, chasing down leads, going over clues, reading reports. Brad was on the back burner. I never...stopped to imagine how he might have felt.”

  “The man should have felt proud,”
Amanda said in a strong voice. “Don't blame yourself for doing your job, love. You saved countless lives by catching Francis Clark.”

  “I know,” Sarah agreed, “but it wasn't long after Francis went to prison that Brad began pulling away from our marriage. I saw the warning signs but I ignored them. Maybe the warning signs were there all along and I never saw them?” Sarah set her coffee mug down. “Brad is dead, though. Conrad is alive. My focus is on you and him.”

  “That's my girl,” Amanda smiled. “Now, tell me more about Mr. Frawls.”

  “Well,” Sarah said and rubbed her neck, “Mr. Frawls spent most of his time drinking at home. His neighbors all claimed he was a quiet man who kept to himself.”

  “Did Mr. Frawls live in a nice neighborhood?”

  “Uh...lower middle-class,” Sarah explained. “He lived in a simple three bedroom ranch style home at the end of Mayward Street.”

  Amanda nibbled on her cinnamon roll. “Love, where did Francis Clark live?”

  “Up in the canyons in a bungalow,” Sarah told Amanda. She shook her head. “I still don't know why, to this very day, Francis Clark chose the people he killed. He never confessed his reasons. I came to believe each victim was randomly chosen. But now—”

  “But now that madman is telling you to go back to square one, which means there has to be a connection,” Amanda finished for Sarah. She tossed her cinnamon roll down onto a brown plate and stood up. “We have three dead people. A jerk who divorced his wife and married an old rich woman. A waitress who was using drugs and a retired alcoholic. Now the questions is: how are they connected?”

  “I have to go back to Nathan Miles and find the first clue,” Sarah told Amanda.

  “Okay,” Amanda agreed, “let's go back to Mr. Gambler.” Amanda scratched the tip of her nose. As she did, a sound came from the pantry. “What’s that?”

  Sarah snatched out her gun and then put her left finger to her lips. She eased over to the pantry door and with one swift movement yanked it open and stepped back with her gun at the ready. “Oh, my poor baby!” she cried out.