Heart of Ice. Gregg Olsen

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      He had come for her.

      His warm breath mixed with the cold air outside the big white Victorian. White puffs of vapor rose above him where he stood watching the scene through the backyard windows. He almost heard their laughter as the mother and daughter passed from one room to another, enjoying their lives.

      Yes, they had lives.

      He’d stalked her online. That was easy enough, of course. She’d left a trail all over the Internet—Web sites, blogs, e-mails. He knew so much about her—her shoe size, her best friend’s flailing love life, her plans for life after Cascade University. Seeing her in the flesh was the necessary step. A precursor to the plans that were forming like a disease, for which he alone held the cure.

      He aimed a penlight at the photo of the three young women, all blond, all pretty.

      Yes, it was her.

      The girls were posed in front of a Greek revival mansion that had been their home away from home. It was summertime. They wore shorts and strappy tank tops and flip-flops. No cares. Just bright, shiny futures. They were blue-eyed Barbies, with perfect plastic skin and figures that only a doll maker could conjure.

      He focused on their smiles. Their obvious joy was like an ice pick to his gut.

      “I’ll wipe that smile off her face,” he thought looking at the girl in the center. “She’s the reason. She’s the leader.”

      He told himself when he first got on the airplane in California that it was only to see her, to confront her. He wanted to tell her that her stupid decision had catastrophic results.

      “Better be more careful next time,” he’d planned to say. “Some one else might not be as reasonable as I am.”

      His interior monologue made him grin as he stood outside in the cold, watching. Waiting. Thinking of what she’d done. What they all had done.

      He’d known the kind of pain that few endure. He was proud that he’d sequestered all of that. In the past, he’d done his share of handing out hurt like it was an appetizer to be enjoyed by the recipient. One little poisonous bite at a time was all he needed to find relief from his pain. One gulp. All of that had been a long time ago. But something was stirring inside and he knew that the girl in the center of the photo had become a kind of lightning rod for his anger.

      He wrestled with it. Fought it hard. That night as he watched her from across the street, he knew that in the end, he’d have no choice. He’d argue it in his head over and over, and ultimately the dark part of him, the part hidden from all who thought they knew him, was about to become unleashed…again.

      He looked down at the photo one more time and knew Jenna Kenyon would be the last to die.

      Chapter Two

      It was 8:05 A.M., the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, and the Cherrystone Sheriff’s Department smelled of donuts and coffee. Gloria had brought in a dozen from the bakery across the street, as she did at least five times a month. The donuts were good—sugary, greasy, and lighter than air, of course—making them nearly impossible to resist. Only one person in the department seemed to care about the net result of too many donuts on a cop’s waistline. Emily, of course. At least bagels were a somewhat healthy choice. Why not bagels? Emily knew that her own willpower to stay away from the donuts was a better solution than making a directive that Gloria stop bringing them in.

      Although past forty, Emily Kenyon wasn’t ready to “give up” and let the forces of nature and donuts take over her body.

      She barely had time to acknowledge the donuts with her usual “Gloria, you shouldn’t have!” before being accosted by Jeanne Parkinson, the county clerk.

      “Emily,” Jeanne said, her breath short and her hands fluttering. “Mandy’s still not at work.”

      Emily glanced at the wall clock. “It’s only ten past the hour.” She peeled off her coat, gloves, and scarf. Her cheeks were bright pink from the walk from her cruiser to the back door. It was the coldest day of the year, just 18 degrees. The crusty berms of snow on the sidewalk had frozen solid. The sky had cleared.

      “It doesn’t make any difference,” Jeanne said. “Mandy always came five minutes early. She missed her baby shower yesterday and she’s still not here. I tell you, something’s wrong. She’s missing.”

      “Who’s missing?” It was Jason Howard, donut in hand, sugar on his upper lip.

      “We don’t know who’s missing,” Emily said. “Or rather, if anyone is missing at all.”

      “She’s missing,” Jeanne said. “I know it. I couldn’t sleep a wink last night.”

      “We’re jumping to conclusions here. I talked to a girl from Mitch Crawford’s dealership. Mitch had talked with Mandy a little while before I called.”

      Jeanne brightened a little. She had all the charm of a concrete block, but now and then allowed a trace of human emotion to wash over her face. It was clear that Jeanne the county clerk was very fond of Amanda Crawford.

      “Where is she?” she asked. “What did he say?”

      Emily felt a surge of embarrassment. “I guess I misspoke. I don’t know what she said to him. I didn’t talk to Mitch. I talked with his customer service manager.”

      She knew immediately that her response sounded lame. Yet at the time, it was good enough. She followed procedure. She only swung by the СКАЧАТЬ