Cold Conspiracy. Cindi MyersЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter Two

      Nate reached his truck parked at the base of Mount Wilson just as his radio crackled. Though a recently installed repeater facilitated radio transmission in this remote area, the pop and crackle of heavy static often made the messages difficult to understand. He could make out something about needing an officer to assist the sheriff’s department. He keyed the mic and replied. “This is Officer Hall. What was that location again?”

      “Forest Service Road 1410. That’s one-four-one-zero.”

      “Copy that. I’m on my way.” The trailhead on 1410 was where he had left Jamie and her sister. Had they found something? Or had something happened to them?

      He pressed down harder on the gas pedal, snow flying up around the truck as he raced down the narrow path left by the snowplow. The Ice Cold Killer’s next to last victim, Lauren Grenado, had been found on a Forest Service road not that far from here. Maybe Nate shouldn’t have left Jamie and her sister alone. He could have asked them to give him a ride back to his truck, as an excuse to stay with them. But Jamie had said she was running late for work, so she probably would have turned him down.

      Who was he kidding? She definitely would have turned him down. She clearly didn’t want anything to do with him, apparently still holding a grudge over their breakup all those years ago.

      And yeah, maybe he hadn’t handled that so well—but he’d been nineteen and headed off to college out of state. He had thought he was doing the right thing by ending their relationship when it was impossible for them to be together. He had told himself that eventually she would see the sense in splitting up. Maybe she would even thank him one day. But she wasn’t thanking him for anything—the knowledge that he could have hurt her that deeply chafed at him like a stone in his boot.

      He spotted her SUV up ahead, parked behind a blue sedan. Jamie, hands in the pockets of her parka, paced alongside the road. He didn’t see Donna—she was probably in the car.

      He pulled in behind Jamie’s SUV and turned on his flashers. Jamie whirled to face him. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

      “I got a call to assist the sheriff’s department.” He joined her and nodded toward the car. “What have you got?”

      “Another dead woman.” Her voice was flat, as was her expression. But he caught the note of despair at the end of the sentence and recognized the pain shining out from her hazel eyes. He had a sharp impulse to pull her close and comfort her—but he knew right away that would be a very bad idea. She wasn’t his friend and former lover Jamie right now. She was Deputy Douglas, a fellow officer who needed him to do his job.

      “I’ve got emergency flashers in my car,” he said. He glanced toward her SUV. Donna sat in the front seat, hunched over and rocking back and forth. “Is your sister okay?”

      “She’s upset. Crying. Better to leave her alone for a bit.”

      “Do you know who the woman is?”

      She shook her head. “No. But I think it’s the Ice Cold Killer. I didn’t open the door or anything, but she looks like his other victims—throat cut, wrists and ankles wrapped with tape.”

      He walked back to his truck, retrieved the emergency beacons and set them ten yards behind his bumper and ten yards ahead of the car. As he passed, he glanced into the front seat and caught a glimpse of the dead woman, staring up at him. Suppressing a shudder, he returned to Jamie, as a Rayford County Sheriff’s cruiser approached. The driver parked on the opposite side of the road, and tall and lanky Deputy Dwight Prentice got out. “Travis is on his way,” he said, when they had exchanged greetings.

      “I was headed back to town to get ready for our meeting when I saw the car,” Jamie said. “It wasn’t here when I drove by earlier, on my way to the Pickaxe snowshoe trail.”

      “The meeting has been pushed back to four o’clock.” Dwight walked over to the car and peered inside. “Do you know who she is?”

      “I don’t recognize her, and I never opened the car door,” Jamie said. “I figured I should wait for the crime scene team.”

      “Did you call in the license plate?” Dwight asked.

      Jamie flushed. “No. I… I didn’t think of it.”

      “I’ll do it,” Nate said.

      Radio transmission was clearer here and after a few minutes he was back with Jamie and Dwight, with a name. “The car is registered to Michaela Underwood of Ames, Iowa.”

      The sound of an approaching vehicle distracted them. No one said anything as Sheriff Travis Walker pulled in behind Dwight’s cruiser. Tall and trim, looking like a law enforcement recruiting poster, the young sheriff showed the strain of the hunt for this serial killer in the shadows beneath his eyes and the grim set of his mouth. He pulled on gloves as he crossed to them, and listened to Jamie’s story. “What time did you drive by here on your way to the trail?” he asked.

      “I left my house at five after nine, so it would have been about nine thirty,” she said.

      “Your call came in at eleven fifty-two,” Travis said. “How long was that after you found her?”

      “I had to drive until I found a signal, but it wasn’t that long,” Jamie said. “We stopped here at eleven forty-five. I know because I kept checking the time, worried I was going to be late for work.”

      Travis glanced toward her car. “Who is that with you?”

      “My sister, Donna. She never got out of the car.” One of the dogs—the big husky—stuck its head out of the partially opened driver’s-side window. “I have my dogs with me, too,” Jamie added.

      “All right. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

      The others stood back as Travis opened the driver’s-side door. He leaned into the vehicle and emerged a few moments later with a small card, like a business card, and held it up for them to see. The bold black letters were easy to read at this short distance: ICE COLD. “Butch is on his way,” Travis said. Butch Collins, a retired doctor, served as Rayford County’s medical examiner. “Once he’s done, Dwight and I will process the scene. I’ve got a wrecker on standby to take the car to our garage.”

      “It must be getting crowded in there,” Nate said—which earned him a deeper frown from the sheriff.

      “Nate, can you stay and handle traffic, in case we get any lookie-loos?” Travis asked.

      “Sure.”

      “What do you want me to do?” Jamie asked.

      “Take your sister home. I’ll see you at the station this afternoon. You can file your statement then.”

      “All right.”

      Nate couldn’t tell if she was relieved to be dismissed—or upset about being excluded. He followed her back to her SUV and walked around to the passenger side. The dogs began barking but quieted at a reprimand from Jamie. Donna eased the door open a crack at Nate’s approach. “Hello,” Nate said. He had a vague memory of Donna as a sweet, awkward little girl. She wasn’t so little anymore.

      “Hello.” She glanced toward the blue sedan, where Dwight and Travis still stood. “Did you see the woman?”

      “She’s not anyone we know,” Nate said. “A tourist, probably.” More than a few visitors had been stranded in Eagle Mountain when Dixon Pass, the only route into town, closed