by Michele Hauf
“Go for it,” Bay said. “The locals are more likely to be comfortable talking to someone they know. When I consult on a case, I like to guide and keep track, but ultimately, this is your case, Cash. I’m not going to trample on your turf. And I’m starving. I haven’t eaten yet today.”
“Then The Moose is your next stop.” Jason picked up the documents Marjorie had left for him on his desk. “You staying in town?”
“There’s no motel. Snow Lake has a halfway decent Best Western and free coffee.”
“Not a problem. My office is yours. I’ll let you know what I learn.” Jason strode out and through the reception area, pleased that Bay was easygoing. Which would give him all the rope he required to control this investigation. He really needed this one. It was an opportunity to show the powers that be that he had what it took to manage real police work, and that the Frost Falls police force, as small as it was, was a necessity.
Instead of the snowmobile, he’d drive the Ford. He could use some warmth. Turning up the car heater to blast, Jason rolled down Main Street, the car tires crunching as if across Styrofoam as they moved over the packed snow. He loved that sound. It was hard to describe to anyone who didn’t live on snow six months out of the year. To him it meant home.
From here he could see the small parking lot in front of the gas station. No business name on the broken red-and-white sign above the station. It had been called just “gas station” forever, according to an elder member of the town.
And yet, when Jason cruised closer to the gas station, he saw the black SUV parked around the back side of the white cinder-block building. It was the one licensed to James Smith.
“What the hell?”
He pulled into the station lot. Hopping out of the truck and blowing out a breath that condensed to a fog, Jason quickened his pace into the station.
“Afternoon, Cash,” the owner said from his easy chair placed on a dais behind the cash register. Easier to see out the window and watch the town’s goings-on from that height.
“You rent out any cats this afternoon, Rusty?”
“I just did, not ten minutes ago. Local fellow.”
“Local?”
“Well, you know, he mentioned he was from Duluth. That’s local.”
It was. The port city that sat on Lake Superior was an hour’s drive east and within the St. Louis County lines.
“Gave him directions to the falls and told him to stick to the trails,” Rusty said, “but I think he went east. Idiot. Your brother still with the State Patrol?”
“Justin? Yep. He’s stationed near the Canadian border right now. Big drug-surveillance op going on.”
“Those marijuana farms.” Rusty shook his head.
“You betcha. What was the name of the renter?”
Rusty tapped a crinkled piece of paper hanging from a clipboard to the right of the register. “Smith. Sounded foreign. And not Canadian foreign. He was a mite different. Like those duck hunters they got on that television show.”
“Thanks, Rusty. Gotta go.”
Jason made haste to the truck, and before the door was even closed he pulled out onto the main road and turned to hit the eastbound road that led to the Birch Bower cabin. It was only five miles out, but with each mile the forest thickened and hugged closer on both sides of the narrowing road. It was as desolate as a place could get so close to a small town.
As he drove down the gravel road that the plow only tackled every Monday morning, he noted the snowmobile tracks lain down on the road shoulder. A couple of them. Freshly impressed into the crusted snowpack. One set must belong to Yvette. The other?
“Smith.”
In his next thought, Jason wondered if he were getting worked up over nothing. No. She’d said she didn’t know anyone in town. And yet she had looked at the SUV for a while.
Didn’t feel right to Jason. And if he’d learned anything over the years, it was to trust his intuition.
* * *
ONE OF THE reasons Yvette hadn’t minded leaving home for a while was that she’d been questioning her job choice for some time now. She’d never been fooled that being a field operative for an international security agency was glamourous or even 24/7 action-adventure. The job could be tedious at times. Mildly adrenalizing, at best. Most people associated spies with glamour and blockbuster movies. In truth, the average agent spent more time doing boring surveillance than the few minutes of contact with a suspect that might provide that thrill of action.
Yet beyond the intrigue and danger, a surprising moral struggle had presented itself to her when she was faced with pulling the trigger on a human target. She was not a woman prone to crying fits. And yet, the tears had threatened when she’d been standing in the field, gun aimed at a person and—she’d been unable to pull the trigger. Human life meant something to her. Even if the human she had been charged to fire at was a criminal who had committed vile crimes. She’d not expected to only realize such moral leanings until the heat of the moment, but that pause had changed her life irreversibly.
She asked for a change of pace and had, thankfully, been allowed to continue her work in data tech. A job that didn’t fulfill her in any tangible manner. It had become an endless stream of data on the computer screen.
Now seclusion in a snow-covered cabin offered an excellent time to consider her future. Did she really want to continue on this career path? Days ago, she’d started a list of pros and cons regarding her current employer.
Yvette tapped the pen beside her temple as she delved deep for another pro. She felt it necessary to write down the good as well as the bad reasons to stay or leave. Solid and tangible. Easy to review. Difficult to deny once inked on paper. Because she’d followed in her parents’ footsteps, career-wise. Had thought she was cut out for the gritty hard-core work it required.
Yet to her surprise, the desk job had, strangely, become more dangerous than fieldwork. She had seen something on the computer screen that she was not supposed to see. She just didn’t know what that something was, because it had been a list, and perhaps even coded.
Setting aside the pros and cons list and getting up to stretch, she exhaled. She’d been working on the list for an hour while listening to the wind whip against the exterior timber walls. A blizzard was forecast.
“Joy,” she muttered mirthlessly and wandered into the kitchen.
No thought cells could operate without a healthy dose of chocolate. Plucking a mug out of the cupboard, she then filled the teapot with water and set that on the stove burner.
She shook the packet of hot chocolate mix into the mug. Right now, she needed a heat injection. Her toes were freezing, even though she wore two layers of socks. And her fingers felt like ice. She’d turned up the heater upon returning from the grocery run, but it didn’t want to go any higher than seventy-four degrees.
With the wind scraping across the windows, she felt as if she sat in a wooden icebox. A glance to the fireplace made her sigh. A woodpile sat neatly stacked outside and behind the house. The owners had suggested she carry some in before too much snow fell, but she’d not done that. After she’d fortified her chilled bones with hot chocolate, she’d have to bundle up and bring out the ax to chip the frozen logs apart. The night demanded a toasty fire in the hearth.
The teapot whistled, and she poured the steaming water into the mug. Oh, how she missed the thick, dark chocolate drink served exclusively by the French tea shop Angelina. Unfortunately, the shop hadn’t come to Lyon, but she visited Paris often enough and stocked up when there.
Tilting back the oversweet chocolate drink, she sighed and took a moment to savor the heat filling her belly. Who would have thought she could enjoy a moment of warmth so thoroughly? It was a different kind of warmth from the one she’d felt sitting in the diner talking to the chief of police. Colette had been spot on regarding her assessment of the man. He was a handsome one.
He’d seemed about her age, too.
A knock on the front door startled her. That was—not weird. The postman knocked every day with her mail in hand. Not that she got personal mail. It was always ads and flyers for retirement homes. But she did appreciate his smile and some chat. He often asked if she was comfy and did she like fruitcake? His wife had extra. Yvette always declined with the knowledge that fruitcake was not a culinary treat.
Yet something stopped her from approaching the door. She still couldn’t erase the police chief’s question about the mysterious SUV. It had seemed out of place in the small town. And she was no woman to ignore the suspicious.
Grasping a pen from the kitchen counter, Yvette fit the heavy steel object into her curled fingers, then walked cautiously over to the door. She stood there a moment, staring at the unfinished pine wood that formed the solid barrier. There was no peephole.
“Who is it?” she called.
“Delivery,” answered back. “Is your name...Yvette?”
“Yes, but...” Yvette frowned. It was her cover name. She hadn’t ordered anything. And she’d only this morning asked Colette to order the helmet.
“It’s from The Moose,” the man said. “You didn’t order anything?”
“No,” she called back. “It’s food? Who sent it?”
A pause, and then, “Note says it’s from a new friend.”
A new friend? And The Moose? But she’d just—had the police chief sent her a gift? Of food? They had discussed pie. How nice of him. And if it was a flirtatious move, she was all in.
Yvette opened the door.
The man standing on the snow-dusted front stoop was tall and dressed all in black, including the black face mask he wore that concealed all but his eyes. He growled and lunged for her. He fit his bare hands about her throat, and Yvette stumbled backward.
Chapter Five
Jason ran in through the open doorway and encountered a struggle. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked a snow-frosted copse of maples, he witnessed a man shove a woman—Yvette LaSalle—against the wall. Her painful grunt fired anger in Jason’s veins. He dashed over a fallen chair and toward the struggling duo.
Suddenly, Yvette swept her hand forcefully backward, her elbow colliding with the attacker’s neck. She twisted and plunged a fist against his head. The man—Smith—yelped and gripped his bleeding scalp.
Jason charged across the room. With a swift right hook, he connected under Smith’s jaw and knocked him out cold. The man dropped to his side, sprawling on the floor.
He spun around to find Yvette behind him, clutching a tactical pen in one hand. A fierce, huffing demeanor held her at the ready before him. Her stance declared she was prepared for more fight.
“It’s okay,” Jason reassured. “He’s out.”
She nodded, but her defensive pose remained. Impressive. She’d been terrorized. The adrenaline must be coursing through her like a snowmobile around a racetrack.
“That was—You were—incredible.” Jason finally found the right words. “You are certainly no damsel.”
“No, I’m not.” She winced, but lifted her chin. “He was strong. Stronger than...”
Jason sensed the adrenaline was beginning to rapidly drop from the high that had served her the strength to defend herself. Yvette’s body began to shake. He rushed over and took her in his arms.
“It’s okay.” He hugged her firmly, pressing his face against the crown of her head. She smelled like salt and summer. A sweep of soft hair tickled his nose. His thundering heartbeats thudded loudly. But was it from the moment of attack, or from the surprising feeling of holding a trembling woman in his arms? Mercy. She had reacted unexpectedly bravely. And her sudden surge of strength may have saved her life.
“You did good, Yvette. Guy’s out like a light.” For now. “I need to cuff him. Can I let you go?”
She nodded against his chest, though her fingers clung to his biceps, unwilling to relent. Jason stepped back but bowed to check her gaze. When she offered him a wincing smile, he slowly extracted himself from her grip. She wasn’t going to faint. Not this brave woman.
Digging out the cuffs from his jacket, he bent to secure the suspect’s hands behind his back.
“You know this guy?” he asked over his shoulder.
“No. Do you?”
“He’s the guy from the black SUV.”
“I told you I didn’t know him when you asked in the diner.”
“I know, but he put up my hackles. I pinned him for something more than a guy taking in the scenery. He was following you.”
“He was? How did you—Why didn’t you stop him before he got here?”
“I thought I had.” Jason stood and grabbed the back of a fallen chair and righted it. He lifted a boot, realizing the papers scattered on the floor were wet and torn. No saving them. “I didn’t expect him to rent a snowmobile and go after you. Why was he after you?”
“We’ve been over this, Chief Cash. I’ve never met him.”
“How did he get inside the cabin?”
“I, uh...” She clutched her throat. Her fingers visibly shook. “Opened the door.”
Jason stopped an admonishing retort and instead asked carefully, “You always let strangers inside?”
“He said he had a delivery from The Moose. Why did you talk to him in town? What made you wonder about him?”
“He looked suspicious. We’ve got an active investigation going on and—”
“Investigation? Like what? A man attacking women?”
She was close. Jason never gave out details of an ongoing investigation. Was the man on the floor the one who had murdered the woman he’d found in the ditch this morning? He had been attempting to strangle Yvette. The one in the ditch had died by strangulation. And Jason never subscribed to coincidence.
Yet would a stalker, or even some sort of serial strangler, have allowed a woman to get the upper hand with a weapon so simple as a tactical pen?
As well, how many seemingly innocent women vacationing in a secluded cabin carried a tactical pen on them? It was a self-defense weapon that most did not know about or bother to keep close enough to use.
“That’s a handy thing, isn’t it?” He gestured to the rugged black steel pen she still held.
She clutched it against her chest and lifted her chin. “I never go anywhere without it. It’s something I was trained—”
“You’ve taken self-defense training?”
When she looked up quickly, as if he’d discovered a secret, a moment of clarity softened her features, then she shrugged. “Like you said, I’m not a damsel.”
“I guess not. But didn’t the training class teach you never to open the door to a stranger?”
Another shrug. She avoided his gaze, as well. Hmm...
“Are you going to get him out of here?” she asked with a gesture to the fallen attacker.
“I’ll give Officer Larson a call.” Jason wasn’t ready to leave without asking more questions. And he couldn’t do that and watch the perp at the same time. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Of course I am,” she said a little too quickly. Then a sweep of her hand through her hair preceded a hefty sigh. “But if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to step into the, uh...little girls’ room for a bit.”
“Go ahead. I won’t leave until this guy is out of your hair.” He tugged out his phone and dialed up dispatch. He and Alex alternated shifts, but both were on call 24/7. And he’d rather have him come and assist than the lackadaisical Ryan Bay.
* * *
YVETTE CLOSED THE bathroom door behind her and exhaled. Her shoulders hit the door. She caught her head in a palm. Her entire body shook, but she didn’t cry. She sank, bending her knees, until she sat on the tiled floor.
That man could have killed her.
She was thankful tha
t the police chief was here and had rescued her in the nick of time. But a retreat to the bathroom had been necessary. She hadn’t wanted him to see her break down. And what was this shaking about? She was better than this—trained for such encounters, and well able to defend herself against some of the strongest attackers.
Yet she hadn’t panicked when he’d come at her. She had done her best to protect herself from what could have been a terrible outcome. Because the man had had his hands about her neck and his thumbs pressed against her larynx. She’d gasped and had felt her lungs tighten.
It had been over a year since she’d worked as a field agent and had exercised her defense skills. Had she gotten so out of shape and ineffective in such a short time?
“Get it together, Amelie,” she whispered. “Why did this happen?”
Because Amelie Desauliniers had been sent out of the country to hide under an assumed identity. But hide from whom or what hadn’t been made clear to her. Surely this hadn’t been a random attack. And yet she was undercover. Dark. Who had found her?
A quiet knock on the door preceded “Yvette? You okay in there?”
She closed her eyes.
“Yvette?”
“Oh.” Despite embracing the name, it just didn’t click sometimes. As well, she’d have to form words to reassure the police chief. Inhaling a quiet sniffle, she said, “Sorry. Yes, give me a few minutes. I’m a little shaken.”
“Thought you might be. I’ll be out in the living room. Another officer is on the way to pick up the perp.”
She waited until his boots echoed away down the hall. Amelie stood and walked to the sink. Twisting on the water spigot, she splashed her face but let out a gasp. She would never get used to the fact the water took a good three or four minutes to reach room temperature. But the frigid water did work to shock away her tears.
Pressing a towel over her face to dry it, she then nodded at her reflection. The agent she had once been must be tugged out of retirement. For survival purposes. “I can do this.”
But she couldn’t ask the sexy police chief for help. Her stay here in Minnesota was classified. And not knowing what she knew had suddenly become a detriment. She had to speak with her boss. And soon.