The Dead Chill

by Linda Berry

  Surprised, Selena puzzled over this. “Who?”

  She shrugged. “You’ll have to ask them.”

  Selena sipped her coffee, thinking. “One more question, Cadence. It’s possible Nikah was seeing someone. Do you have any idea who that might be?”

  “You mean romantically?”

  “Yes.”

  “Funny you should ask that. She’d been acting secretive lately. That may be what she wanted to talk to me about the night she died. I may know who it is.” Her brow creased and fear flickered across her face. “But I can’t say.”

  “It’s important that the police talk to him. He may have information that could help find her killer. No one will know his name came from you.”

  She hesitated, and then said in a low voice, as though confessing a sin, “Tommy Chetwoot.”

  “Tommy?” Selena raised her brows. “What makes you think that?”

  “She was dodgy when I brought him up. Always changing the subject. Driving by her house, sometimes I’d see him coming or going. Or she’d mentioned he was stopping by to pick something up, or drop something off, or to have a cup of coffee. Pretty cozy, if you ask me.”

  “Hmmm. He’s at least twenty years older.”

  “Yeah, but he’s really good-looking. And smart. And he has money.”

  “Money? He’s a high school teacher and herbalist. Not exactly an oil executive.”

  “He chooses to live humble. His family is loaded.”

  “Elahan has money?”

  “Yes. Through her son, Chac. Casino money. He’s part owner. Look, please don’t mention that this information came from me. They have a lot of power in the village. They can make my life difficult.”

  “It never came from you,” Selena assured her.

  Cadence drained her cup and her beautiful dark eyes met Selena’s. “I want to thank you for listening, and not judging me. I’m glad I remained anonymous. There are rumors going around the village. Finger-pointing. It seems everyone’s blaming the victims. Some say the victims must have enticed the Stalker in some way.”

  “That’s cruel, and ignorant. It’s not your fault you were attacked. The man who did this is a violent criminal. A sociopath.” Selena toned down her indignation and gently squeezed the young woman’s hand. “You’re an innocent victim. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Tears welled in Cadence’s eyes. “I feel dirty. I can’t get the smell of him out of my head. I can’t forget what he did. I wonder if he’s out there, watching me.”

  Selena was afraid for her. Cadence had a legitimate fear. The Stalker obviously had been watching her. How else would he have known she was home alone the night she was attacked? “I think you should take precautions. Keep someone with you at all times until this man is caught.”

  Cadence chewed her lip and looked frightened. She nodded.

  “I also recommend you talk to someone about what happened to you. A professional. I have the name of a grief counselor. I’m in her group. She’s really helped me.”

  “I don’t know…”

  Selena pulled a card from her purse and placed it on the table. “Come once and see how you like it. You don’t have to say anything. Just observe.” Selena gave her a warm smile. “I’ll be there. You can sit with me.”

  Cadence shoved the card into her purse, put on a brave face, and yanked on her parka. “I better get going. I’m late for work.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A WOLF’S HIGH-PITCHED howls of distress reached Moolock through the quiet of the snowy morning from a quarter-mile away. He pressed his heels into the gelding’s side and Shantie instinctively headed toward the yelps at a quick gait. As they neared the location, shrouded by evergreens, he heard unnatural, frenzied thrashing in the brush. A sharp tinge of anger tightened his chest. He slipped off Shantie’s back, grabbed his bolt cutters and catch pole and steeled himself for what he might see as he advanced through the snow. In the past, he’d found many trapped animals too late. The pitiable creatures died slow deaths, suffering from dehydration, blood loss, hypothermia, starvation. Some became so desperate to escape they broke teeth trying to chew or twist off their own limbs.

  To prevent the wolf from panicking further, Moolock murmured in canine language, offering the consoling sounds a mother made to her pups. The thrashing and frantic yipping stopped abruptly. Moolock separated the boughs of two pine trees and stepped quietly into the small clearing. A young male wolf stood panting, exhausted, watching his every move with large amber eyes. His head was lowered, ears straight up, one hind leg stretched straight out behind him, caught in the jaws of the trap. No blood stained the snow, but excessive crisscrossing paw prints indicated the animal had been trying to free itself for some hours. The wolf was magnificent, with the soft, thick coat prized by the fur industry. His fur was light gray, the outer hairs tipped with black. The backs of his ears were red, his muzzle gold, and his throat and belly white. For a moment Moolock imagined his hide through the eyes of the trapper who had buried the cruel device, fashioned into a coat covering a rich man’s body.

  As he approached, Moolock’s quiet movements and soft tones subdued the wolf. With a motion so fast it was a blur, Moolock lowered the loop at the end of his pole over the animal’s head, tightened it around its neck and pressed its head to the ground while reaching down and releasing the springs on the trap. He then eased the loop from its neck. The animal locked eyes with his for a long moment and Moolock had the sensation of staring into its soul, into the heart of God. The creature leapt to its feet and bounded off into the brush with an exuberant flurry of snow.

  For a moment Moolock shared its exhilaration, then his eyes focused on the trap and anger flooded his system. As he suspected, the registration numbers had been filed off, as were most of the traps he found these days. Wolves were protected in Oregon. But that didn’t stop a few heartless bastards from slaughtering them, and other animals, with impunity, hidden from the eyes of the law in the vast reaches of the backcountry. Moolock had covered seven square miles by horseback in the last two days, confiscating a dozen illegal traps and releasing two coyotes and a red fox. He destroyed four body snares, designed to kill an animal by strangulation or by crushing its vital organs.

  Moolock snapped through the chain with his bolt cutter and carried the trap back to Shantie, where he added it to the other confiscated traps in his canvas pack. Some inexplicable warning murmured in a distant region of his mind before his ears picked up the snick of metal on metal, the unmistakable sound of a clip snapping into the magazine of a rifle. Moolock dove for the ground as high velocity rounds tore holes into the trunks of nearby trees. The air inside the clearing filled with smoke and bits of pulverized wood. The sound was deafening. Shantie shrieked and took off at a gallop.

  When caught in a firefight in Afghanistan, Moolock was often scared shitless, but military training was ingrained and he performed his duty relying on muscle memory, as he did now. Lying flat in the snow, he pulled his Sig Sauer P320 handgun from its leg holster and aimed in the direction of the shots. Through the veil of snow and swirling debris, he focused on a copse of cedars thirty feet away. He fired, emptying his magazine. Pieces of branches exploded into the air.

  Moolock clipped in another magazine and waited until the wisps of smoke cleared and the last piece of debris drifted to the ground. Nothing moved. He lay immobile, every muscle tense, gripping his weapon until the pounding of his heart and the tingling in his hands subsided. The shooter had fled, was injured, or dead.

  Moolock sprang to his feet. In a crouch, he ducked behind the cover of trees and made a roundabout path to the place where the shooter had been rooted. From there he cast his gaze to the spot where he and Shantie had stood. Clear shot. Moolock had been lucky. Fast action saved his life. He took the near-death warning to heart. This trapper, who was engaging in illegal activities, was tired of Moolock interfering in his business. Now he wanted him dead.

  With tension thrumming through his system, Mool
ock followed the trapper’s boot prints into the woods and immediately spotted a small red stain in the snow. Then the prints spread farther apart. The man was running, dripping blood. He’d caught one of Moolock’s bullets. Not enough blood loss to be life threatening, but certainly bad enough to need immediate attention. The boot prints led to the tracks of a horse, which had been mounted and spurred into a quick gait. After another quarter mile the tracks disappeared into White Tail Creek.

  Moolock retraced his steps back to the clearing, thinking about the coldblooded trapper who had no qualms about killing. He had seen this trapper’s boot prints in the forest many times before, but only once had they crossed paths in real time. Several months back in the dry heat of summer, this man had silently watched him teach Nikah and Tegan how to dismantle a trap and release a raccoon. They found the trapper’s prints shortly thereafter. The man had fled on this same horse. His presence had raised an alarm. Moolock warned Nikah never to go out into the backcountry alone. She agreed. But two weeks ago, she confessed she had been going out on her own all along, dismantling traps and releasing animals. A trapper tracked her down and she barely got away in her car. The man later surprised her in a dark parking lot in town and viciously threatened her. Moolock saw she was frightened, though she tried to hide it. He was frightened for her. Nikah was strong-willed, and he knew that regardless of his stern warnings, she would continue to do what she passionately believed in.

  Now Nikah was dead. Slaughtered, like these animals. A chill touched his spine. Was this trapper her killer? He wasn’t worried for himself, but for Tegan. The boy was in imminent danger. Distracted by his dark emotions, Moolock had missed the warning signs and allowed this man to creep up on him, watch him, hold his life in his hands.

  The emotion that welled inside Moolock surprised him. It wasn’t bitterness or guilt. It wasn’t even sorrow. It was anger, and it coursed through him like venom. Not since Afghanistan had he felt emotions so intense. Memories of soldiers blown to pieces by IEDs flickered in his mind. With effort, he shut them down.

  Moolock could not put off what needed to be done. This man had to be rooted out, and killed, if necessary. He whistled and Shantie sauntered back into the clearing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  SELENA WENT OUT to her Jeep and called her sister. “Where are you?”

  “We just got out of a meeting with the Tribal Council. I’m waiting for Granger. What’s up?”

  “I just had coffee with Cadence.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “Ready for a bomb? She was the first rape victim.”

  “Holy Hell,” Sidney said. “Hold on, I’m going out to my car so we can talk in private.”

  Selena heard her sister crunching through snow, then a car door slammed and Sidney got back on the line. “Brief me. Speak slowly. I’m recording this. Go ahead.”

  Selena recited their entire conversation as close to verbatim as she could remember, then added, “Tommy Chetwoot is a piece of work.”

  “Yeah, he is. Full of surprises and glaring omissions.”

  “It may have been a harmless friendship,” Selena said, “But if he was interested in Nikah, that would have given him good reason to contrive a story about Lancer to get him out of the village.”

  “True. Now we learn the Stalker may not even be white.”

  “Tommy may be the council member who directed everyone to look in that direction. Pointing the finger at Lancer.”

  “Possible. But there’s another council member too, a woman, who may have started that rumor. She’s very hostile toward white people. White men in particular.”

  Selena chewed this over, unwilling to release Tommy from her train of thoughts. “Tommy could be Nikah’s killer. Maybe she rejected him. Maybe she was going back to her boyfriend. Dad used to say turn over every rock.”

  “He did.” Sidney chuckled. “You’re good, Selena. Lancer did say they were getting back together. I’ll dig around a little more. See if Tommy had romantic intentions. See if he has an alibi for the night Nikah was murdered. Jealousy is a powerful motive.”

  Selena glanced at the sky. Light snow was feathering the windshield. “Well, I’m signing off. Got some serious business to attend to.”

  “Yoga class?”

  “Yep. My students will be lining up, eager to get a calming dose of mindfulness. After yesterday, I need it, too. Big time.”

  “I hear you. Send some my way.”

  “Namaste, Sis.”

  With another chuckle, Sidney disconnected.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  GRANGER TREKKED OUT of the Cultural Center and hopped into the Yukon, his notebook gripped in one hand. “Got the info, Chief.”

  “Get it to Amanda, pronto,” Sidney said.

  Granger got on his cell phone. Radio traffic could be listened to by scanner. Sensitive information was always relayed by phone.

  While Granger spoke to Amanda on speaker, Sidney pulled out of the lot and followed the curve of the lake, leaving the village behind.

  “Make a list of every item that was stolen,” Granger said, “Then get the list to Winnie and tell her to send it to all the local pawn shops.”

  “Listen,” Sidney added. “The Stalker may not be white. And he has a peculiar smell. A chemical, or building material.”

  “Yech. That opens up a whole new suspect list.”

  When they disconnected, Sidney said to Granger, “Selena gave me the name of one of the rape victims. Cadence. Who’s the other?”

  He flipped a page on his notebook. “Tammy Muehler. Forty-five. Husband was out of town. That’s all Jenna would give me.”

  “Hmmm. A woman home alone. Same as Cadence. How did the Stalker know those details?”

  “He must hang out where people congregate and talk. The saloon, the general store, the cultural center.” He cleared his throat. “Gotta be someone who blends in. I doubt Grisly blends in.”

  “A tall, white man? He’d stand out like a mongrel at a poodle show. Tommy said he drinks at the saloon sometimes.”

  “That’s more feasible. He could’ve seen Cadence perform. Maybe she sparked his interest.”

  “People shoot off their mouths when they drink. He may have overheard something about her being home alone. Run a background on him.”

  Granger’s fingers got busy tapping the keyboard.

  Sidney focused on the road. The sky had turned cast iron gray and light snow was falling. She turned the wipers on low and they squeaked across the windshield. The forest was denser on the east side of the lake and the land rose in elevation, blocking the view of Two Creeks Village on the opposite shore. The snow was deeper and unplowed driveways were few and far between. Mostly summer cabins out here.

  “Grisly’s got a record,” Granger said. “Drunk and disorderly. A domestic four years ago. Charges were dropped. Sexual assault three years ago. No conviction. Since then, he’s been clean. A couple traffic violations.” He glanced up from the computer and met her gaze. “History of violence against women. But nothing stuck.”

  “There’s always more going on than what crops up in a courtroom. We need to get in his face about the domestic and the assault.”

  A couple more miles of forest flew by with no sign of human habitation. Grisly’s domain was isolated, far from the amenities of civilization. She slowed to a crawl when she caught sight of a newly plowed driveway. The name Stokes and his address were crudely painted on a mailbox. She made a hard left onto the narrow driveway and followed it around a bend, the tires skidding on ice. The driveway opened to a clearing. A good-sized barn stood on the left and a sturdy log cabin was off to the right, roofs covered by thick mantles of snow.

  She and Granger exited the cab and advanced toward the cabin. The wind blew frost from the trees, making her eyes tear a little.

  Pow-WHOP.

  A sharp crack exploded, followed by a guttural boom that rolled over the terrain. A bullet shot from a high-powered rifle struck a tree fifteen yards away,
making a blunt and solid airborne grunt.

  The shooter had aimed to miss. Still, Sidney’s heart beat like a war drum. Granger’s sharp intake of breath was followed by an angry curse. Her eyes darted toward the origin of the shot. A man was silhouetted in the entrance of the barn.

  “You’re trespassing,” his deep voice bellowed. “What do you want?” The rifle was now pointed at the ground.

  Sidney saw that the police emblem on her vehicle door was frosted over. Huddled in their thick jackets and hats with earflaps, she and Granger didn’t look like cops. “I’m Police Chief Becker,” she yelled back. “This is Officer Wyatt. You Grisly Stokes?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We need to ask you some questions.”

  “Got a warrant?”

  “Do we need one?” Sidney asked. “You doing something illegal on the premises?”

  In answer, Stokes spat on the ground, leaned his rifle against the doorframe, and approached through the softly falling snow. He was decked out in a matching camouflage jacket and pants and thick-soled hunting boots. He was tall with limp blond hair and pale eyes deeply set in a bony face. A beak-like nose protruded from a scruffy beard and his cheeks were flushed beet red from the cold. A real charmer.

  Stokes stopped about five feet away and stared long and hard at Granger. His cold, unblinking gaze turned to Sidney, moving from the top of her head to her feet—a tactic she was familiar with from years of encounters with hardened criminals who tried, and failed, to intimidate her. Unfazed, Sidney stared back with the kind of scrutiny that made criminals feel uncomfortable.

  Grisly blinked first. “So, what do you want?”

  “There’s been a murder in Two Creeks Village,” she said. “We’re questioning everyone in the vicinity. See if anyone noticed anything.”

  “What night was she murdered?”

  “How’d you know it was a woman?” Granger asked. “How’d you know it happened at night?”