Winter Song (Seasons Pass Book 1)

by Susan C. Muller

  “No, stay here. Protect the scene. Don’t touch anything and don’t call anyone.” Noah sprinted for the car and peeled rubber for half a block.

  Conner stood in the ice-crusted grass for a full minute, watching the taillights disappear. He pivoted and nearly fell when his foot slipped. The garage would be warmer than standing outside in this weather.

  He was still on the driveway when he noticed a bright orange hose snaking its way from the exhaust pipe of Noah’s truck, across the garage, and up a set of wooden folding stairs. Halfway up the stairs, the orange hose screwed into a yellow hose, then disappeared into the open attic.

  Fumes stung Conner’s eyes as he stepped into the garage. He coughed and moved closer, squatting beside the truck exhaust. A rag held the hose in place and would have blocked vapor from escaping. He immediately recognized the remnants of Noah’s hideous traffic-cone orange and white striped golf shirt that he’d squirted mustard on one weekend last summer.

  Betsy had laughed and clapped him on the back as he rubbed the stain into the fabric, ensuring that it could never be worn again. “Thanks, Conner. I was trying to figure out how to get rid of that shirt.” Noah had sputtered, but went inside to change.

  Now here was a torn strip of Noah’s shirt, tied to a hose funneling exhaust fumes into his attic. Conner closed his eyes. Had it come to this?

  He’d been so worried for so long, but lately Noah had seemed better. He smiled, made an occasional joke, even laughed once in a while. He still only nibbled at his food, and the dark circles under his eyes said he didn’t sleep well, but he gave every indication he was stronger, that he’d rounded a corner.

  I dropped the ball. He was trying to convince me he was better. All the while the devious son-of-a-bitch was making plans.

  Conner dropped to his butt and lowered his head into his hands. As he stared at the rag, the message light at the back of his brain began blinking.

  Noah had joked about being an Eagle Scout. In this very backyard, he’d taught Conner how to tie different knots and what each was used for. The knot used to tie the rag on the tailpipe was sloppy, loose. Fumes still lingered in the air and a gap showed where gas had escaped.

  If Noah had done this, he’d have done it right. And he wouldn’t have asked Conner to protect the scene.

  What other things had some fucker screwed up and left behind?

  If Noah had pulled into the emergency clinic on two wheels last time, this time he executed a power slide inches in front of the main entrance. When he hit the clinic door with the heel of his hand, pain shot all the way up his arm. He was inside before the sound of Conner’s engine had died away.

  The skinny lab tech dropped his clipboard and gaped at Noah.

  “I need the doc right away. She’s got carbon monoxide poisoning. She stopped breathing for a while, but I got her going again.” Noah’s words tumbled out.

  The kid didn’t say a word, but disappeared into a back area, then reappeared down the hall, motioning Noah to follow him.

  He led Noah to an exam room then disappeared again. Before Noah had time to object, the same pudgy vet appeared.

  “She’s breathing better now, doc. But she was in bad shape for a while and it’s all my fault. She got a lot more gas than I did, and she’s so much smaller. Can you save her?” He raked a swollen hand through matted hair, his voice a hoarse whisper.

  The vet glanced at Noah before taking Sweet Pea. “Wait out front, I’ll get her on some oxygen, then I’ll come talk to you.”

  Noah paced the tile floor of the waiting room, his footsteps the only sound. He ignored the orange plastic sofa and the year-old magazines, even the hospital smell, but he couldn’t ignore the hammering of his heart or the burning sensation behind his eyes.

  Minutes passed, or maybe it was hours. He couldn’t tell the difference. When the vet appeared, Noah sank onto the sofa, unable to control his trembling legs.

  “Did I get her out in time, doc? Is she going to make it?”

  “Sweet Pea is recovering, but she’s had a rough couple of days. She doesn’t have any reserves left. Not only is she not strong enough to go through this again, she shouldn’t have to. Just like a doctor or teacher has a legal responsibility to protect a child they suspect of being abused, I have a responsibility to protect Sweet Pea.”

  The vet studied Noah and continued. “It’s up to me to see that she’s safe and well taken care of. Do you understand what I’m saying, Mr. Daugherty?”

  Noah pulled himself up to his full six-foot-two and glared down at the smaller man. The vet didn’t back off and Noah had to give him props for that. “That’s Detective Daugherty to you, and I am trying to see that she’s safe. That’s why I brought her to you. Now, I’m not sure what you think you know, but you’re way off base.”

  “Mr. . . . Detective Daugherty, look in the mirror. In one glance, I can see a bruised jaw, abrasions around your throat, red, raw eyes, and possibly a broken hand. You’ve been fighting, drinking and doing drugs. I suspect you passed out in your car with the motor running. In the last two days alone, you’ve fed Sweet Pea spicy food, allowed her to ingest a powerful narcotic, and exposed her to lethal gas. You’re not capable of taking care of this dog.”

  “Giving Sweet Pea that sausage patty was poor judgment on my part, and won’t happen again. But we both know throwing it up is what saved her life. As for the other, I had one beer yesterday evening.” At least he thought it was only one beer. Two were missing. “I’ve never done drugs in my life and my father taught me as a teenager to avoid fights whenever possible. But some fights you can’t avoid, and this is the way you look when a three-hundred-pound coke-head who doesn’t want to spend the night in jail decides to throw you off a second story landing.”

  Noah took a deep breath, but it burned all the way down his lungs. “Now some low-life that’s too much of a coward to come at me straight on, tried to get rid of Sweet Pea so she couldn’t bark and warn me, then poisoned us both with carbon monoxide. I might need her to stay here for a couple of days until I know it’s safe for her to come home. But make no mistake, she will be coming home with me.”

  The vet actually apologized, and, after subtle pressure from Noah, agreed to x-ray his swollen and discolored hand. If the hand was broken, Noah needed to have it taken care of, but if it wasn’t, he didn’t have the time to waste sitting in a hospital emergency room.

  “I don’t see any break,” the vet had admitted, “but this is outside of my field of expertise. And with the number of bones in the hand, I can’t guarantee anything.”

  “That’s good enough for me. Thanks, Doc.” Noah was out the door and in Conner’s SUV before the vet could answer.

  On the drive home, Noah felt empty, deflated. If he’d just rolled over and shut his eyes. Five more minutes and he’d have been with Betsy.

  Noah parked in the same spot Conner had an hour earlier. He felt incomplete without Sweet Pea. When he thought how close some scumbag had come to finishing her off, his hands clenched into fists. What would he do if she had brain damage?

  The crescent moon was low in the night sky and the stars had started to fade. For the first time, he understood the phrase, “It’s always darkest before the dawn.”

  His partner was nowhere to be seen as he trudged across the frozen grass, through the still open garage door, and into his house. The windows and doors had been closed, and Noah sniffed loudly, checking for fumes. The inside air was only a few degrees warmer than the outside, but it didn’t burn his nose or throat, and he couldn’t detect the presence of lingering gas.

  Conner was sitting at his kitchen table, drinking coffee. He hated that his partner had been through his house, seen how he lived. But anger at the man who’d done this quickly replaced any embarrassment.

  “There are things we need to talk about when this is over.” Conner pushed a cup of coffee his direction. “But that can wait until after we catch this son-of-a-bitch. Do you think this was personal, or tied to a case?”


  “I’ve been thinking about that. No question I’ve pissed off plenty of people, but I can’t come up with one that would risk the shit that would rain down from killing a cop.”

  Conner tapped his spiral. “I’ve made a list of our most volatile perps. I’ll check them out, but I believe they’re all locked away. And none have family that care enough to take revenge. Most would be more likely to send you a thank you note.”

  “So that leaves the Hudson case. We aren’t working on anything else where taking me out could make any difference, and this happened right after I appeared on TV talking about Crystal Hudson’s death.” That son-of-a-bitch reporter. I should have ignored him when he pushed that microphone in my face.

  “I agree. Nothing else makes sense. This is an amateur. Someone who believes without you, the investigation would stall. Do you think Hudson ordered it?”

  “That’s possible. I wouldn’t put it past him. The other side of that coin is the shooter. Hudson could be holding up payment till things cool down. With me gone, he might think Hudson would pay up faster.” Noah took a sip of his coffee. The hot liquid scorched his raw throat, but soothed his jumpy nerves.

  Conner’s fingerprint kit sat on the table between them and he admitted he’d already tested the truck door handle, the key fob, the tailpipe, the two hoses, and the attic door pull. But Noah had touched most of those things, and the others didn’t have a surface conducive for fingerprints.

  Noah took another sip of his coffee. It burned going down, but not as much as before. “Check the side garage door, both knobs, then I have some interesting places I want to try.”

  When Conner returned, shaking his head, Noah showed him the ceiling panel over the dryer. Conner’s eyes went wide with surprise. “That is an interesting place. I would never have thought of it.”

  “Yep, and while you’re at it, try the dryer too. Anyplace someone might put their hands if they were climbing down.” No point in getting Conner to test the handle on the fridge. He’d used it too many times since Friday.

  “One more spot.” Noah led his partner into the living room. “I’m not sure you can get anything from it, but do you see that line in the dust?” He flipped on all the lights and pointed to the piano bench.

  Conner knelt beside the bench and studied the mark, before digging in his case for a small brush.

  Noah stood, replaying in his mind every move he’d made when he came home Friday and found Sweet Pea sick. If only he hadn’t cleaned the floor. He’d even put bleach in the washing machine with the rags.

  He spun on one heel and rushed into his bedroom. Which shoes had he been wearing? He dug through the closet and pulled out his black loafers, still slightly damp from a day spent trudging through icy streets. One shoe was clean, but the other had tiny grains of a white substance stuck to the bottom.

  Before taking the shoe to Conner, he checked the back of his sock drawer. Both his sleeping pills were nestled safely in a small plastic container.

  Conner held the shoe in one hand and a small plastic evidence bag in the other. “Are you sure you want me to do this? I didn’t let you touch anything, but any decent defense attorney would use my involvement to cast doubt on everything I’ve collected tonight.”

  “I don’t care about that. I don’t want the SOB for attempted murder. I want him for the actual murder of Crystal Hudson. And anyone else he’s hit. This wasn’t his first time at the rodeo. He’s done this before and I’m going to stop him before he does it again. These prints may point us in the right direction.”

  Noah finished his coffee while Conner packed up the evidence he’d collected. “I’m headed home after I drop these off for forensics. I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything. Try to get some rest. We have to hit the ground running as soon as we know anything. Do you want me to help get the hose down?”

  “No, I can do it. You get moving so you can spend at least part of the day with Jeannie.”

  He stood in front of the garage and watched Conner drive off. The sun was up and the sky had cleared, but his yard was littered with limbs that had broken during the ice storm. His neighbors, their faces slack with shock, began to venture out and survey the damage to their own yards. He’d seen hurricanes leave less debris behind.

  Three hours later, he was sweating and freezing at the same time, but his yard was clear and neatly bundled piles of tree limbs waited at the curb for the city to pick them up. He stumbled inside and tried to convince himself to eat something. A piece of toast and some coffee were all he could force down.

  He sped through his house, a whirlwind of cleaning, until no trace of fingerprint powder remained. He even opened the windows to air out any hint of gas fumes. While cleaning the yard, he’d gone in and out the front door, unable to face the garage. Now he wanted that hose out of his house.

  In the garage, he disconnected the two hoses and untied the rag holding them to his tailpipe, but not before he noticed the sloppy workmanship. His own shirt and his own hose. He kicked the jumble of tangled hose, and pain shot up from his sore foot.

  The attic stairs were still down and he climbed them carefully. Crawling through the small space, he had a moment of claustrophobia. He shook it off. If some stranger could do it, so could he. The space narrowed even more, but he could see a glimmer of light ahead.

  The hose, which had snaked its way across the attic, ended at the small square of light. Noah tried to sit up on his knees, but banged his head on a rafter. Two hundred pounds resting on hands and knees on a two-by-four, with his head crouched down. The pain in his knees would have been excruciating if he hadn’t been so busy concentrating on not getting stuck.

  How did the guy know where to go? He almost had to have been here before.

  Light drifted in through the latticework at the far end of the attic. Dust motes floated in the air and Noah rubbed his nose. The streetlight would have given minimal lighting at night, still, one wrong move and the guy would have fallen through the ceiling.

  He crawled forward a few more inches and peered into the opening. Fuck. Directly over his bed. Had the guy stayed here and watched him sleep? This was beyond weird. He sat back on his haunches and banged his head again.

  Noah tried to turn around, but there simply wasn’t room. He had to back out. As he reached the stairs, he remembered that he hadn’t untied the hose from the air vent. A groan escaped when he realized he’d have to go back. That could wait until he had a hammer and nails, something to fix that vent properly. Before climbing down, he glanced toward the kitchen. Marks in the dust showed someone had traveled that way recently.

  If necessary, he could have forensics test the area for prints and fibers. For now, he shoved the last section of hose into the attic and closed the door.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, he replayed everything he knew. The killer had obviously been stalking him, but for how long? Had that been the noise Sweet Pea heard on Thursday night? The killer had definitely come in sometime on Friday and tried to poison Sweet Pea, probably to keep her from barking, but was that the first time he’d been in the house?

  Noah thought of the air duct pushed to the side, and the clear view of his bed. Chills ran down his spine. Had the killer started spying when Noah appeared on TV discussing Crystal Hudson’s shooting, or had he started sooner, while Betsy was still alive?

  He had a flash of memory of Betsy, running from the shower to the closet wearing only a towel. His hand had darted out and grabbed a corner of the towel and yanked. They had fallen onto the bed, Betsy’s rich, throaty laughter filling him. Had that pervert been watching?

  His chest tightened until not a sip of air could pass. The thought of some low-life sitting safe in a jail cell, remembering his Betsy . . . He couldn’t let that happen.

  He would have to kill the guy.

  An hour later, Noah hadn’t moved from the kitchen table. The phone rang several times before he answered. Even then, he only grunted.

  “Hey partner, you there? I heard f
rom forensics.”

  “What’s the word?” Noah’s voice was rough, just above a whisper, but in the last two days, he’d been strangled and gassed, so Conner didn’t seem suspicious.

  “Nothing. Most of the prints were useless. A couple were good, but they didn’t lead anywhere. Still, we’ll have a comparison if we catch the SOB.”

  “When we catch him.” Noah fought to keep his breathing steady. “What about the white powder?”

  “Not yet. Maybe tomorrow. I stopped by to check with the video tech guys, and they promised to have a list of possible license plates first thing in the morning. How about I come over and we start canvassing the neighborhood? Maybe a nosy Nellie was watching out the window and saw a strange car or somebody hanging around.”

  “I’ve already asked the neighbors for two houses on either side and across the street. You know how it is, nobody saw nothing. I figure he came around two or three in the morning. Only moms with bawling babies are up at that time and there’s none of those on this street.” Noah’s heart skipped a beat. No use crying over that now.

  Noah squirmed. Omitting information wasn’t the same as lying, but hiding something from his partner didn’t sit well with him. And neglecting to mention what he found in the attic was only half of what he left out.

  An almost full beer can was caught in a hedge two doors down. And the brand was the same as the can missing from Noah’s fridge. Too bad the neighbor had crushed it and tossed it in the trash.

  So the creep had headed east after his first visit, which was more likely the direction he felt comfortable with. If he was going to find the guy on his own, that was the direction to start.