“Crime fiction at its finest—beautifully written and imagined, yet packed with raw power, like an iron fist in a velvet glove.”—Lee Child
“Suspense of the highest order.”— Chicago Sun-Times
“P. J. Parrish delivers a powerful read every time.”—Linda Fairstein
Praise for Edgar Award finalist P. J. Parrish and her acclaimed series featuring the crime-tracking team of Louis Kincaid and Joe Frye
THE LITTLE DEATH
“Louis Kincaid is the detective I would want on the case if it was someone I knew on the slab. This is P. J. Parrish’s best work yet!”
—Michael Connelly
“Sex, murder, and money, all set in the insanity that is Palm Beach society.”
—Brad Meltzer
“Wow! What a story. . . . A triumph for P. J. Parrish.”
—Sandra Brown
SOUTH OF HELL
A 2009 Anthony Award Finalist
“A superlative series. . . . A commanding and addicting reading experience.”
—Book Reporter
“[The] tense plot careens with multiple twists as the suspense accelerates.”
—Orlando Sentinel
A THOUSAND BONES
A Cosmopolitan magazine “Sizzling Summer Read”
“Stunningly crafted page after page, on the way to a thrilling climax. . . .”
—Linda Fairstein, New York Times bestselling author
“Sizzle[s] with taut suspense. . . . Another top-notch whodunit.”
—Publishers Weekly
And don’t miss this “high octane” (Orlando Sentinel) thriller from P. J. Parrish
THE KILLING SONG
From Miami to underground Paris, investigative reporter Matt Owens hunts for his sister’s killer. But is the monster playing him next?
“Tense, thrilling. . . . You’re going to bite your nails!”
—Lee Child, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“P. J. Parrish has crafted one of the best criminals ever. . . . So riveting you won’t be able to stop turning the pages.”
—Lisa Scottoline, New York Times bestselling author
“Truly original, with a killer that will make your skin crawl. . . . A great book for fans of Thomas Harris or Chelsea Cain.”
—Changing Hands Bookstore (staff pick)
“Complex, sophisticated. . . . A guaranteed can’t-put-down book that absorbed me as much as The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.”
—Roberta Gately
“Unrelenting tension. . . . Detailed insight into the killer’s twisted mind.”
—Shelf Awareness
“Intense. . . . The frenetic pace barely gives the reader time to breathe.”
—Orlando Sentinel
“If you enjoy a good travelogue with your thrills and chills, this is one you won’t want to miss!”
—Criminal Element
More praise for the spellbinding crime fiction of P. J. Parrish
“If you haven’t discovered the fast-paced action, terrifying suspense, and hairpin twists of P. J. Parrish yet, now’s the time.”
—Mystery Guild
“An invigorating ride.”
—Baltimore Sun
“Her ability to raise goose bumps puts her in the front rank of thriller writers.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Wonderfully tense and atmospheric . . . keeps the reader guessing.”
—Miami Herald
“A really fine writer.”
—John Sandford
“A masterpiece of shock and surprise . . . startling, stunning.”
—Ed Gorman, Mystery Scene
“Parrish is an author to read, collect, and root for.”
—James W. Hall
“Opens like a hurricane and blows you away through the final page. . . . A major-league thriller that is hard to stop reading.”
—Robert B. Parker
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CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Part II
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
About P. J. Parrish
To first loves and Michigan summers
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Like Louis’s daughter, Lily, when we were little all we wanted to do was go to Mackinac Island. We lived in Detroit and although our dad took us up north many times, most of our trips ended halfway up the state at Houghton Lake, where we swam in warm brown water, played miniature golf, and cooked marshmallows over a campfire. Sometimes, if we were lucky, we took day trips to the Sleeping Bear Dunes, Tahquamenon Falls, Holland, and Frankenmuth—all places where we could see everything for free.
But the island . . . well, it was expensive for us, what with the ferry ride, bike rentals, Fort Mackinac admission tickets, and, of course, lunch and souvenirs. And the decision between one day on the island and two nights at Houghton Lake was not one to be taken lightly by a single father raising three girls. But finally, one summer, we made it. We didn’t have lunch on the veranda of the Grand Hotel but at a curbside shack that served the best greasy burgers in the state. We didn’t rent a horse with a guide but we did rent rusty bicycles. And with the wind in our faces and the smell of the gardens in our noses, we rode past Fort Mackinac just as the cannons were booming over our heads. We pedaled past a stable where a man was making horseshoes, past the gracious old homes on the bluffs, and beneath the shadow of Arch Rock with the blue expanse of Lake Huron never out of our sight. We climbed a steep staircase to the top where we could see both the upper and lower peninsulas in one glance. And when we were breathless, we laid down our bikes in the shade and talked about how when we were older we would bring our kids here. We returned many times as adults, even bringing our kids. The island never changes. And that is a good thing, we think.
* * *
We get by with a little help from our friends. So a big thank-you goes out to:
Jill Sawatzki of the Island Bookstore on Mackinac Island, who came up with the idea of finding a dead body in the lodge. Also thanks to her fellow booksellers on the island and in the Mackinaw City store: Jane, Kathy,
Tam, Cass, and Jeremy.
Sharon Plotkin, certified crime scene investigator for the North Miami Police, whose assistance on explaining fingerprint analysis was invaluable.
Brenda “Bree” Horton, who writes a terrific blog, “Bree’s Mackinac Island Blog,” about life on the island.
Dr. Doug Lyle, who never fails to keep us honest on all the medical mysteries, and to Peter Lent, who’s an okay guy for a lawyer.
And Daniel, as always, for his love, patience, and eagle eye editing our manuscript.
PART I
What love is now I know not; but I know
I once loved much, and then there was no snow.
—Augusta Webster, “The Snow Waste”
1
Wednesday, December 31, 1969
He was staring at the frozen lake and thinking about his mother lying on a table somewhere, screaming in pain.
He was remembering what she had told him, how they had kept her in that little room and held her down, how it felt like her insides were being torn in half, and how it went on and on and on for two days until she begged to die.
He was thinking about her and how much he had loved her. But he was also thinking that if she had been able to stand the pain for two more minutes—two damn minutes—his life would have been so very different.
But she couldn’t. So he was pulled from her womb at two minutes before midnight on September 14, and because of that everything now had changed.
The ferry was coming in. He heard its horn before he saw it, a white smudge emerging slowly from the gray afternoon fog. It was running late. The straits had frozen over early this year because of the long, bitter cold snap. He pulled up the hood of his parka and looked down at the duffel at his feet. Had he remembered his gloves? Everything had happened so fast he hadn’t given much thought to packing. Now he was so cold he didn’t even want to open the duffel to look, so he stuffed his red hands into his armpits and watched the ferry.
The ferry was taking a long time to get to the dock, like it was moving in slow motion. But everything was like this now, moving as if time no longer existed. It didn’t really, he thought. Not anymore. Time was nothing to him now. By tomorrow he would have all the time in the world.
He looked around. At the clapboard ticket house of the Arnold Line ferry, at the docks, at the empty parking lot and the boarded-up pastie shack. He looked past the park benches and the bare black trees still wearing their necklaces from last night’s ice storm. He looked back toward town where the fog blurred all the places he had known during his nineteen years here, and he tried hard to burn everything into his memory because he knew that once he got on the ferry there would be no way to come back and he would forget all of this and the person he had been here.
He looked to his left.
Canada. It was just fifty miles away, less than an hour’s drive up I-75. He had never been there before.
Until now he had never had a reason to.
The ferry docked. No one came out to take his ticket, so he picked up his duffel, sprinted up the gangplank, and boarded. The cabin was empty and dingy but at least it was warmer. He set his duffel on one of the wooden benches and sat down. He wanted a hot cup of coffee but there was no one at the snack bar. The clouded glass pots sat empty on the coffee machines. There wasn’t a soul to be seen anywhere, and he had the weird feeling that he was the only human being left on earth.
But then the metal floor began to vibrate beneath his feet and the ferry pulled away from the dock. He leaned his head against the cold glass of the window and closed his eyes.
He slept. And for the first time in weeks, he dreamed.
Dreamed of a bald man in horn-rimmed glasses and a blue suit. Dreamed of shooting a rifle that looked nothing like the one he used to hunt deer with his dad. Dreamed of lying naked on a cold steel table in a white room with his intestines pouring out of his gut. And then the bald man was holding up a big bright blue capsule and smiling and telling him that if he just took it all the pain would go away.
He was jerked awake by a jabbing on his shoulder.
He looked up into the red face of an old man wearing a navy peacoat with the ferry line emblem on the pocket.
“Time to get off, son.”
The window had fogged over. He rubbed it with the sleeve of his parka and saw something in the mist. It was the boarded-up pastie shack. They were back in St. Ignace.
“Hey!” he called out to the old man who was heading toward the door. “What happened? Why did we turn back?”
“No choice,” the old man said. “Got out a ways but it was frozen solid. Got a call in to the cutter but she’s working the shipping lines and can’t get here until tomorrow morning.” He turned and started away.
“But I have to get to the island tonight!”
The old man stared at him, then shook his head. “No one’s getting over there tonight, son.”
The old man shuffled off, the metal door banging behind him. The young man’s eyes went again to the window. His mind was spinning, trying to figure out his options. Stay here and wait? No, because tomorrow would be too late. Go home and try to explain? No, because he couldn’t look his father in the eye and tell him one more lie. Leave and try to start over somewhere new? No, because she wouldn’t be there.
And this was all about her.
Cooper Lange reached for the duffel at his feet but paused. The name stenciled on the green canvas was so faded it could barely be read: CHARLES S. LANGE. It had belonged to his father, and U.S. Army sergeant Charles Lange had put in it everything he needed to survive—heating tablets, rations, mittens, compass, bullets, and a picture of his wife and baby son. When he came home from Korea Charles packed it away, emptying it and himself as best he could. Even his wife couldn’t get him to talk about what had happened over there, and when she died three years later Charles Lange withdrew into himself even more. When his son turned sixteen he brought out the duffel and gave it to him.
Cooper had never used the duffel until last night, when he hurriedly packed it with the things he guessed he might need to survive. A change of clothes, matches, some Mounds bars, the three hundred and two dollars from his bank account, his father’s old army compass.
He grabbed the bag and hurried from the ferry. The temperature had dropped since boarding and the cold was a hard slap against his face. He glanced at his watch. Almost four. It would be dark soon. He had to figure out something fast. The dock was deserted and there were no cars in the lot. Chartering a plane in this weather was out of the question, not that he could afford it.
The weather was getting bad fast, a bank of heavy pewter clouds building on the horizon of Lake Huron. His eyes caught a spot of something dark on the frozen lake just offshore. Then he spotted another dark spot beyond the first.
Trees. The dark spots were trees. That meant someone had started laying out the ice bridge. But was it finished?
There was no time to check. If he was going, he had to go now. He unzipped the duffel and found his gloves. He cursed himself for not bringing a flashlight and screwdrivers—it was crazy to cross the bridge without them—but he hadn’t planned on having to do this.
He hadn’t planned on doing any of this. But she . . .
God, had he forgotten it? Digging beneath the clothes, he found her picture. It was her senior class portrait. Perfect oval face framed by long black hair, somber dark eyes, and not even a hint of a smile. He turned it over to read what she had written even though he knew it by heart.
When love beckons to you follow him, though his ways are hard and steep. And when he speaks to you believe in him, though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.
—Julie.
He started to put it back in the duffel but instead slipped it into the chest pocket of his parka and zipped it shut.
He put on his gloves, slung the duffel strap over his shoulder, and headed across the parking lot. At the snow-covered beach he stopped. Someone had tamped d
own a path that led to the shoreline, creating a crude entry to the ice bridge beyond.
The huge gray expanse of Lake Huron lay before him. And somewhere out there in the fog was Mackinac Island.
The channel was only four miles across, but he knew what he was up against. He had grown up in St. Ignace and spent the last five summers on the island making good money slapping fudge in the shops on Main Street and cleaning stalls at the stables. When the tourists left in October, the island closed down and the hard winters left the couple hundred residents there isolated and dependent on the coast guard icebreakers. But when it was cold enough the straits between the island and St. Ignace would freeze over. Someone on the island would venture out onto the lake with spud bars to test the ice’s thickness. If he made it to St. Ignace he’d call back with the news that it was safe. The townspeople would take discarded Christmas trees and plant them in the ice to mark the safe path across.
He glanced back over his shoulder at the redbrick coast guard building on Huron Street. There was a light on inside. The coast guard guys didn’t want people out on the ice bridge but they couldn’t stop them, so every year they sent out the same warning—tell someone if you go out on the ice bridge. For a second he thought about going up to the station.
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t tell anyone where he was going. That was what they had decided. She wouldn’t tell her parents and he wouldn’t tell his father. No one could know.
He hoisted the duffel and stepped onto the ice. It groaned but held firm. He pulled in a deep breath and headed toward the first tree, just a dark shape in the mist.
At the tree, he stopped and looked back. The lights of St. Ignace were just yellow blurs in the fog. Looking ahead again, he spotted the next tree and started toward it.
The sun was now just a pale pink glow above the gray horizon, and out on the exposed lake the wind hit his face like needles. But he kept moving in a tentative shuffle, trying not to think about the deep cold water beneath his feet.
His head was throbbing by the time he reached the fifth tree. Its web of fake silver icicles danced in the wind. One small blue Christmas ornament clung to a branch.
Heart of Ice Page 1