Cold Conspiracy

by Cindi Myers

  “No. Whoever it was had a knit cap pulled down low over his forehead, and a scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face.”

  She stared, trying to take in all he had said. “Are you sure it was the same SUV?” she asked.

  “Yes. A Toyota Highlander. He was parked in your driveway, lights out.” She could feel his eyes on her, and she could feel the anger and concern radiating from him, though it was too dark for her to read his expression. “He was waiting for you.”

  She gripped his arm, as much to steady herself as to command his attention. “What were you doing here?”

  He hesitated, then said, “I was headed home and decided to drive by, just to check on the place. I’m not sure why—maybe I had an idea he would try something like this. I don’t think it was a coincidence that he drove by here last night, and that he was waiting when you came out of the vet’s office this afternoon.”

  Jamie didn’t want to believe that this killer had targeted her. But she had been trained to draw conclusions based on evidence, and the evidence—as well as intuition—told her Nate was right.

  “Jamie!”

  She turned at the sound of her name. Donna, her puffy purple coat pulled on over pink flannel pajamas, jogged across the lawn toward her. Mrs. Simmons, swathed in a drab car coat, followed at a more sedate pace. “Jamie, what is going on?” Donna asked, throwing her arms around her sister.

  “It’s okay,” Jamie said, hugging Donna to her. Feeling her sister’s bulk calmed her. Donna was safe. Nate was going to be all right. That was all that mattered right now. “Just a little accident.”

  Donna turned to look at Nate. “Nate, are you hurt?” she asked.

  His smile was more of a grimace, but Jamie was touched by the effort. “Just a bump on the head,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Your poor truck!” Donna pointed at the crumpled vehicle. “And the mailbox. How will we get the mail?”

  “We can get a new mailbox,” Jamie said.

  “Such a commotion.” Huffing a little, Mrs. Simmons joined them. “We heard the sirens and saw the lights and Donna insisted on coming out to see,” she said. Her eyes shone and she kept darting glances at Nate and the wrecked truck, and the firefighters, who had retreated to the fire engine. Jamie suspected the caregiver had been as eager as Donna to be a part of the excitement.

  “Did you see what happened?” Jamie asked.

  Mrs. Simmons shook her head. “We were watching TV in the back of the house.”

  “We were watching Bollywood,” Donna said. “And I had it turned up loud. I love the music and the dancing.”

  “But then we heard sirens and I looked out and saw the flashing lights,” Mrs. Simmons said. She leaned in closer and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Was it drunk driving, do you think?”

  “No,” Jamie said. “What about earlier? Did you see anyone over here at my house—another car in the driveway?”

  “No.” Mrs. Simmons’s eyes widened and she put a hand to her mouth. “Someone was at your house? Who?”

  “I don’t know.” Jamie didn’t want to frighten the older woman. “It was probably someone with the wrong address. They weren’t looking where they were going when they backed out of the driveway and hit Nate who had to swerve to avoid them.”

  She jumped as the fire truck’s siren bleated. The firefighters waved as they pulled away from the curb. Merrily and Emmett jogged toward the ambulance. “Another call just came in,” Emmett said.

  The street seemed eerily silent after the emergency vehicles had left them. Jamie’s feet and fingers ached with cold. “You need to get inside before you freeze,” she told Donna.

  “When will you be home?” Donna asked.

  “When my shift is over.” Jamie patted Donna’s shoulder. “You go on back with Mrs. Simmons and I’ll see you after eleven.” She hoped it wouldn’t be much later than that.

  “Are you sure everything is all right?” Mrs. Simmons asked.

  “It will be fine.” She smiled in a way that she hoped was reassuring.

  Donna and Mrs. Simmons returned to the caregiver’s house and Jamie took out her phone. “I’m going to take some photographs and then I’ll call a wrecker for your car.”

  “I’ll get the wrecker driver to take me home,” Nate said. “I guess there’s nothing else I can do tonight.”

  “You heard Merrily,” Jamie said. “You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

  “It’s just a bump on the head,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

  She dug her house keys from her pocket and pressed them into his hands. “You can stay with me tonight. I’ll make up the couch.” She wasn’t ready to deal with awkward questions from Donna just yet.

  He looked at the keys. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. Make yourself at home. I’ll see to your truck, file my report, then I’ll pick up Donna and be home before midnight.”

  She started to turn away, but he touched her arm. “You know what this means, him parked in your driveway?” he asked. “He’s decided to go after you.”

  Her stomach knotted, but she refused to acknowledge the truth of his words. “He may be going after me,” she said. “But you’re the one who keeps getting hurt.”

  “I’m tough,” he said. “I can take it.”

  “You don’t think I can?”

  “You’re the strongest woman I know,” he said. “But I don’t want to have to find out what it would be like to not have you around.”

  He turned and strode toward the house, with only a trace of a limp. Jamie’s chest hurt as she watched him mount the steps to the porch and let himself inside her house, but she didn’t know whether the fear that threatened to strangle her was because someone might be trying to kill her—or because Nate cared so much.

  * * *

  NATE WOKE TO a throbbing head, in a room where the light didn’t feel quite right. As sleep fled and his vision cleared, he looked up at the woman leaning over him. Donna, a pink knit hat pulled down over her brown hair, a fuzzy pink robe over pink pajamas, looked at him with an expression of great concern. “Hello,” she said. “Why are you sleeping on our couch?”

  After confirming that he was still dressed, Nate threw off the quilt he’d been sleeping under and shoved into a sitting position. “Jamie thought it would be better if I stayed here instead of going home alone after I was hurt last night,” he said.

  Donna nodded. “Good idea. Do you want some breakfast? We have cereal, or toaster waffles.”

  “What kind of cereal?” Nate asked.

  Donna scrunched up her nose. “The healthy kind.”

  He suppressed a laugh. “Then maybe waffles?”

  “Good choice!” She whirled and skipped away.

  Nate made his way to the bathroom, where he rinsed his mouth and washed his face, and grimaced at the haggard, bruised visage that stared back at him. He ran a hand over his chin, the sandpaper rasp of a day’s growth of beard making him wince. Nothing he could do about that now.

  The smell of coffee drew him to the kitchen, where Jamie stood before the toaster, an empty plate in one hand, a coffee mug in the other. “Nate’s here,” Donna announced, unnecessarily, as Jamie had already turned to greet him.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked, as he took a mug from the cabinet and filled it from the coffee maker beside the sink.

  “I’ve got a headache, but nothing two aspirin and a little caffeine won’t cure.” He sipped the coffee and closed his eyes, savoring the sensation of its warmth spreading through him.

  “Waffles will make you feel better,” Donna said.

  “Sit down and I’ll fix you some waffles,” Jamie said.

  “I can look after myself,” he said.

  “It’s not like I’m slaving over a hot stove.” She set aside her coffee and pushed him toward the table. The toaster d
inged and she plucked two waffles from the slots, dropped them on the plate, then set the plate in front of him. Donna pushed the syrup toward him.

  He started to protest that he hadn’t meant to take her waffles, but she had already inserted two more frozen discs into the toaster and pulled another plate from the cabinet. Three minutes later, she sat across from him. “I have to take Donna to work at eight, so I can give you a ride to your place,” she said.

  “Drop me off at the station,” he said. “I want to talk to Travis about what happened last night.”

  “All right.” She turned to Donna. “When you get off work this afternoon, wait for Mrs. Simmons to pick you up,” she said. “I don’t want you walking by yourself today.”

  “I can walk.” Donna mopped up syrup with a forkful of waffle. “I like to walk.”

  “I know you do, but it’s safer right now for you to wait for Mrs. Simmons.”

  Nate waited for Donna to protest, or to ask why, but she only mumbled “All right,” and remained focused on finishing her breakfast. Was she as aware as they were of the danger the Ice Cold Killers posed to a young woman walking by herself? Or had experience taught her she wouldn’t win an argument with her sister?

  “Remember to wait for Mrs. Simmons,” Jamie said. “Don’t leave the store on your own.”

  “I’d rather go home with Henry.” Donna looked up from her plate. “His mom said I could come over any time.”

  “We don’t want to take advantage of Mrs. O’Keefe’s hospitality,” Jamie said. “Besides, if you go over to Henry’s house all the time, he might get tired of you.”

  “He won’t get tired of me,” she said. “He loves me.”

  The expression in Jamie’s eyes softened, though her mouth was still tight with worry. Nate wondered if he would ever tire of watching her this way—he was beginning to think not.

  “Henry asked me to a birthday party tomorrow night,” she said. “His cousin’s birthday. She lives in a big house and has a hot tub and a snowmobile. She’s going to have music and cake, and at midnight, they’re going to shoot off fireworks.”

  “How long have you known about this?” Jamie asked.

  Donna stuck out her lower lip. “I forgot to tell you. But Henry’s mom is supposed to call you.”

  “I really don’t want you out so late,” Jamie said. “Especially with people I don’t know. Maybe some other time.”

  “But I want to go!” Donna stood, her chair skidding backward. “You can’t tell me what to do all the time. I’m old enough to decide for myself.” Tears streamed down her face as she stared at Jamie. “I want to decide for myself,” she sobbed, then whirled and ran from the room.

  Jamie stared after her, then laid down her fork and pushed back her chair. She started to rise, then sank back down and turned to Nate. “Do you think I’m wrong?” she asked. “I’m only trying to protect her.”

  Nate clamped his mouth shut. Getting involved in a dispute between two sisters sounded like a bad idea any time. “You know your sister better than I do,” he said.

  “She wants to be independent,” Jamie said. “She wants to be like other young women her age and it hurts her that she isn’t. She doesn’t show it, but I know it hurts. It’s so unfair—she never did anything to deserve this.”

  “Neither did you,” he said.

  The look she gave him was so full of anguish he ached for her. “I want her to be happy,” she said. “But most of all, I want her to be safe. Especially now. Especially with this killer preying on local women.” She leaned across the table and took his hand. “What do you think I should do? Please tell me.”

  He took a sip of coffee, buying time. “Why not wait and talk to Mrs. O’Keefe?” he said. “Find out more about this party—where it is and who else will be there. Then you’ll have a better idea of the risk involved.”

  She nodded. “All right. That makes sense.” She sat back and let out a breath. “Thanks.”

  She stood and began gathering dishes. He rose and helped. They worked silently. She filled the dishwasher, while he put away the waffles and syrup—as he had done after other meals he had eaten here when they were in high school.

  She had just closed the dishwasher when the doorbell rang. The dogs erupted into barking, a mad scrabble of toenails on the wood floor as they raced for the door. “Company!” Donna called, stomping down the stairs.

  By the time Nate and Jamie reached the foyer, Donna was peering out the side window. “It’s the sheriff,” she announced.

  Jamie shushed the dogs and ordered them back, then opened the door for Travis. He had his back to them, surveying the ruined mailbox. When he turned around, he didn’t seem surprised to see Nate standing with Jamie. “I heard about what happened here last night,” he said. “Jamie’s report said something about a dark gray Highlander?”

  “Come in.” Jamie stepped back and held the door open wider. “Donna, you’d better go upstairs and get dressed or you’ll be late.”

  Nate braced himself for another protest, but Donna merely turned and headed upstairs again. “Would you like some coffee?” Jamie asked. “I can make a fresh pot.”

  “No, thanks.” He turned to Nate. “Tell me what happened.”

  Nate repeated his story about seeing the SUV in Jamie’s driveway and gave his description of the driver.

  “To anyone passing, he’d look like someone bundled up against the cold,” Travis said. “But he made sure you wouldn’t be able to give a description of him.”

  “I’m sure it’s Alex or Tim,” Nate said. “Everything points to it. I’d recognize the vehicle again. If we can find it, maybe we can find them.”

  “That’s another reason I stopped by this morning,” Travis said. “We found the Highlander. The VIN matches the one owned by Tim Dawson.”

  “That’s great,” Jamie said. “If they’ve been using it all this time, there’s bound to be evidence—hairs, fibers, DNA.”

  Travis didn’t seem nearly as excited as Jamie about the find. Then again, the sheriff was not the most emotional person around. “Where did you find it?” Nate asked.

  “Out on Forest Service Road 1410, near the Sundance cabins,” Travis said. “A call came in about eleven last night that someone had seen a fire in that area. By the time the first pumper truck got there, it was burned down to the frame.”

  “Accident or arson?” Nate asked.

  “Oh, it was deliberate,” Travis said. “The fire crew said they could smell the diesel fuel before they even got out of their truck.”

  “They were destroying evidence,” Jamie said.

  “Yes,” Travis said. “And destroying our best link to them.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Some folks nicknamed it the green monster.” Bud O’Brien slapped his gloved hand on the hood of a mostly-green vintage pickup truck with oversize tires. “It looks like crap, but it will get you where you want to go.”

  “I guess I don’t have much choice,” Nate said, accepting the keys from the garage owner. His own truck was awaiting an assessment by an insurance appraiser—something that wouldn’t happen until the highway reopened. Estimates on when that would be varied from tomorrow to next week, or next month. It all depended on how fast a road crew could clear away the many avalanches that had covered the pavement and how long fresh snows held off.

  Today was sunny, the glittering white of the landscape blinding, the sky the blue of lake ice, the air bitterly cold and sharp enough that a deep breath was painful. The green monster’s tires crunched over the snow-packed road as Nate headed out of town. Though he had discarded the air boot on his ankle and managed to walk without limping at least half the time, he hadn’t been cleared to return to work, and Travis had nothing new for him to do. He’d decided to check out the site where Alex and Tim had burned their truck, more out of curiosity than from any hope of finding a real c
lue.

  Bud O’Brien had hauled away what was left of the vehicle that morning, but a blackened patch of earth and soot-stained snow marked the spot, at the entrance to the summer cabins. Nate parked his truck well past the site and walked back along the road, then circled the patch of melted snow and ash that formed a muddy slurry. The smell of burned rubber and diesel fuel lingered in the air, and bits of broken glass and melted rubber littered the area. The deep tracks of Bud’s wrecker led from the site to the road.

  Nate’s examination offered no new insight, so he walked back up toward the cabins, retracing the path he’d taken the day he was injured, wondering if any evidence lay buried under the thick snow, and trying to piece together the events of the last twelve hours. Alex and Tim must have driven out here last night immediately after one of them tried to run him down. The other would have followed in whatever vehicle they were using now—a stolen car? Travis would have zeroed in on any recently stolen vehicles, but he hadn’t mentioned anything in the briefing at the sheriff’s department that morning.

  He had almost reached the cabin where he had been injured when movement in the underbrush caught his attention. At first he thought he had startled a deer, but a flash of red and blue made him reject that notion. Someone—no, two people—were running away from the cabin.

  He started after then, but the deep snow and his still-tender ankle brought him to a quick halt. He’d never catch those two this way. He held his breath and listened as his quarry moved away, thrashing and cursing marking their progress. They were headed toward the road that ran behind the cabins, but thick brush and snow impeded their progress. If Nate hurried, he might be able to head them off.

  Ignoring the pain in his ankle, he took off running again, this time along the road, the snow there still packed down from sheriff’s department vehicles, making movement easier. When he reached his truck, he gunned the engine. For all its dilapidated appearance, the vehicle had plenty of power. He raced around the hairpin curve where the road wound behind the cabins. He spotted the truck, and two figures emerging from the woods and climbing the snow-covered embankment toward a dirty brown Jeep Wrangler.