Stone Cold Dead

by Catherine Dilts

  But it was a darker color than Adelaide’s muddy gray. Maybe some other animal. Morgan struggled to remember whether to stand her ground and act ferocious, or drop and play dead. That depended on whether it was a bear or a mountain lion.

  It moved.

  Backing up, Morgan stepped on a dry branch. The branch snapped, the sound loud as a gunshot. The creature raised itself out of the brush. Morgan pressed her mitten against her mouth, stifling a scream.

  She turned to run, but tripped over her own feet. Scrambling on hands and knees, she struggled to put distance between herself and the creature. Morgan turned to look back, her arms raised protectively in front of her.

  Feathers burst into motion with a raucous cry. Morgan lowered her arms. It was just a magpie. The black and white bird hopped on top of a dark mound. It stabbed with its beak, gave a violent jerk, and flew toward the top of a cottonwood. A glittering chain dangled from its beak.

  Morgan rose and dared take a few steps closer. If her imagination could turn a magpie into a monster, what was the object on the trail? A trash sack? An abandoned sleeping bag?

  As she neared, she noticed a pale hand extending from a fold of fabric. A human hand.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Morgan’s legs felt unsteady as she moved closer. There was no mistake. A small, pale hand extended from the dark cloth. A person, presuming the hand was attached to an arm, a shoulder, and all the rest.

  “Del!” Morgan yelled. She listened for a moment. “Del!”

  She jerked her mittens off and pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. No signal. Morgan fought nausea as she forced herself to kneel by the hand. She played back the steps she had learned in her first-aid training class.

  “Hello?”

  No answer.

  Check the safety of the surroundings. Glancing around, Morgan saw no reason to move the person. Personal protective equipment. A stranger might be infected with a communicable disease. Del’s daypack had a first-aid kit. It probably had the latex gloves and face shield she needed, but she’d left it several hills back. Call nine-one-one.

  She flipped open her phone again, somehow expecting it to work now. Still no signal.

  “What next?” Morgan whispered to herself. “What next? Check the victim. Injuries or illness.”

  The body—the person—was cloaked in a long black garment similar to a trench coat, but too lightweight to be useful as a winter coat. Morgan reached out, tugging the black cloth away from the mound.

  She faced the back of the person’s head. The short, raggedly trimmed black hair had blond roots. Morgan took a deep breath to steady herself, and stepped over the person.

  It was a young girl. A teenager. Her bloodshot eyes stared at nothing. Black lipstick coated her open mouth. Pale skin stretched across gaunt cheeks. Piercings marred one eyebrow, her right nostril, and her lower lip.

  A tattoo of dark wings peeked above the collar of the black coat. They might have been the wings of the monster Morgan had imagined. Or maybe it was a magpie.

  “Miss? Miss? Are you okay?”

  Morgan grasped the girl’s shoulder and gave a gentle shake.

  No response.

  She watched the girl’s chest for any rise or fall indicating that she was breathing. She was as still as she was silent. Morgan pressed her fingers to the girl’s wrist. She couldn’t feel a pulse.

  This would be the point at which to begin CPR. But her instructor had cautioned repeatedly about the dangers of performing CPR on a stranger. Tattoos and piercings increased the likelihood that a person carried blood-borne pathogens.

  Morgan cursed herself for leaving Del’s daypack on the trail. She wasn’t sure how far she had come, chasing after Adelaide, or when she would reach cell phone range. Surely the cabins she had seen before reaching the cottonwood grove had cell signal.

  Keeping one eye on the signal bars on her phone, Morgan ran up the trail. She glanced behind once, imprinting the location in her memory. Then the trail dipped and turned, and the girl was out of view.

  Climbing another hill, her already racing heart screamed for oxygen. Morgan slowed to a brisk walk, then a slow walk, then a painful plodding. Finally, she found signal.

  “Nine-one-one.” A calm, efficient voice.

  “Y—yes. Hello?” Morgan gasped for breath.

  “What’s your emergency?”

  “There’s a girl. She’s hurt.”

  “What’s your address?”

  “I’m on a hiking trail.”

  “Can you tell me which trail?”

  “The Columbine Trail.”

  “Are you with the girl now?”

  “No,” Morgan said. “I had to leave her to get in cell phone range.”

  “Is the girl breathing?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Did you try CPR?”

  “I didn’t have a CPR kit with me. She has tattoos and piercings and I was afraid she might be on drugs or have hepatitis or something, so I didn’t try.” Morgan’s words came out in a sob. “I’m sorry. Should I go back?”

  “No. Stay where you are. We’re dispatching a crew right now. Hang on. Can you tell me your name?”

  “Morgan Iverson.”

  “Okay Morgan. Stay calm. Pine County Search and Rescue is on the way.”

  The dispatcher kept a conversation going. An agonizingly long time passed before Morgan heard squawking walkie-talkies, the clanking of gear, and heavy boots crunching in the gravel.

  Two men and one woman trotted up the trail, unmistakable in white helmets and black and yellow jackets, and loaded down with huge backpacks. The men carried an aluminum-framed stretcher. Even their hiking slacks looked heavy, the many pockets bulging.

  “Where’s the victim?” the woman on the rescue team asked.

  “That way.” Morgan pointed.

  The crew trotted up the trail. She managed to keep up until they neared the spot where she had found the girl. The crew broke into a full gallop, leaving Morgan behind. She slowed to a walk, trying unsuccessfully to catch her breath.

  The woman jogged back to Morgan. “Where’s the victim?”

  Morgan hurried to the arching cottonwood trees. She stared at the crushed grasses at the side of the trail.

  “She’s gone.”

  Morgan watched with dismay as the Pine County Search and Rescue crew stomped through the thick brush hunting for the young woman, destroying any sign that a body had been there.

  Rolf, a large man with sandy hair, mangled a sapling pulling himself back onto the trail.

  “You’re sure you saw something?” he asked.

  “I’m not crazy.” Morgan neglected to mention the creature she had seen just before finding the girl, which might contradict her claim to sanity. Was it possible the girl hadn’t been there? She shook her head. “I’m certain. I touched her. She was real.”

  “No one else came by?” Judy, an athletic blonde, had jogged down the trail “a mile or so” just to be sure.

  “No. I didn’t see anyone.” Morgan placed her mitten-covered hands on her hips. “Maybe you should call the police.”

  “We’re under the authority of the county sheriff,” Lonnie said. “I phoned in, but they’re responding to an incident.”

  “The entire police department?” Morgan asked.

  “Sheriff’s department,” Lonnie corrected. He pulled off his battered white helmet and pushed thick black hair out of his eyes.

  Rolf held his hands out to his sides. “There’s no evidence there was anyone here.”

  “You saw the impression in the grass,” Morgan said, pointing toward the brush.

  “That’s exactly what it looks like when deer lie down in the grass,” Rolf said. “If there was a girl here, maybe she left.”

  “Or maybe it was that donkey you were chasing,” Lonnie said.

  Morgan remembered the crashing sound in the brush. If she told Rolf about it, he would be convinced Morgan was a city slicker who couldn’t tell the difference betwe
en a human and a deer.

  “There was a girl.” Morgan shook her head. “She wasn’t in any condition to leave. I’m not even sure she was alive.”

  “Lacking a body,” Lonnie said, “and considering it could have been a deer, I don’t see the point of bringing in the sheriff.”

  Judy’s walkie-talkie squawked. “Judy here. Yeah, we’re with her now. Who? Hang on.” She waved the device at Morgan. “A Mr. Addison wants to talk to you.”

  Morgan grabbed the walkie-talkie, pressing the talk button. “Del?” She released the button.

  “I tried calling your cell phone,” Del said. “When you didn’t answer, I called search and rescue. What’s going on?”

  Morgan gave Del a quick rundown of her situation. Finding the girl. The nine-one-one call. Losing the girl.

  “We’re still looking for her,” Morgan said. “Del, I didn’t find Adelaide.”

  “She came back on her own. Must have circled around you.”

  By the time the crew convinced Morgan they needed to call off the search, the sun had dipped behind the mountains. The air turned frigid as the shadow of the mountain range fell across the trail. Morgan shivered. Her wet sneakers felt stiff with cold.

  The search and rescue trio escorted Morgan to the trailhead on the highway. She filled out paperwork, even though she feared it would be filed in a “crazy lady sees things” folder. Morgan’s hands shook and her stomach churned as they drove toward town. Judy cranked up the SUV’s heater, but it couldn’t dispel the chill that sent tremors through Morgan’s body.

  The rock shop sat uphill from the small tourist town of Golden Springs. The SUV roared up the gravel road to the shop. The sign at the entrance to the Rock of Ages, painted in black block letters on a green wooden T. Rex, had faded badly. As they pulled into the parking lot, Houdini brayed in greeting. Adelaide ignored them, concentrating on reaching a clump of dried grass through the pasture fence.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Judy asked.

  “I’m fine. Thanks for the ride.”

  The door to the Rock of Ages opened as Morgan climbed out of the SUV. A pregnant stranger ushered Morgan inside, her fringed denim skirt revealing cowgirl boots as red as the hair pinned up in a bun on top of her head.

  “You gave us a scare. Del told us search and rescue had to come after you.” She steered Morgan to the aspen bench facing the checkout register.

  “They didn’t come after me.” Morgan plopped down on the bench. “We were looking for a body.”

  “A body?” Another woman sat next to Morgan, her slender legs too long for the low bench. She didn’t look much older than Morgan’s daughter, her olive skin smooth across high cheekbones. Morgan envied the woman’s hiking boots. Her feet were two frozen lumps.

  “I’m Lucy Geary.” She extended a hand. “You must be Kendall’s sister.”

  “Morgan Iverson.” Morgan returned Lucy’s firm handshake.

  “Lucy makes the Native American jewelry,” the redhead said. “I’m Cindy. I’ve been working for Allie and Kendall for the past two years. Part-time.” She patted her pioneer-style maternity blouse, cascading over an advanced pregnancy.

  Del stepped out of the restroom with a coffee carafe full of water. “I didn’t tell them much.” He poured the water into the coffeemaker’s reservoir. “You might as well start at the beginning.”

  Morgan wrapped her coat tightly around her. She wasn’t sure if she was shivering from the cold, or from shock.

  “I don’t know that there’s much to tell. Del and I were trying to round up the donkeys. When they went different directions, I followed Adelaide.” She paused. “I saw a body. I called nine-one-one.”

  “A real body?” Cindy’s green eyes seemed to contain more curiosity than fear.

  Morgan pulled her wool cap off and ran her fingers through her shoulder-length curls, brushing them away from her face. “I saw something.” She paused, unsure whether she should mention hallucinating a monster. “When I figured out it was a girl, I don’t know. I panicked.”

  Cindy pressed a hand against the front of her maternity blouse. “A girl?”

  “A young woman,” Morgan said. “Maybe a teenager. I didn’t have cell phone signal where she was. I don’t know if she was dead or not when I found her, but by the time the search and rescue crew got there, she was gone.”

  “If she moved,” Lucy said, “she couldn’t have been dead.”

  Morgan twisted the wool cap in her hands. “I should have tried CPR. Then I’d know.”

  Del folded his arms across his cowhide vest. “Eighty percent of the time, CPR won’t revive a person. And dead people don’t walk away. So she must have been okay.”

  “Maybe she was drunk,” Cindy said. “Passed out on the trail. When you found her, she woke up.”

  “What did she look like?” Lucy asked. “This is a small town. Maybe we’ve seen her around.”

  Morgan took a deep breath and blew it out quickly. “Okay. You’d remember if you’ve seen her. She was white. Really pale. Her hair was coal black, but the roots were blond, and it was choppy, like a child had cut it with safety scissors. She had piercings in her nose, eyebrow, and lip. And she had black lipstick.”

  “She sounds goth,” Cindy said.

  “What’s that?” Del asked.

  “Some kids fall into witchcraft.” Cindy waved her hands around. “They wear black to reflect the darkness of their souls. It’s like they’re imitating death.”

  “Sounds like she did a pretty good job of that,” Del said.

  “There’s a big difference between a kid playing Harry Potter, and someone actually practicing witchcraft,” Lucy said.

  “Less difference than you think, my friend,” Cindy said.

  “Is there anything else about her that was distinctive?” Lucy asked.

  “She was wrapped in a black coat or robe,” Morgan said. “She had a tattoo on her neck, but it was mostly covered by her collar.”

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t try to do CPR,” Cindy said. “Tattoos? Piercings? She could have had AIDS.”

  “My first-aid instructor warned us that tattooed victims can carry blood-borne pathogens.”

  “Do you know how to do CPR?” Lucy asked.

  “I’ve taken the class,” Morgan said. “The first-aid training has come in handy, but I’ve never had to use the CPR. This would have been the first time. And I blew it.”

  “If the girl was taking drugs,” Del said, “and you started doing CPR on her, she might have attacked you.”

  “She didn’t look like she was alive, much less ready to attack. Del, please don’t tell my daughter, Sarah, about this, if she calls. Or my son. I don’t want them to worry about me.”

  “Did you have any pepper spray?” Lucy asked.

  “No.”

  “You’ve got to be prepared for emergencies when you go hiking,” Del said. “The mountains aren’t like the big city you came from. You had your survival pack, right?”

  Del looked Morgan over like he was taking inventory.

  “I took the pack off, Del. I left it on the trail. I’m sorry. I’ll go get it.”

  Morgan started to rise. Del shook his head.

  “Don’t worry about it. I need to fix the latch on the gate. I’ll get it then.”

  “Golden Springs is really a safe area,” Lucy said. “Don’t let this experience stop you from hiking.”

  “I could barely jog up that hill to get in cell phone range,” Morgan said. She rested her elbows on her knees and buried her face in her hands. “Maybe if I’d been faster, the rescue people would have found the girl.”

  Lucy rested a hand on Morgan’s shoulder. “A new running club is starting up. We’ll help you get in shape. Then you can run up a hill when you need to.”

  Morgan didn’t want to think about future emergencies. She’d had a chance to save a life, and she had failed.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The alarm clock buzzed. Morgan pulled the pillow over h
er head. The mystery of the missing goth girl had given her a nearly sleepless night, the teen’s empty eyes haunting her restless dreams. Now that she had finally fallen into a deep sleep, the alarm sounded. Morgan remembered Lucy’s statement that Golden Springs was a small town, and her own hope that Kendall and Allie’s congregation was still Gossip Central. By dropping in on the Golden Springs Community Church, she might find out if anyone was missing a teenage girl. Morgan groaned and sat up.

  The queen-sized pillow-top bed was heavenly. The larger of the two small bedrooms, the cramped room contained a night-stand, a lamp, and a wardrobe. Morgan rummaged through her suitcase, looking for something appropriate to wear to church services. She settled on gray wool slacks and a matching blazer, with a pink blouse. The slacks were snug.

  That’s the problem with wool, Morgan thought. It shrinks.

  She sucked in her stomach and fastened the slacks. Maybe she did need to join Lucy’s running club. Morgan attended to her top priority first, feeding the donkeys and making sure their water hadn’t frozen overnight.

  Then she hurried across the driveway to the garage. Long ago it had been a carriage house, and not much had been done to modernize it. Morgan tugged open the heavy wooden doors and stepped between her car and the two ATVs taking up the other half of the garage. The Buick started reluctantly and chugged down the hill to Golden Springs.

  The church sat on a generous plot of land a block south of Main Street. The lawn that stretched from the curb to the flower beds was brown in the January cold. To the right of the front entrance, a stand of aspens huddled together, skeletal branches grasping at the sky.

  The church occupied a building that looked much older than it was, by design. The stonework, wood shingle roof, and stained-glass windows gave the impression that it had stood on that spot since the founding of the town in 1876. The cornerstone stated the foundation had been laid a mere twenty-five years ago. It was a gentle deception, in Morgan’s opinion.