ALSO BY BRIAN FREEMAN
The Frost Easton Series
The Crooked Street
The Voice Inside
The Night Bird
The Jonathan Stride Series
Alter Ego*
Marathon
Goodbye to the Dead
The Cold Nowhere
Turn to Stone (e-novella)
Spitting Devil (e-short story)
The Burying Place
In the Dark
Stalked
Stripped
Immoral
The Cab Bolton Series
Season of Fear
The Bone House
*Cab Bolton also appears in Alter Ego
Stand-Alone Novels
The Deep, Deep Snow (an Audible Original)
Spilled Blood
West 57 (as B. N. Freeman)
The Agency (as Ally O’Brien)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2020 by Brian Freeman
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542093361 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1542093368 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781542093385 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 1542093384 (paperback)
Cover design by Rex Bonomelli
First edition
For Marcia
CONTENTS
THIEF RIVER FALLS
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
THIEF RIVER FALLS
41
42
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THIEF RIVER FALLS
The Award-Winning Thriller
from Bestselling Author
LISA POWER
Start reading the book now with this exclusive excerpt!
Down, down, down comes the rain of black dirt, landing in showers on the boy’s small body and slowly burying him in the ground.
Already, two inches of heavy earth weigh on his arms. His skin is cold. His face is wet with tears and blood. Nervously, he cracks his eyes to look up while he can still see anything at all. It is dark in the hole, where the glow of the moon can’t reach him. The men are shadows above him, working like machines. He hears the scrape of metal and rock as they wield their shovels. They whisper to each other, and he can hear their words over the loud noise of their breathing.
“I hate this, man. He’s just a kid.”
“Do you think I like it? There’s no other way.”
“Yeah, but a kid. That’s not why we did this.”
“Be quiet and finish the job. We’re wasting time.”
“What if someone finds them, man? I’m telling you, we didn’t dig deep enough. Someone might find both of them, and then what happens?”
“There’s no time, do you hear me? Hurry.”
Both of them.
Yes, the boy is not alone in the black hole. There is a man under his own body. The two of them are trespassers in a grave where they don’t belong. The man beneath him is warm, but he doesn’t breathe. He has arms and legs, but he doesn’t move. The man with him is dead, but the boy is still alive.
The ones with the shovels do not know this. They think they’ve killed him. The boy wants to cry, to whimper, to scream, but he has to stay quiet. He must be frozen like a statue if the men look down. An urgent voice whispers in his head and tells him exactly what to do.
It’s his mother’s voice.
They think you’re dead, my sweet. You must play dead. You must be dead.
Then, as if sensing his fear, she adds, But trust me, you’re not going to die.
He wants to believe that. His mother wouldn’t lie to him. Even so, panic wriggles up his body like a fat, hungry worm. The men shovel, the earth grows deeper, and all the boy wants to do is thrash and squirm and kick it all away from him. He can taste the damp ground in his mouth now, and he wants to gag, but if he does that, the men will jump down in the hole with the shovels again. They will hit him like they did before, much harder, and this time, he won’t wake up.
No.
He must wait.
The hole fills in around him, encasing him the way a fish gets trapped in lake ice. How deep is he now? Three feet? Four feet? His mother tells him again, You are not going to die, my sweet. And yet soon he is completely underground. The moon and sky disappear. The earth feels like a huge animal sitting on top of his chest. He can’t move his arms or legs. Even his lungs struggle to push enough soil away to breathe. As he does, he inhales dirt and spits it quietly out. He must do something. He can’t wait any longer.
Are the men still there?
He can’t hear their voices anymore or the scrape of the shovels. Everything is silent. Maybe they’re done. Maybe they’re gone.
It’s time, my sweet.
His stiff fingers curl like claws. He becomes a mole now, tunneling in the loose ground. He digs with both hands, inching toward the surface, pushing away the earth where he is buried. It is slow work. He chokes and coughs in the foul air. His whole world is black and dark and cold, and he is oh so tired. His head hurts where the men hit him. He wants to sleep. His mind floats, drifting off like a balloon in the air, dragging him up into the clouds.
You must keep going.
“But I’m scared,” he tells his mother.
I know.
“I can’t do it.”
Yes, you can.
“No. No, I can’t. I want it to be over.”
Don’t give up, my sweet.
But it would be so much easier to give up. The work is too hard, the earth too heavy, the surface too far away. If he stops, if he lets the ground win, he can see his mother again. They will walk off together. He will feel her arms around him. If he frees himself, he’s still alone. Without her.
The little mole stops tunneling. His aching fingers rest. Tears leach from his eyes into the blood and dirt caking his skin. The boy sobs. He needs comfort, needs to hear her voice again. Her real voice, not the one in his head.
“Mom?”
I’m right here, my sweet . . .
1
Down, down, down came the rain.
Lisa Power listened to the hammering thunder on the roof of her pickup truck. The drumbeat had a hypnotic quality. It had been raining for hours, one of those endless fall rains that sucked all the color out of the world and turned your life into a black-and-white movie.
Reb
ecca. The Ghost and Mrs. Muir. Sunset Boulevard.
That was how Lisa felt right now, like a heroine in a sad old story.
The drive from Thief River Falls had taken much longer than usual because of the rain, but she was finally home. She pulled her truck inside the detached garage and shut off the engine. She climbed out of the pickup and stood in front of the open garage doorway, where a waterfall overflowed the gutters. Her arms were limp and weak at her sides. Her brown eyes were wide open, and her wet brown hair was pasted to her face. She stared blankly at the rural highway at the end of her long driveway, but there were no headlights to be seen to the north or south. No trains rattled along the railroad tracks that ran parallel to the highway. Beyond the road, flat, empty fields stretched for miles into the night, and the black sky simply flooded rain onto a desolate landscape.
At times like this, Lisa felt as if she were the only human being living on the moon. She’d driven for more than an hour and not seen another soul.
She tried to find the energy to walk through the rain to her house. She was already drenched, her clothes soaked and muddy. Like a robot, she hiked through the downpour and braced herself against the wind that pushed her around like a doll. She’d forgotten to leave a light on, so her house was dark. The outbuildings around her made faint silhouettes against a black sky, the old barn barely standing upright in the overgrown field, the windowless shed playing music with its metal roof, the writer’s cottage looking forlorn in the empty flower garden. Towering spruces dotted the land, bending and swaying in the storm. They shook their branches like a dog spraying water off its fur.
Lisa was almost at the white front porch when she heard a whisper.
“Mom?”
The voice was as clear in her ears as if a child were standing next to her. She froze, and her head snapped around. She squinted into the rain, trying to pick out someone hiding in the shadows. But no one was there. She was hearing things, a trick of the night. She waited awhile, just to be sure, but the only noise now was the wind screeching at her like a banshee telling tales of the dead.
Lisa climbed the porch steps and opened her front door. Inside, she closed her eyes, leaned back against the door, and dripped on the welcome mat. When she turned on the hall light, the brightness made her head throb the way migraines always did, so she turned it off again. She didn’t need light. In this house, she could see in the dark. She knew every inch of it. This was her castle in the middle of nowhere, a place where she could pull up the drawbridge and keep out the world. She’d bought and renovated the old house on a large plot of abandoned farmland. Or maybe it was fairer to say that Reese Witherspoon had bought it for her when she acquired the film rights to Lisa’s fourth novel.
That was a phone call she would always remember. She could still hear that famous, unmistakable voice on the phone, telling Lisa how much she loved her book and wanted to play the lead role herself. In the tally of best days of Lisa’s life, the day of Reese’s call would be near the top.
Two years ago.
Before all the tragedies began. Before the Dark Star came into her life.
Lisa was wet and cold, and she needed a shower. She peeled off her clothes, kicking off her boots, unbuttoning her flannel shirt, unzipping and stepping out of her messy jeans, and wriggling out of her soaked underwear. Naked and shivering, she padded to the cold wrought iron staircase that twisted up to her bedroom, which took up most of the second floor. She went straight into the bathroom, still not turning on any lights. She had a walk-in shower made of opaque glass blocks, and she stood under the hot water, pummeled by body sprays that washed away the dirt and pinked up her skin. The warm, wet darkness enveloped her, and she inhaled steam as if it were fine whiskey spreading fire through her whole body. She lost track of time as she stood there.
When she finally returned to her bedroom, she wandered to the wall of windows overlooking the highway. There was no letup in the rain. Seeing the ghost of her reflection in the glass, Lisa Power stared at Lisa Power. She was bony and not too tall. She had shoulder-length brown hair that usually had a mind of its own, like an unruly nest. Her face was pretty, but she’d always believed that her nose was a little bit too big for the rest of her features. Her pale lips were slightly open, as if she were always deciding what to say next. The faint creases in her forehead reminded her of her age, thirty-nine years old. But everyone who met her talked about her eyes, those big, wide, impenetrable brown eyes. As a writer, Lisa had always believed that she could look at someone’s eyes and know exactly what they were hiding, but that wasn’t true of her own. Right now, the woman looking back at her in the window was a stranger.
The time on her bedroom clock finally registered with her. It was after ten o’clock in the evening in Minnesota. That meant in California it was now after eight o’clock.
“Oh, crap,” she said. She was late.
She rushed to put on clothes and then dried her wet hair as best as she could. She had to turn on lights to do so, and the brightness sharpened the pain behind her eyes. When she was as put together as she was going to be, she hurried downstairs to the finished basement. She had a specially constructed theater there, with a large custom screen and a row of plush movie seats. Near the screen, she kept a whiteboard where she’d written down the dates, times, and phone numbers for her call-in book clubs.
Tonight’s discussion was right there on the list. October 10. Palo Alto, 8:00 pm PDT, contact Aria Dhawan.
Lisa booted up a laptop and loaded the video software that connected to the oversize screen. She dialed the number she’d written down for the California book club, and as the phone rang, she took a seat in the centermost chair of the theater. She forced herself to relax. She did these discussions several times a month with book clubs around the country, and they were always the same: the same questions, the same women, the same wineglasses, the same jokes, the same compliments. No one invited her to a book club if they didn’t enjoy her books, and yet these things always made her cringe. She could see her image on camera in a little box in the corner of the screen, and she had to remind herself: smile.
Seconds later, a high-definition image of a Palo Alto living room filled the screen. Seven thirty-something women, fit the way only young Californians could be, erupted with happy smiles when they saw her. They were spread across modern furniture in a high-rise apartment that overlooked San Francisco Bay, and they already had their glasses of chardonnay in hand. In the middle was the hostess—smart, jet-black hair; red glasses on her face; a woman with the upscale look of a young executive at a tech giant.
“Ms. Power?” the woman said. “Welcome. I’m Aria Dhawan. It’s so kind of you to join our book club tonight. I have to tell you, we all just loved Thief River Falls. We don’t typically read thrillers in our group, but we made an exception for this book because of the recommendation from Reese, and we’re very happy we did.”
“I’m so glad,” Lisa replied.
“The ending made me cry, but there was something uplifting about it, too. When the boy Purdue comes back as the woman is dying? That was so moving. I don’t have children myself, but it was definitely a mother’s book.”
“Yes, believe me, I cried when I wrote that scene, too.”
“Well, we have a lot of questions for you, but I know it’s late there, so we promise not to take up too much of your time.”
“That’s okay. This is what I do. When I’m not writing, that is.”
One of the other women put down her wineglass and jumped into the conversation. “The setting of your book is so remote! And the name of the town is very romantic. Is Thief River Falls a real place? Is that where you live?”
Lisa forced another smile. Always the same questions.
“Oh, yes, Thief River Falls is a real place. It’s located in far northwestern Minnesota, not too far from the Canadian border. And yes, I lived there my whole life until very recently. I purchased a house about an hour north of town last year, but you’ll still find me i
n Thief River Falls several times a week.”
“You must be famous there,” one of the other women said.
“Or infamous. I was a little nervous about bringing so much mayhem to my hometown, but my neighbors didn’t seem to have a problem with it. I’m not so sure about the chamber of commerce, though.”
The women laughed. They always did.
Lisa knew which laugh lines to use and which stories tugged at people’s heartstrings. For nearly every question at a book club or library visit, she had an answer memorized, because she’d talked to so many readers over the years who all wanted to know the same things.
Where do you get your ideas?
“I wish I could tell you. I see the world—people, places, whatever—through the lens of thrillers. I always have, since I was a girl. To me, everything in my life is about plots and characters. It’s a little scary sometimes.”
Was it hard to break through as a writer?
“Incredibly hard. It took me years to sell my first book. I didn’t make a living at it until Thief River Falls, which was my fourth book. That’s only because of Reese and the movie deal. Until then, I was working full time as a nurse at the local hospital.”
Where do you write?
“Well, I built a little writer’s cottage for myself at my new place. I used to live in a very small two-bedroom house next door to my parents, and there wasn’t much room. So either I’d take my laptop up to the attic and hang out with the spiders, or I’d be out in the backyard working next to the kiddie pool and the jungle gym.”
She didn’t need to think about the answers she gave. They just rolled off her tongue. Sometimes she had to stop herself to let them get the questions out of their mouths before she began answering.
And then there were the questions she hated. The personal ones.
“Are you married?” one of the Palo Alto women asked.
Lisa got that question every time. She wondered if male writers did, too. As always, she had a throwaway line ready to be delivered.
“No, I’m not married. That’s one downside of living in a remote area. There are a lot of farm animals around here, but not much in the way of single men.”
More laughter.
They were a good group. She could feel their intelligence. She thought about telling them the truth: I was engaged once, but Danny died more than ten years ago. That was two months before our wedding. She thought about pouring out her soul and confessing everything that had happened to her in the past two years. About the Dark Star and how it had taken away her family. But people didn’t want to hear those things, and Lisa didn’t need the sympathy of strangers. She wanted to be done answering questions for the night. All she wanted now was to go to bed and sleep.
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