Cold as Hell (Haven’s Rock #3)

Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

As I head to the scene, I think about what Kendra just said.

Will Kendra’s attacker try again with someone else?

That depends on whether or not her attacker specifically targeted her.

If the intent was coerced sex, Kendra makes a prime target. She’s an attractive and vivacious young woman. The fact that she’s a lesbian might even be a factor. Some men can’t abide the idea that a pretty woman is off-limits.

For a nonsexual assault, hate crime would be the obvious motive. Otherwise, I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt Kendra. She’s one of our most popular residents and rivals Anders for our most popular staff member. Like Will Anders, she exudes that rare combination of charisma and genuine kindness. They’re the sort of people who never fail to ask how you are and actually care about the answer.

With Anders being our deputy, he’s obviously going to piss off some people. Kendra, though? In Haven’s Rock, she does social work—which is mostly problem-solving for residents who are struggling but don’t require our resident psychologist or psychiatrist. That means she isn’t dealing with those in crisis. She also does plumbing and leads hikes. While people are annoyed over the toilet situation, they all know it’s a supply issue and even the drunkest resident is hardly going to haul her off and beat her for that.

Also, “drunk” is relative in Haven’s Rock, where alcohol is strictly regulated. Getting seriously intoxicated isn’t im possible—you could stockpile your booze allotments at home and consume them before hitting the Roc. But Isabel—resident bar owner and psychologist—has an eagle eye for that.

Thinking of the Roc leads me to another consideration. April is going to run a tox screen on Kendra, but it certainly sounds as if she was dosed. If so, it happened in the Roc. That means whoever did it was there. That might not narrow things down as much as I like—people come and go all night—but it does mean her attacker had to be from Haven’s Rock.

We might live in the middle of the Yukon wilderness, but even up here, we are not alone. There are hunters and trappers and miners passing through, and most of them never know about our tiny hamlet. Structural and technological camouflage keeps us safe, but exposure threats do happen and we’re always ready for them.

Could those hunters, trappers, and miners realize we have women here and drag one out? Yes. The one lone local we know is Lilith, a nature photographer, who is not dragging Kendra into the woods for any reason. The real danger is the group who set up camp after we built Haven’s Rock.

As we were building, a prospector discovered gold nearby, and his claim is now run by a small firm that made camp a few miles away. We expected them to leave in the winter, and they did not, which is far from the first suspicious thing about them. We were on high alert for months after an issue with them rocketed our suspicion meter, but nothing has happened since. They’ve been perfect neighbors.

Could one of them have slipped into the Roc? No, our town is too small for strangers to enter unnoticed.

Yes, it’s easier if our culprit isn’t a stranger from the woods— or a miner from the neighboring camp. That gives me the fabled locked-room mystery, where Kendra’s attacker must be one of us. But it also means I can’t blame an outsider.

We are a town of refugees, of people who need sanctuary, of people who may have fled abusive partners, stalkers, or would-be killers. We promise them safety. And with this, we once again have failed to provide it.

I head to Kendra’s residence first. Being the middle of the night means no one is outside, and as soon as I leave the clinic, I can pick up the murmured voices of Dalton and Sebastian. Nights out here are always quiet, but winter seems deathly silent, with each footfall crunching like the crack of a gun.

When I peer up, I can barely make out the quarter moon. It’s a cloudy sky with no sign of the green that marks the northern lights. That sky makes me uneasy, as does the thaw. There’s no way in hell a Yukon winter ends in March. Even in May, the ice on the lake will just be starting to break. It’s much too early for a thaw, and there’s a crackle in the air that warns of the calm before a storm.

The temperature has plunged overnight, crusting the melting snow. On the main thoroughfares, though, the snow is too well-trodden and slushy for that, and the front deck of Kendra’s residence building is nothing but a puddling mass of footprints.

I snap a few photos on my phone. We don’t have Wi-Fi or even a cell signal, but a smartphone is so much more than that, and I am relieved to be able to take pictures again, instead of sketching everything.

I search for signs of a struggle in that mess of footprints, but see nothing to indicate dragging or even slipping, which is consistent with Kendra’s recollection that she wasn’t grabbed there.

When I peer out toward the voices, I see Dalton looking over at me, and I wave. He takes a half step my way, stops himself, and waves back. He might want to help me in case I slip, but I’m fine and it’s better to leave Kendra’s trail as untouched as possible.

“Untouched” in theory, that is. In reality, I can’t even see where she left the porch. It’s just slush, and even in spots where the snow has crusted, there are a dozen trails from people returning late yesterday evening.

I whistle for Storm, and that is apparently also my husband’s release signal. Sebastian stays behind with Raoul and only lifts a hand as if to let me know he’ll wait for my questions.

“I could handle this,” Dalton says as he approaches.

“But I’d like to.”

“Which is why I said ‘could.’ How’re you feeling?”

I haven’t even considered that. At this stage of my pregnancy, I’m so accustomed to lumbering around like my dog that I suspect after the baby is born, I’ll fall flat on my ass leaning backward for balance.

I won’t pretend I’m not looking forward to that time—being able to wear my clothing, being able to fit into my boots, not getting up three times every night to pee, and having ankles. You never know how much you’ll miss your ankles until they’re gone.

I’m five foot two, which means at eight months, I’m basically carrying a beach ball under my shirt. Or more like a weighted exercise ball… that kicks. Overall, though, I haven’t gained as much weight as I’d like, and I’m worried our baby will be small. Too small? My obstetrician says no, but I’m lower in that percentile than I want to be.

I assure Dalton that I feel fine, and then I get to work.

I brought Kendra’s undershirt from the clinic for a scent sample. Storm finds her trail easily and tracks it in a perfect line toward Sebastian. We’re far enough off the main thoroughfare now that I can pick up Kendra’s footprints. She seems to be alternating between walking and staggering.

Then I see something that reminds me of a sight Dalton and I saw last week, when he grudgingly agreed to let me hike more than a hundred feet into the woods. An eagle had taken some small critter, and the memory of the attack remained emblazoned on the snow, with the wingbeats and the talon grabs and the violent struggles of whatever had been snatched. That’s what I see here—a tableau of violence cast in snow.

What I don’t see is anything I can use. Over here, a boot skidded. Here, a knee crushed the snow. Here, a hand smacked down, melted snow bloating each finger mark.

I follow the drag marks that skid over the crust with only the occasional deeper mark, where Kendra tried to get traction. They end where Sebastian heard her and came running. I can make out boot prints to the side, presumably his, though again, the melting and crusted snow means they’re little more than ragged punched holes. The same, unfortunately, goes for the prints where Kendra’s attacker retreated deeper into the woods.

I still take photographs of everything. Dalton helps with the close-ups. Being unable to put on my own boots means I’m also unable to crouch and take photos. Or measurements. Or to get down and examine the ground for other signs of trace.

This is the first time my belly has hampered an investigation, because this is the first actual investigation I’ve had in months. The last case was a missing heirloom watch that disappeared from a nightstand… and turned up under the bed. Someone else’s bed, that is. That was three months ago, and quite possibly the last time I was easily able to drop to the floor. I’ve spent the intervening months on tasks that have not required deep bending.

I stave off my frustration by walking over to Sebastian, who is very patiently petting Raoul, the half-wolf dog he shares with Mathias.

“Hey,” I say.

He looks up. “How’s Kendra?”

“She’ll be okay. You got there just in—”

“Butler?” Dalton calls.

I turn toward him as he rises from checking a print.

“It’s late,” Dalton says. “Let Sebastian go to bed. Interview him tomorrow.”

My eyes narrow. I’m the one he wants to get back in bed… and not for the usual reasons.

Unfortunately, my husband has a point. He’s already spoken to Sebastian, and the young man’s story isn’t going to change overnight, especially when—as Kendra says—he might be the only person in town who definitely didn’t attack her. Well, I probably fit that category, too, if only because my current condition means I’m not dragging chairs across the dining room much less hauling people into the woods.

“In fact…” Dalton continues, and I turn slowly, my eyes narrowing to slits. “Sebastian, why don’t you come by the house tomorrow at nine. Casey can interview you there.”

“At nine?” I shake my head. “By then I’ll be in town… investigating an attack on one of our residents.”

“Fine. Sebastian? Come to our place at eight forty-five.”

“I’ll come over at eight thirty,” Sebastian says. “And bring egg sandwiches from the café. That way you can interview me, eat breakfast, and still be in town by nine.”

I thank him and give Raoul a pat before they leave. I take my time turning back to Dalton. I’m torn between being grumbly and being genuinely annoyed, which is par for the course these days.

For most of this pregnancy, Dalton and I have been fine, giddy even, as we prepare for the new addition to our lives. But the rest has been… less happily-ever-after, for both of us.

We knew this would happen. Throughout our relationship, Dalton has worked on keeping his protective streak in check and I have worked on reining in my fierce—okay, rabid—independence. Then came the pregnancy, which we both knew would set us back. His protective streak would soar, countered by my determination not to let this slow me down.

We’re both in the wrong, and we know it. That doesn’t mean he can help feeling frustrated by my insistence on working… and I can’t help feeling frustrated by his coddling. The scare last month only made things worse.

So I don’t turn around until I’ve stifled my annoyance and can look over without scowling.

“You good?” Dalton says from his crouch near a footprint.

“Yep. Before we go, though, we need to follow the trail. Can you help Storm and me with that? Then I’ll go home while you two finish up.”

His grunt is conciliatory, and when he comes over, he leans down to brush his warm lips over my forehead. Then he says, “I’ve already taken a stab at it. But yeah, she works better with you.”

Newfoundlands are not tracking dogs, but that’s what I’ve trained Storm for, and she does at least as well as any other non-hound. While I was at the clinic, Dalton would have tried having Storm follow the trail of Kendra’s attacker. More importantly, he’d have tried to follow it himself, using visual markers. But as he said, Storm works better with me, and he held off on a proper search until I arrived.

Now we do that. Dalton had started by photographing and measuring the prints that clearly belonged to the attacker. That means we can walk over to the trail without worrying about destroying evidence.

I show Storm what I want her to track, and she gamely follows the trail. Sure, that’s less helpful when we can see the footprints ourselves, but that isn’t her fault.

She follows the trail into the woods and to the main path. When she loses it there, Dalton’s grunt says it’s where he lost it, too. That’s hardly surprising. Once the attacker reaches that path, their trail will overlap with dozens of others, including iterations of their own. The wider path also means Dalton can’t easily find visual cues. The trail is a solid mass of footprints, and broken twigs and disturbances could be from anyone.

The next step is to find where Kendra’s attacker might have left the path. They don’t, at least not as far as Storm or Dalton can tell. We follow the path all the way back into town and check every place where someone stepped off it. Storm reports none as being her target. Once we reach town, we turn around and follow it in the other direction. Nothing.

Kendra’s attacker is from Haven’s Rock, which means they know we have a tracking dog. They fled onto the path and followed it straight back to town, hiding their trail among dozens of others. Storm is tracking a ground scent, which is the smell a person leaves on their shoes and the detritus—skin, hair, and such—that falls as they walk. In winter it’s easy to be so bundled up that you’re hardly dropping any detritus at all.

Storm can follow a trail we set her on. She can also find a trail based on a scent marker. What she can’t do is follow a trail and then lumber to the person who left it and woof like a witness with a police lineup.

The failure, really, is mine. I don’t know how to tell her what I want, and I think to do that, I’d have needed to start much earlier. What we really wanted her for was finding people who get lost in the woods, so that’s what she’s trained to do. In the end, even if she could ID a suspect, I’d still need to make the case against them.

We keep searching for an hour before I give up. Kendra’s attacker went straight to the path and presumably followed it to town. Finding them is up to me… starting tomorrow.