Deep Freeze (West Coast 1)

Carter’s jaw hardened, as if somehow she’d insulted him. “Robbery is a crime just the same. I’ll talk to Sergeant Winkle at the city. He’ll send someone over. In the meantime, I’ll look around.” He turned back to Rinda. “Show me where the items were stowed.”

Celebrities, he thought later as he crossed the street to the café. Who needed them? He’d done his duty for his friend and paid back one of a million favors he owed Rinda, but he was finished with the case of Jenna Hughes’s missing black sheath. Damn, what a waste of time. And the “victim” didn’t even seem to want his help. He’d seen her from a distance a few times in the past year and a half, but had never met her formally. He was surprised not so much at how petite she was, but that despite her small size, there was a presence to her—not what he’d expected.

In the theater she hadn’t exhibited any of the creeping Hollywood paranoia or demanding-princess attitude that, he supposed, were stereotypes. From the few minutes he spoke with her, she seemed levelheaded, if a bit feisty, bullheaded, and unaware that even without any makeup he could see, she was drop-dead gorgeous. She hadn’t even seemed too pissed off about the ticket. Not that he cared. He stepped over a pile of snow pockmarked with sand and gravel, a reminder that the snowplow had been through earlier. God, it was cold. With no end in sight. In fact, the weather service predicted things would get much worse. There was even talk of the falls freezing solid.

He didn’t want to think about that, nor the last time the cascading sheets of water had turned to ice and the tragedy that had ensued. In his mind’s eye, he saw David, noticed his feet slipping on the slick sheet of ice…Carter slammed his mind shut to the image and felt the same frozen fear that always accompanied the memory. He glanced up at the sky where snow was falling relentlessly and hoped the weather would break before all the ice-climbing idiots found a way to descend on this place and pull out their picks and ropes and crampons to scale the falls.

His cell phone blasted and he stepped under the awning of the Canyon Café to take the call, which happened to be about another report of a car sliding off the road. A state trooper was already on the scene and taking care of it. No injuries, just a frightened driver and a totaled Chevy Impala.

Carter snapped his phone shut. The good news was that while he was in the theater poking around, his cell phone had rung three separate times and no doubt both Rinda and Jenna Hughes had heard his side of the conversation about the serious problems facing the department. Even bullheaded Rinda had seemed to understand that the missing dress would have to wait. Carter had to focus his attention on the life-threatening situations brought on by the storm. Jackknifed semis, kids life-flighted to hospitals, and an unidentified dead woman found up at Catwalk Point took precedence over some ex-Hollywood star’s missing costumes.

A couple of men in ski wear walked out of the café as Shane strode in. The Canyon Café was small, with only a few booths, a scattering of tables, and a long counter with stools that were usually occupied by locals. The little restaurant had been an institution in Falls Crossing for over fifty years and was known for all-day breakfast, large greasy burgers, onion rings, and thick wedges of home-baked pie.

Shane ordered a cheeseburger basket and coffee to go, ignored the attempts of the waitress to flirt with him, and once the order was filled, didn’t waste any time, but headed outside where the temperature seemed to have plummeted again. The wind was harsher, its screaming edge raw enough to cut through leather and bone. Icicles hung from the eaves of the buildings—long, clear daggers that reminded him of the day David had suggested they climb the falls.

Carter had been sixteen at the time and a dumb-ass kid to boot. Both of them had been stupid, full-of-themselves, spot-on cretins, he thought angrily as he climbed the courthouse steps. Jaw tight, he made his way to his office, left his door ajar, then dialed up the city police where he left Wade Winkle a voice mail message about the “crime” at the theater. As he talked, he managed to slide out of his jacket and shoulder holster.

He wondered what, if anything, Winkle would do.

Not his problem.

He’d had as much contact with Jenna Hughes as he wanted.

After dropping into his chair, he opened the tiny ketchup packets and drizzled ketchup over his small carton of French fries. They were cold and limp, but he was so hungry he didn’t mind. He’d managed to take three bites of his burger when BJ appeared and rapped on the edge of his door before striding in. “Isn’t it a little late for lunch?” she asked, balancing a hip against his desk.

“I was busy.” He leaned back in his chair, set the burger on its white paper bag in the middle of his desk. “Chasing crime at the Columbia Theater in the Gorge.”

“At the theater?”

“Don’t ask,” he said, as an image of Jenna Hughes burned through his mind. Just as she had much too often in the last few hours. He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand and pushed the sack with its nest of fries toward BJ. “Help yourself. Anything new?”

“The State Police are checking with all the dental alginate and latex suppliers and widening the missin

g persons search. And there’s talk of closing I-84 if there’s not a break in the weather.”

“I figured.” Things just kept getting worse.

“A couple of snowboarders are missing up at Meadows Ski Resort,” she said, mentioning the local ski resort as she picked up a fry and plopped it into her mouth.

He was attacking his burger again, but still listening.

“Ski patrol is looking, and there’s already power outages in Hampton—the weight of ice on the branches is snapping limbs, taking down wires.”

“Sounds like the fun is just beginning,” he said, tucking a slice of escaping onion under the top bun.

“Oh, yeah…we’re in for a blast.” She straightened and stretched, rotating the kinks from her neck as she glanced out the window. “I wonder when this weather is gonna let up.”

“Never.”

“Yeah, right,” she said with a mirthless chuckle. “The storm’s gotta break soon.” There was a note of desperation in her voice and Carter understood it. He had the unlikely sensation that until the temperature elevated, things around Falls Crossing were just going to get worse. A lot worse.

He closed his eyes, felt the tingle of snow against his bare skin. Tiny, frigid flakes that were meant to cool, but heated his blood. He was hard. Rigid. Standing naked in the small clearing, old-growth firs surrounding him, their needles coated in ice and snow, the wind whistling through their heavy branches, he felt the call. The need.

It was the killing time.

With each tiny touch of the snow, the ache grew stronger. Pumping through his blood, pounding in his brain, bloodlust that only came in the depths of winter.

This is my time, he thought, his mind racing ahead to all he’d planned. I’m only really alive when the sheen of rime glazes the road and crystals of ice rain from the sky.