Chill Factor (22 page)

After dropping Wes at his house, he hadn't gone straight to
headquarters. It had been very late when he got there, and by way of
greeting, the dispatcher had handed him dozens of call memos.

All were complaints he could do nothing about until the
weather
improved, like the frozen fountain in front of the bank building, a
missing milk cow, and a tree branch that had broken off from the weight
of the ice and snow. It had fallen onto the owner's outdoor hot tub and
cracked the cover.

And this was his problem, why?

Then there was a call from Mrs. Kramer, who had more money
than God
from Coca-Cola stock a wise great-grandfather had bought cheap. But you
would never meet a meaner and more miserly old bat. She'd called to
report a prowler in her front yard. Dutch reread the message as written
down by his dispatcher. "Does this say Scott H.?"

"Yeah. The Hamer kid. She says he was strolling past her house
like
it was an evening in May. Up to no good, if you ask her."

"Well, I didn't ask," Dutch had said, "and anyway she's
delusional.
I was at the Hamers' house. Scott was holed up in his room with the
stereo blaring. Besides, Wes wouldn't let him go out on a night like
this."

The dispatcher raised his bulky shoulders in a shrug and
didn't take
his eyes off the John Wayne shoot-'em-up he was watching on a
black-and-white TV. "What do you expect from a crackpot whose hobby is
digging in trash cans?" Mrs. Kramer was known to pull on Rubbermaid
gloves and scavenge through trash cans under cover of darkness. Go
figure.

Dutch balled up the memo and shot it into the overflowing
wastebasket. He put the other memos in his shirt pocket to deal with
later, but only after Lilly was safely down from Cleary Peak. That was
all he was interested in this morning—getting Cal Hawkins to
drive his
sanding truck up the mountain to rescue her.

True, it was still snowing like a son of a bitch. True,
beneath the
snow was a layer of ice an inch thick. Those were the objections that
Hawkins was sober enough to raise, and they were valid. But it wouldn't
be as difficult as last night, when they'd had darkness working against
them. At least that was what Dutch argued.

Catching his reflection in the mirror along the soda
fountain's back
wall, he saw what the FBI agents would see—a loser, a
burnout. He'd
catnapped in his desk chair until dawn, his sleep frequently
interrupted by disturbing thoughts of Lilly and what she might be doing
at any given moment. What Ben Tierney was doing. What they were doing
together
.

Before leaving headquarters, he had washed up and shaved in
the
men's restroom, using a dull razor, bar soap, and tepid water in a
shallow basin. Had he known sooner that he was going to come under FBI
scrutiny, he would have gone home to shower and put on a fresh uniform.

No help for it now.

"How's that coffee coming?" he asked Ritt.

"Another minute or two. I'll bring it over when it's ready."

Having exhausted reasons to delay the meeting, Dutch turned
toward
the booth where the two agents were waiting like vultures over a dying
animal. The older one made a point of checking his wristwatch.

Asshole
, Dutch thought. Did they think he
was at their beck
and call? Apparently so, gauging by the way they had mandated this
meeting, giving him virtually no warning.

He'd just pulled up out front of Hawkins's place when he got a
call
from Harris. The young policeman had sounded out of breath and was
sputtering with excitement, but Dutch finally interpreted the message:
meet the feebs at the drugstore. "In half an hour, he said."

"Who said? That Special Agent Wise?"

"No," Harris replied. "Older guy. Introduced himself as the
SAC."

Fuckin' fabulous
. "Where'd you run into
them?"

"Uh, I don't think I'm supposed to say. He told me not to
mention
names over the radio."

"What's he want to see me for?"

"That's something else I'm not supposed to say over the radio."

Dutch swore beneath his breath. What had happened to Harris,
for
chrissake? Had he been bewitched? "Well, if they're at the drugstore
when I get there, fine. But I'm not going to hang around waiting on
them."

"I don't think you want to cross this guy, sir."

Dutch hated having his authority challenged, especially by the
officers on his force. "I don't think he wants to cross me either."

"No, sir," Harris said. "But the SAC told me it was important
that
you meet this morning. And the way he said it, it was like…
well, like
he'd be good and pissed if you didn't show. Just my opinion, sir."

Now that Dutch had seen the SAC for himself, he shared
Harris's
opinion. One glance and Dutch sized him up as a no-nonsense
ball-breaker. He'd had plenty of experience with tight asses like him
in the APD. He disliked the feeb instantly.

Without hurry, he ambled over to the booth and slid in across
from
them. "Morning."

Wise made the introductions. "Police Chief Dutch Burton, this
is SAC
Kent Begley."

Begley was brittle and brusque, even in the way he said,
"Burton,"
as they shook hands across the Formica. That alone revealed what he
thought of Dutch. Begley had dismissed his importance even before they
had exchanged a how-do-you-do. In the SAC's mind, this was a formality,
protocol he had to go through before elbowing out the dumb local cop.

The federal sons of bitches claimed not to feel that way about
local
law enforcement outfits. The company line was that they had the utmost
respect for anyone wearing a badge. Bullshit. You might find an
exception to the rule if you looked hard enough among the rank and
file, but generally speaking, they thought they were the know-all,
be-all. Period. End of story.

"We apologize for the short notice," Wise said.

Wise had been introduced to Dutch shortly after he moved back
to
Cleary and assumed the job of chief. As they shook hands the first
time, Wise had said he was relieved that someone with know-how would
now be working on the missing persons cases. But Dutch had seen through
the good manners. Wise had only been humoring him and playing politics.

Ritt delivered three cups of coffee. Begley ignored his. Wise
opened
a packet of sweetener. Dutch took a sip from his cup before asking,
"What's the urgency?"

"You mean besides five missing women?" Begley said.

He was like an industrial-strength abrasive scouring Dutch's
raw
nerve endings. Dutch wanted to hit him. Instead he locked gazes with
the senior agent, and each telegraphed his disdain for the other.

Wise coughed lightly behind his fist and pushed up his
slipping
eyeglasses. "Sir, I'm certain Chief Burton didn't mean to diminish the
importance of finding the missing persons."

"This weather has temporarily suspended my investigation."

"Which amounts to what?" Begley asked.

Ever the diplomat, Wise quickly amended Begley's question.
"Perhaps
you could bring us up to date on your investigation, Chief Burton."

Dutch was hanging on to his patience by a thread, but the
sooner he
answered their questions, the sooner he could get on his way. "Since I
first learned of Millicent Gunn's disappearance, I've had every spare
man I could recruit—from my department, the state police,
county
sheriff's office, and a goodly number of volunteers— combing
the area.

"But the terrain around here makes it slow going, especially
since I
ordered them not to leave a twig unturned. Yesterday, when the storm
moved in, I was forced to call off the search. We're hamstrung as long
as this weather keeps up. And I don't have to tell you what it'll do to
evidence."

As he gestured toward the front of the building, he saw Wes
Hamer
and Marilee Ritt approaching the entrance from opposite directions,
reaching the door at the same time. Wes held it open for her, then
quickly followed her in. They were chuckling over the snow that clung
to their clothing. Standing just inside the door, they stamped their
feet to shake the snow off their boots.

Wes removed his hat and gloves. Marilee pulled a cap from her
head,
and he laughed when static electricity made her hair stand on end. The
tip of her nose was red, but Dutch was struck by how pretty and
animated she looked this morning.

William called to her, and she hurriedly joined him behind the
soda
fountain. Wes glanced toward the booth where Dutch sat with the FBI
agents. He didn't seem surprised to see him there with them. Ritt, in
his self-cast role as town busybody, had probably called Wes to inform
him of the meeting.

Last night he and Wes had exchanged some harsh words and
parted
angry at each other. After Dutch's crack about Wes and women, Wes had
shoved open the passenger door of the Bronco and stepped out. "You
can't afford to piss me off, Dutch. Not when I'm about the only friend
and ally you've got left." He'd slammed the door before stamping off
into the maelstrom of snow.

Now they acknowledged each other with a curt nod, then Dutch
returned his attention to Wise and Begley.

"I spoke with Mr. and Mrs. Gunn last evening," he continued.
He
didn't tell them that Millicent's parents had sought him out, not the
other way around. He was glad he had even this to report. It made him
appear on top of the case, proactive.

"I updated them on our canvass of the people that Millicent
had
contact with on the day she disappeared, first at the high school,
later at work. We had compiled a comprehensive list but couldn't get
around to interviewing everyone before this storm hit. I have a small
department and limited personnel. I operate on a shoestring budget."
Because his excuses had begun to sound like whining, he stopped and
took another sip of coffee.

He glanced toward the soda fountain. Hawkins sat with his
shoulders
hunched, holding his coffee cup between his hands as though both were
required to keep it steady. Wes was holding court for Ritt and Marilee.
He was talking softly, but he had their rapt attention. Dutch wondered
what he was saying that was so bloody captivating.

Shifting his attention back to business, he addressed Wise.
"Did you
learn anything from reading Millicent's diary?"

Let them share the hot seat, he thought. They were on this
case,
same as he was. With all the resources at their disposal, they hadn't
solved it either.

"An entry or two snagged my curiosity," Wise replied. He added
another packet of sweetener to his coffee and idly stirred it. "Chances
are they're insignificant insofar as her disappearance goes."

"Insignificant?" Dutch scoffed. "If it was insignificant, you
wouldn't be here. SAC Begley sure as hell wouldn't be. What got your
curiosity up?"

Wise glanced at Begley. Begley continued to
state
at Dutch
without speaking. Wise cleared his throat and looked at Dutch again,
peering at him through his large lenses. "Do you know a man named Ben
Tierney?"

Tierney woke up with a start.

He'd been in a deep and dreamless sleep one second. The next
he was
wide awake, sensors tingling as though he'd been shocked with a cattle
prod.

Instinctively he pushed off the blankets and made to sit up. A
battery of pains assaulted him, causing him to gasp, his eyes to tear.
He was assailed by dizziness. He remained still, taking light, shallow
breaths, until the pain receded to a tolerable level and he regained
some equilibrium, then cautiously lowered his feet to the floor and sat
up.

Lilly was already up, probably in the bathroom.

Although the room was dark, he knew it must be after dawn. He
tried
the lamp on the end table, and it came on. The cabin still had
electricity. However, it was so cold he was shivering. Apparently the
propane had run out during the night. First order of the day was to
build a fire.

Ordinarily, he would have acted on that immediately. This
morning,
however, merely sitting upright had seemed an insurmountable task. His
muscles were sore, his joints stiff from steeping all night in one
position—the only position the sofa allowed. Even the
expansion of his
rib cage when he breathed was painful.

Lifting his coat and sweater, he examined his torso. The
entire left
side was the color of eggplant. Gingerly, he felt along each rib. He
didn't think any were broken, but he wouldn't swear to it. It couldn't
hurt any worse if they were. Luckily he didn't have a punctured organ,
or if he did, it was leaking slowly. In any case, he hadn't bled to
death during the night.

His head wound had left spots of blood on the pillowcase, but
it
wasn't a substantial amount. No more shooting pains through his skull,
just a dull headache and the recurring dizziness, which he could
control if he didn't move too suddenly.

Fortunately he wasn't as nauseous as he'd been last night. In
fact,
he was hungry, which he took as a positive sign. The thought of coffee
made his mouth water. He would ration enough of their water reserve to
brew them one cup each.

He glanced toward the closed door of the bedroom. Lilly was
taking
her time in the bathroom, and it had to be even colder in there than it
was here. What was she doing that could possibly take this long? A
delicate question, and not one you posed to a woman.

Hell of a thing, being trapped in this cabin with her. Hell of
a
thing.

Easing himself off the sofa, he hobbled to the window. The
wind was
still blowing, though not as hard as the night before. That was the
only improvement. Snow was falling in such abundance it had begun to
build up against vertical surfaces. The ground cover was at least
knee-deep, he guessed. They wouldn't be getting off the mountain today.
He'd hated like hell making those trips to the shed, but it was a good
thing he had. They would need the extra firewood.