Heart of Ice
Authors: P. J. Parrish
“Crime fiction at its finest—beautifully written and imagined, yet packed with raw power, like an iron fist in a velvet glove.”—Lee Child
“Suspense of the highest order.”—
Chicago Sun-Times
“P. J. Parrish delivers a powerful read every time.”—Linda Fairstein
Praise for Edgar Award finalist P. J. Parrish and her acclaimed series featuring the crime-tracking team of Louis Kincaid and Joe Frye
THE LITTLE DEATH
“Louis Kincaid is the detective I would want on the case if it was someone I knew on the slab. This is P. J. Parrish’s best work yet!”
—Michael Connelly
“Sex, murder, and money, all set in the insanity that is Palm Beach society.”
—Brad Meltzer
“Wow! What a story. . . . A triumph for P. J. Parrish.”
—Sandra Brown
SOUTH OF HELL
A 2009 Anthony Award Finalist
“A superlative series. . . . A commanding and addicting reading experience.”
—
Book Reporter
“[The] tense plot careens with multiple twists as the suspense accelerates.”
—
Orlando Sentinel
A THOUSAND BONES
A
Cosmopolitan
magazine “Sizzling Summer Read”
“Stunningly crafted page after page, on the way to a thrilling climax. . . .”
—Linda Fairstein,
New York Times
bestselling author
“Sizzle[s] with taut suspense. . . . Another top-notch whodunit.”
—
Publishers Weekly
And don’t miss this “high octane”
(
Orlando Sentinel
)
thriller from P. J. Parrish
THE KILLING SONG
From Miami to underground Paris, investigative reporter Matt Owens hunts for his sister’s killer. But is the monster playing him next?
“Tense, thrilling. . . . You’re going to bite your nails!”
—Lee Child, #1
New York Times
bestselling author
“P. J. Parrish has crafted one of the best criminals ever. . . . So riveting you won’t be able to stop turning the pages.”
—Lisa Scottoline,
New York Times
bestselling author
“Truly original, with a killer that will make your skin crawl. . . . A great book for fans of Thomas Harris or Chelsea Cain.”
—Changing Hands Bookstore (staff pick)
“Complex, sophisticated. . . . A guaranteed can’t-put-down book that absorbed me as much as
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
.”
—Roberta Gately
“Unrelenting tension. . . . Detailed insight into the killer’s twisted mind.”
—
Shelf Awareness
“Intense. . . . The frenetic pace barely gives the reader time to breathe.”
—
Orlando Sentinel
“If you enjoy a good travelogue with your thrills and chills, this is one you won’t want to miss!”
—
Criminal Element
More praise for the spellbinding crime fiction of P. J. Parrish
“If you haven’t discovered the fast-paced action, terrifying suspense, and hairpin twists of P. J. Parrish yet, now’s the time.”
—Mystery Guild
“An invigorating ride.”
—
Baltimore Sun
“Her ability to raise goose bumps puts her in the front rank of thriller writers.”
—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)
“Wonderfully tense and atmospheric . . . keeps the reader guessing.”
—
Miami Herald
“A really fine writer.”
—John Sandford
“A masterpiece of shock and surprise . . . startling, stunning.”
—Ed Gorman,
Mystery Scene
“Parrish is an author to read, collect, and root for.”
—James W. Hall
“Opens like a hurricane and blows you away through the final page. . . . A major-league thriller that is hard to stop reading.”
—Robert B. Parker
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To first loves and Michigan summers
Like Louis’s daughter, Lily, when we were little all we wanted to do was go to Mackinac Island. We lived in Detroit and although our dad took us up north many times, most of our trips ended halfway up the state at Houghton Lake, where we swam in warm brown water, played miniature golf, and cooked marshmallows over a campfire. Sometimes, if we were lucky, we took day trips to the Sleeping Bear Dunes, Tahquamenon Falls, Holland, and Frankenmuth—all places where we could see everything for free.
But the island . . . well, it was expensive for us, what with the ferry ride, bike rentals, Fort Mackinac admission tickets, and, of course, lunch and souvenirs. And the decision between one day on the island and two nights at Houghton Lake was not one to be taken lightly by a single father raising three girls. But finally, one summer, we made it. We didn’t have lunch on the veranda of the Grand Hotel but at a curbside shack that served the best greasy burgers in the state. We didn’t rent a horse with a guide but we did rent rusty bicycles. And with the wind in our faces and the smell of the gardens in our noses, we rode past Fort Mackinac just as the cannons were booming over our heads. We pedaled past a stable where a man was
making horseshoes, past the gracious old homes on the bluffs, and beneath the shadow of Arch Rock with the blue expanse of Lake Huron never out of our sight. We climbed a steep staircase to the top where we could see both the upper and lower peninsulas in one glance. And when we were breathless, we laid down our bikes in the shade and talked about how when we were older we would bring our kids here. We returned many times as adults, even bringing our kids. The island never changes. And that is a good thing, we think.
* * *
We get by with a little help from our friends. So a big thank-you goes out to:
Jill Sawatzki of the Island Bookstore on Mackinac Island, who came up with the idea of finding a dead body in the lodge. Also thanks to her fellow booksellers on the island and in the Mackinaw City store: Jane, Kathy, Tam, Cass, and Jeremy.
Sharon Plotkin, certified crime scene investigator for the North Miami Police, whose assistance on explaining fingerprint analysis was invaluable.
Brenda “Bree” Horton, who writes a terrific blog, “Bree’s Mackinac Island Blog,” about life on the island.
Dr. Doug Lyle, who never fails to keep us honest on all the medical mysteries, and to Peter Lent, who’s an okay guy for a lawyer.
And Daniel, as always, for his love, patience, and eagle eye editing our manuscript.
What love is now I know not; but I know
I once loved much, and then there was no snow.
—Augusta Webster,
“The Snow Waste”
Wednesday, December 31, 1969
H
e was staring at the frozen lake and thinking about his mother lying on a table somewhere, screaming in pain.
He was remembering what she had told him, how they had kept her in that little room and held her down, how it felt like her insides were being torn in half, and how it went on and on and on for two days until she begged to die.
He was thinking about her and how much he had loved her. But he was also thinking that if she had been able to stand the pain for two more minutes—
two damn minutes—
his life would have been so very different.
But she couldn’t. So he was pulled from her womb at two minutes before midnight on September 14, and because of that everything now had changed.
The ferry was coming in. He heard its horn before he saw it, a white smudge emerging slowly from the gray afternoon fog. It was running late. The straits had frozen over early this year because of the long, bitter cold snap. He pulled up the hood of his parka and looked down at the duffel at his feet. Had he remembered his gloves? Everything had happened so fast he hadn’t given much thought to packing. Now he was so cold he didn’t even
want to open the duffel to look, so he stuffed his red hands into his armpits and watched the ferry.
The ferry was taking a long time to get to the dock, like it was moving in slow motion. But everything was like this now, moving as if time no longer existed. It didn’t really, he thought. Not anymore. Time was nothing to him now. By tomorrow he would have all the time in the world.
He looked around. At the clapboard ticket house of the Arnold Line ferry, at the docks, at the empty parking lot and the boarded-up pastie shack. He looked past the park benches and the bare black trees still wearing their necklaces from last night’s ice storm. He looked back toward town where the fog blurred all the places he had known during his nineteen years here, and he tried hard to burn everything into his memory because he knew that once he got on the ferry there would be no way to come back and he would forget all of this and the person he had been here.
He looked to his left.
Canada. It was just fifty miles away, less than an hour’s drive up I-75. He had never been there before.
Until now he had never had a reason to.
The ferry docked. No one came out to take his ticket, so he picked up his duffel, sprinted up the gangplank, and boarded. The cabin was empty and dingy but at least it was warmer. He set his duffel on one of the wooden benches and sat down. He wanted a hot cup of coffee but there was no one at the snack bar. The clouded glass pots sat empty on the coffee machines. There wasn’t a soul to be seen anywhere, and he had the weird feeling that he was the only human being left on earth.
