Ice Cold (26 page)

B
Y NIGHTFALL, THE CORONER’S RECOVERY TEAM HAD EXTRACTED
the fifteenth body from the frozen ground. It had lain entangled with the other corpses, buried together in one communal pit, limbs mingled in a grotesque group hug. The grave had been shallow, covered with only a thin layer of soil, so thin that even through a foot and a half of snow scavengers had detected the trove of meat. Like the fourteen bodies before it, this corpse emerged from the pit with limbs frozen and rigid, eyelashes encrusted with ice. It was only an infant, about six months old, dressed in a long-sleeved cotton sleeper decorated with tiny airplanes. An indoor outfit. Like the other bodies, this one bore no marks of violence. Except for postmortem damage by carnivores, the cadavers were strangely, disturbingly perfect.

This baby was the most perfect of all, eyes closed as if in sleep, its skin as smooth and milky white as porcelain.
Just a doll
was what Jane had first thought when she’d glimpsed the tiny corpse in the pit. It’s what she’d wanted to believe. But soon the truth was apparent as the coroner’s team, biohazard garb covering their heavy winter clothes, gingerly freed the body from its grave.

Jane had watched the steady succession of cadavers emerge, and the infant was what upset her most, because it made her think of her own daughter. She tried to block out the image, but it had already sprung into her head: Regina’s lifeless face, the skin feathered with frost.

Abruptly she turned away from the pit and walked back to where the vehicles were parked. Cathy was still huddled inside her SUV. Jane climbed in beside her and swung the door shut. The vehicle stank of smoke, and Jane saw that the ashtray was full. Hands shaking, Cathy lit yet another cigarette and took a trembling puff. The two women sat for a moment without speaking. Through the windshield, they watched a member of the recovery team place the pitifully small bundle inside the morgue vehicle and swing the door shut. There was too little daylight left. Tomorrow the digging would resume, and they would certainly find more bodies. At the bottom of the pit, workers had already glimpsed an adult’s rigid limb.

“No knife wounds. No bullet holes,” said Jane as she watched the morgue vehicle drive away. “They look like they just fell asleep. And died.”

“Jonestown,” murmured Cathy. “You remember that, don’t you? The Reverend Jim Jones. He brought nearly a thousand followers from California to Guyana. Established his own colony. When US authorities came to investigate, he ordered his followers to commit suicide. More than nine hundred people died.”

“You think this was a mass suicide, too?”

“What else would it be?” Cathy stared out the window at the burial pit. “In Jonestown, they made the children drink first. Gave them cyanide mixed in sweet punch. Flavor Aid. Imagine doing that. Filling a bottle with poison. Picking up your own baby. Slipping the nipple in its mouth. Imagine watching him drink, knowing that it’s the last time he’ll ever look up at you and smile.”

“No, I can’t imagine that.”

“But in Jonestown, they did it. They killed their own children, and then they killed themselves. All because some so-called
prophet
told them to.” Cathy turned to her with a haunted face. The deepening shadows of the vehicle emphasized the hollows of her eyes. “Jeremiah Goode has the power to command them. He can make you surrender your possessions and turn your back on the world. He can make you give up your daughter and cast out your son. He can hand you a cup of poison, tell you to drink it, and you’d do it. You’d do it with a smile, because there’s nothing as important as pleasing him.”

“I asked you this question before. I think I know the answer. This
is
personal for you, isn’t it?”

Jane’s words, spoken so softly, seemed to stun Cathy. She went very still as her cigarette slowly burned down to ash. Abruptly she stubbed it out and met Jane’s gaze. “You better believe this is fucking personal,” she said.

Jane asked no questions, made no comments. She was wise enough to give her the time and space to say more when she was ready.

Cathy broke off eye contact and stared out at the fading light. “Sixteen years ago,” she said, “I lost my best friend to The Gathering. She and I were as close as sisters—even closer. Katie Sheldon lived next door to us, and I’d known her since we were two years old. Her father was a carpenter, unemployed a lot of the time. A nasty little man who lorded it over his family like a two-bit emperor. Her mother was a housewife. Such a blank personality, I hardly remember her. They were just the kind of family The Gathering seems to attract. People who have no other connections, who need a reason for existence in their purposeless lives. And Katie’s father, he probably liked the idea of any religion that gave him full rein to lord it over his family. Not to mention the young girls he’d get to screw. Multiple wives, Armageddon, the end times—he happily embraced it all. All of Jeremiah’s bullshit. So the family moved away from our neighborhood. To Plain of Angels.

“Katie and I promised to write each other. And I did. I wrote letter after letter, and never got anything back. But I never stopped thinking about her, wondering what became of her. Years later, I found out.”

As Cathy took a calming breath, Jane remained silent, waiting to hear what by then she knew would be a tragic conclusion.

“I finished college,” Cathy continued. “Got a job as a social worker in a hospital in Idaho Falls. One day, an emergency obstetrical case came in through the ER. A young woman who was hemorrhaging after giving birth in Plain of Angels. It was my friend Katie. She was only twenty-two when she died. Her mother was with her, and she happened to let slip the fact that Katie had five other children at home.” Cathy’s jaw tightened. “You do the math.”

“The authorities must have been notified.”

“Oh, they were. I made damn sure they were. The Idaho police went to Plain of Angels and asked questions. By then, The Gathering had their story worked out. No, I’d heard wrong, it was only her first child. There were no underage mothers. There was no sexual abuse of girls. They were merely a peaceful community where everyone was happy and healthy, a true nirvana. The police couldn’t do a thing.” Cathy stared at Jane. “It was too late to save my friend. But I thought I could help the others. All the girls trapped in The Gathering. That’s when I became an activist.

“For years, I’ve collected information about Jeremiah and his followers. I’ve urged law enforcement to do its job and protect those girls. But there’s no way to shut down The Gathering until they arrest Jeremiah. As long as he’s alive and free, he controls them. He can issue orders and send his men after people who defy him. But if he’s cornered, he’ll become dangerous. Remember what happened in Jonestown. And with the Branch Davidians in Waco. When Jim Jones and David Koresh knew they were about to go down, they took everyone with them. Men, women, and children.”

“But why now?” asked Jane. “What would make Jeremiah order a mass suicide at this particular time?”

“Maybe he thinks authorities are closing in on him. That it’s just a matter of time before he’s arrested. When you face decades behind bars for sex crimes, when you know you’re going down, you don’t care how many people you take with you. If you fall, so must your followers.”

“There’s a problem with that theory, Cathy.”

“What problem?”

“These bodies were buried. Someone dragged them out into the field and dug a pit and tried to hide what happened. If Jeremiah talked them into committing mass suicide with him, then who was left behind to bury the bodies? Who burned down these houses?”

Cathy fell silent, thinking about this. Outside, members of the recovery team were returning to their vehicles. They looked like puffy Michelin men inside their biohazard suits. The light had faded, turning the landscape a wintry gray and white. Deep in the shadow of the surrounding woods, more scavengers surely lurked, waiting for another chance to feast on poisoned meat. Meat that had already killed their companions.

“They’re not going to find Jeremiah’s body here,” said Jane.

Cathy looked at the burned remains of Kingdom Come. “You’re right. He’s alive. He must be.”

A rap on Cathy’s door made both women start in surprise. Through the glass, Jane recognized state detective Pasternak’s pallid face peering in at them. As Cathy rolled down the window, he said: “Miss Weiss, I’m ready to hear whatever you have to say about The Gathering.”

“So now you finally believe me.”

“I’m only sorry no one’s been listening.” He gestured toward her backseat. “May I get in out of the wind and join you two?”

“I’ll tell you everything I know. On one condition,” said Cathy.

Pasternak slid into the back and pulled the door shut. “Yes?”

“You have to share some information with us.”

“Like what?”

Jane turned in her seat and looked at him. “How about starting with what you know about Deputy Martineau? And where he got the money to buy a brand-new Harley and a shiny new truck.”

Pasternak glanced back and forth at the two women gazing at him over the seats. “We’re looking into that.”

“Where is Jeremiah Goode?” said Cathy.

“We’re looking into that, too.”

Cathy shook her head. “You’ve got a mass grave here, and you know who’s probably responsible for it. You must have some idea of where he is.”

After a moment, Pasternak nodded. “We’re in touch with Idaho law enforcement. They told me they already have a contact inside the Plain of Angels compound. He reports that Jeremiah Goode isn’t there at this time.”

“And you trust this contact?”

“They do.”

Cathy gave a snort. “Then here’s lesson number one, Detective. When it comes to The Gathering, trust no one.”

“An arrest warrant’s been issued for him. In the meantime, Plain of Angels is under surveillance.”

“He has contacts everywhere. Safe houses where he can stay hidden for years.”

“You know this for a fact?”

Cathy nodded. “He has both the followers and the money to stay untouchable. Enough money to bribe an army of Bobby Martineaus.”

“We’re following that money trail, believe me. A big infusion of cash showed up in Deputy Martineau’s bank account about two weeks ago.”

“From where?” said Jane.

“It came from an account registered to the Dahlia Group. Whatever that is.”

“It has to be Jeremiah’s,” said Cathy.

“The trouble is, we can’t find any link between the Dahlia Group and The Gathering. The account is in a Rockville, Maryland, bank.”

Cathy frowned. “The Gathering has no Maryland connection. Not that I’m aware of.”

“Dahlia appears to be a shell company. A front for whatever its real business is. Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to hide the money trail.”

Jane stared at the grave site, where workers were placing heavy boards over the pit to protect it from further predation. And to protect the predators as well, against whatever poison had killed both the human victims and the animals that had feasted on their tainted flesh. “So this is why Martineau got paid off,” she said. “To keep quiet about what happened here.”

“It would be a secret worth keeping,” said Pasternak. “Mass murder.”

“Maybe this is why he was killed,” said Jane. “Maybe the boy had nothing to do with it.”

“I’m afraid Julian Perkins is the only one who can answer that question.”

“And there’s a posse of armed men ready to kill him.” Jane looked toward the mountains. Toward the sky, which was already darkening into another frigid night. “If they do, we may lose our only witness.”

B
EAR HEARD IT FIRST
.

For most of the morning, the dog had been trotting far ahead of them, as though he already knew the way, although the boy had never before brought him up this mountain. They had traveled for hours without speaking, conserving their breath during the climb, Maura trailing last behind the boy. Every step was a struggle for her to keep up. So when Bear suddenly halted on a ledge above them and gave a bark, she thought it was directed at her. A canine version of
Come on, lady! What’s taking you so long?

Until she heard the growl. Looking up, she saw he wasn’t focused on her, but was staring east, toward the valley from which they had just ascended. Rat halted and turned to face the same direction. For a moment they were silent. Pine branches creaked. Snow swirled, stirred up by invisible fingers of wind.

Then they heard it: the distant baying of dogs.

“We have to move faster,” said Rat.

“I can’t go any faster.”

“Yes you can.” He reached out to her. “I’ll help you.”

She looked at his outstretched hand. Looked up into his face, filthy and haggard. He has kept me alive all these days, she thought. Now it’s time for me to return the favor.

“You’ll move faster without me,” she said.

“I won’t leave you behind.”

“Yes you will. You’re going to run, and I’m going to sit here and wait for them.”

“You don’t even know who
they
are.”

“I’ll tell them what happened to the deputy. I’ll explain everything.”

“Please don’t do this.
Don’t.”
She heard tears break through his voice. “Just come with me. We only have to get over the next mountain.”

“And then what? Do we have to climb the next one, and the next?”

“It’ll just take another day to get there.”

“Get where?”

“Home. My grandpa’s cabin.”

The only safe place he has ever known, she thought. The only place where he’s been loved.

He looked across the valley. There, on the snowy flank of the opposite hill, small dark shapes were moving. “I don’t know where else to go,” he said softly and wiped a filthy sleeve across his eyes. “We’ll be okay there. I know we will.”

It was magical thinking, nothing more, but it was all he had left. Because nothing would ever be okay for him again.

She looked up toward the peak. It was at least half a day’s climb to the top, but it would give them the high ground, if something went wrong. If they had to make a stand.

“Rat,” she said, “if they get too close, if they catch up, you have to promise me one thing. You have to leave me behind. Let me talk to them.”

“What if they don’t want to talk?”

“They could be policemen.”

“So was the last one.”

“I can’t outrun them, but you can. You can probably outrun us all. I’m just slowing you down. So I’ll stay and speak to them. If nothing else, I can buy you enough time to escape.”

He stared at her, dark eyes suddenly shimmering. “You’d really do that?” he asked. “For me?”

She touched a glove to his dirt-streaked face, smearing away tears. “Your mother was crazy,” she said softly. “To ever give up a boy like you.”

Bear gave an impatient
woof
and stared down at them with a look of
What are you two waiting for?

She smiled at the boy. Then she forced her aching legs to move again, and they followed the dog up the mountain.

B
Y LATE AFTERNOON,
they had climbed above the tree cover, and she had no doubt their pursuers could easily spot them, three dark figures moving up the stark white slope. They see us, just as we see them, she thought. Predator and prey, with only a valley separating us. And she was moving far too slowly, her right snowshoe wobbling on her boot, her lungs wheezing in the thin air. Their pursuers were steadily closing the gap. They weren’t tired and tattered and hungry from days in the wilderness; they didn’t have the body of a forty-two-year-old city woman whose idea of exercise was a leisurely walk in the park. How had it come down to this unlikely moment? Slogging up a mountain with a dog of uncertain breed and a cast-off boy who trusted no one, who had every reason not to. These were the only two she could count on out here, these two friends who had already proven themselves again and again.

She looked up the slope at Rat, moving tirelessly up the path ahead of her, and he seemed far younger than sixteen, just a frightened child, clambering up the hillside like a mountain goat. But she had reached the end of her endurance, and now she could scarcely move one foot in front of the other. She struggled up the trail, snowshoes creaking under her weight, her thoughts on the encounter to come. It would happen before nightfall. One way or the other, she thought, by tonight all will be decided. Glancing back, she saw that their pursuers were already emerging from the trees below. So close.

We’ll soon be within their rifle range
.

She looked up the mountain again, to the peak still looming far ahead, and the last of her strength seemed to crumble and fall away like ashes.

“Come on!” Rat called down to her.

“I can’t.” She stopped, sagging against a massive boulder, and whispered, “I can’t.”

He scrambled back down to her, scattering powdery snow, and grabbed her arm. “You have to.”

“It’s time to do it,” she said. “Time for you to leave me.”

He pulled harder on her arm. “They’ll kill you.”

She took him by both shoulders and gave him a shake. “Rat, listen to me. It doesn’t matter now what happens to me. I want
you
to live.”

“No. I won’t leave you.” His voice cracked, shattered into a boy’s sob, a boy’s frantic appeal. “Please try.
Please.”
He was begging now, his face streaked with tears. He would not stop tugging on her arm, hauling with such determination that she thought he would single-handedly drag her up the mountain, whether she cooperated or not. She let herself be pulled a few more steps up the slope.

Suddenly she heard the crack of wood, felt a bolt of pain shoot up her right ankle as the broken snowshoe collapsed under her weight. She toppled forward, arms splayed out to catch herself, and sank up to her elbows in snow. Spluttering, she struggled to rise, but her right foot would not move.

Rat wrapped an arm around her waist and tried to wrench her free.

“Stop!” she cried out. “My foot’s stuck!”

He dropped to the ground and began tunneling into the snow. Bear stood by, looking bewildered as his master dug like a frenzied dog. “Your boot’s wedged between boulders. I can’t get it free!” He looked up at her, eyes lit with panic. “I’m going to pull. I might be able to get your foot out of the shoe. But it’s going to hurt.”

She looked down the mountain. Any moment, she thought, those men will be within rifle range, and they’d find her trapped like a staked goat. This was not the way she wanted to die. Exposed and helpless. She took a breath and nodded to Rat. “Do it.”

He wrapped both hands around her ankle and began to pull. Pulled so hard that he groaned with the effort, so hard that she thought her foot would be torn apart. The pain ripped a cry from her throat. All at once her foot wrenched free of the boot and she sprawled backward onto the snow.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Rat cried. She smelled his sweat and fear, heard him wheezing in the cold as he grabbed her under the arms and hauled her up. Her right foot was clad only in a wool sock, and when she put her weight down on it, her leg sank knee-deep in snow.

“Lean on me. We’ll get up the trail together.” He draped her arm over his neck and grabbed her around the waist. “Come on,” he urged. “You can make it. I know you can make it.”

But can you?
With every step they took together, she could feel his muscles straining with the effort. If ever I had a son, she thought, this is the kind of boy I would want him to be. As loyal, as courageous, as Julian Perkins. She clutched him tighter, and the warmth of their bodies mingled as they fought their way up the mountain. This was the son she’d never had and probably never would have. Already they were bonded, their union forged in battle.
And I won’t let them hurt him
.

Their snowshoes creaked in unison, and the steam from their breaths joined in a single cloud. Her exposed sock was soaked, her toes aching in the cold. Bear scrambled ahead of them, but they moved slowly, so slowly. Surely their pursuers could mark their quarry’s progress up the barren slope.

She heard Bear growl, and she looked up the trail. The dog stood stock-still, his ears laid back. But he was not facing their pursuers in the valley; he was looking toward a plateau above them, where something dark was moving.

Gunfire cracked, echoing like thunder against the cliffs.

Maura felt Rat stumble against her. Suddenly the shoulder that had been supporting her collapsed and his arm slid away from her waist. As his knees buckled, she was the one trying to hold him up, but she wasn’t strong enough. The best she could do was to break his fall as he sank to the ground. He fell beside a stand of boulders and lay on his back, as though to make a snow angel. He stared up at her with a look of astonishment. Only then did she notice the splatters of blood on the snow.

“No,” she cried. “Oh God,
no
.”

“Go,” he whispered.

“Rat. Honey,” she murmured, fighting not to cry, to keep her voice steady. “You’re going to be okay. I swear you’re going to be okay, baby.”

She unzipped his jacket and stared down in horror at the stain spreading across his shirt. She ripped the fabric apart and exposed the bullet wound that had punched into his chest. He was still breathing, but his jugular veins were distended, bulging like thick blue pipes. She touched his skin and felt the crackle of crepitus as air leaked from his chest and infiltrated the soft tissues, distorting his face, his neck.
Punctured right lung. Pneumothorax
.

Bear bounded back and licked Rat’s face as the boy struggled to speak. Maura had to push the dog away so she could hear the boy’s words.

“They’re coming,” he whispered. “Use the gun. Take it …”

She looked down at the deputy’s weapon, which he’d pulled out of his jacket pocket. So this is how it’s going to end, she thought. Their attackers had given them no warning, made no attempt to negotiate. The first shot had been meant to kill. There would be no chance to surrender; this was to be an execution.

And she was their next target.

Maura rose to a crouch to peer over the boulders. A lone man was moving down the mountain toward them. He carried a rifle.

Bear gave a threatening bark, but before he could lunge from the cover of the boulders, Maura grabbed his collar and commanded: “Stay.
Stay.”

Rat’s lips had darkened to blue. With every breath he took, the punctured lung was leaking air into the chest cavity, where it was trapped, unable to escape. The pressure was building, squeezing that lung, shifting all the organs in his chest. If I don’t act now, she thought, he will die.

She yanked open Rat’s backpack and scrabbled through the contents for his knife. Sliding open the blade, she found it streaked with rust and dirt. To hell with sterility; he had only minutes left to live.

Bear barked again, a sound so frantic that she swung around to look at what had alarmed him. Now he was facing down the hill, where a dozen men were climbing toward them.
A man with a rifle above us. More armed men approaching from below us. We are trapped between them
.

She looked down at the gun, which had fallen in the snow beside Rat. The deputy’s weapon. When this was over, when she and Rat were both dead, they would point to this gun as proof that they were cop-killers. No one would ever know the truth.

“Mommy.” The word was barely a whisper. A child’s plea from a young man’s dying lips. “Mommy.”

She bent close to the boy and touched his cheek. Though he was looking straight at her, he seemed to be seeing someone else. Someone who made his lips slowly curve into a weak smile.

“I’m here, darling.” She blinked as tears slid down her cheeks and chilled on her skin. “Your mommy will always be here.”

The snap of a breaking branch made her stiffen. She raised her head to peer over the boulder and saw the lone rifleman just as he saw her.

He fired.

The bullet kicked snow into her eyes and she dropped back to the ground beside the dying boy.

No negotiations. No mercy.

I refuse to be slaughtered like an animal
. She picked up the deputy’s gun. Raising the barrel, she fired high into the air. A warning shot, to slow him down. To make him think.

Lower on the slope, dogs barked and men shouted. She saw the approaching posse scrambling up the mountain toward her. She had no cover against their gunfire. Crouching here beside Rat, she was exposed to the firing squad moving toward her.

“My name is Maura Isles!” she shouted. “I want to surrender! Please, let me surrender! My friend is hurt and he needs …” Her voice died as a shadow loomed above her. She looked up, into the barrel of a rifle.