Thin Ice (23 page)

Lance had no problem finding the accident scene. The sheriff's report detailed the location, but tire skids also marked the spot.

He put on his flashers and eased as far as possible onto the minuscule shoulder. The rural route was quiet on this cold Tuesday afternoon; partially blocking the road shouldn't be an issue.

“Ready?” He tugged on a pair of gloves and turned up the collar of his sheepskin-lined jacket, glad he'd followed Mark's lead and made a quick trip home to change before they set out.

His colleague pulled on a ski hat and opened his door. “Yeah. Boots on the ground is always the best way to get the lay of the land.”

Lance slid out of the car, walked over to where the skid marks began, and assessed the terrain. “The deputy was right about this being the worst possible location to lose control.” He indicated the steep drop-off and the curve ahead.

“Also fishy.” Mark shaded his eyes against the sun and inspected the area.

“Why don't we walk the road first, down the middle. You work the right side, I'll take the left. Then we'll retrace our steps from the shoulders.”

“Makes sense.”

They followed the skid marks from their beginning, to the fishtails as Christy's father struggled for control, to where the black tracks ended at the edge of the precipice.

Lance stepped to the lip and looked down. He'd seen the photos of the accident, knew where the car had come to rest. But even without the photos, the crushed and broken limbs, naked in the middle of winter, marked the spot.

“I'm surprised either of them survived.” Beside him, Mark surveyed the steep drop-off.

“I bet our guy was too—assuming he was responsible. And if he was, he was also probably sweating bullets in case Christy's father regained consciousness.”

Mark folded his arms. “I don't know. Unless he left something at the scene to identify himself or showed himself to her parents—which is doubtful—he may not have cared if one of them survived. In fact, he might have hoped for that outcome. That way, Christy would have had to watch a beloved, seriously impaired parent suffer.”

“That's sick.”

“Fits what we know about this guy, though.”

True.

Lance flexed his fingers to keep the circulation moving. Despite his thermal gloves, bitter air was seeping in. “You see anything on our walk down?”

“No.”

“Me, neither. Let's try the shoulders.”

They moved back toward the car, attention fixed on the ground, then repeated the walk several times, scrutinizing the shrubs and trees on the sides of the road.

“I think this was a bust.” Mark tugged his cap down further over his ears as the wind picked up.

Much as he hated to admit it, Lance agreed.

“Before we head out, let's regroup for a minute in the car.
While we warm up, we can do some brainstorming now that we've seen the place.”

Mark shot him a skeptical look but didn't argue.

Once back in his seat, Lance cranked up the heater, tugged off his gloves, and examined the scene through the windshield. “If you wanted to send a car out of control on this road and leave no trace, how would you do it?”

“We already know he's savvy with GPS. He could have put a device on their car, followed their progress on a cell phone, and known when they'd arrive at this spot.”

“Right. And the deputy said they attended that church dinner every month with Ginny, so there was a pattern.”

“In other words, our guy could pick his night and lay in wait. The real question is what could he quickly put on the road—and get rid of just as fast—in case another car showed up? All without leaving a trace?”

“And without risking his own neck—which leaves jumping in front of the car to startle them out of the equation.” Lance examined the skid marks again.

“It would have to be an object that appeared suddenly at eye level to be most effective.”

“Like a deer darting across the road . . . caught in the beam of headlights on a dark night and disappearing without a trace an instant later, leaving chaos in its wake.”

“Yeah. The sudden appearance is key. If the driver had seen it from a distance, he could have slowed down well in advance.”

“I wonder if he had some sort of object rigged to drop from above as the car approached?” Lance leaned forward and examined the trees through the windshield, then shook his head. “Scratch that. The trees on top of the limestone bluff are too high, and the ones growing on the sides of the cliff are too low.”

“Maybe whatever it was didn't drop from above. Some of the trees clinging to the side of the bluff are tall enough to climb,
and on a dark night, in full spring foliage, the branches would have provided excellent cover for our guy while he waited to pull an object onto the road as the car approached.”

“Like what?”

“I have no idea. All I'm saying is the scenario isn't that far out in left field. If he was willing to stage a fire with a fake victim, I don't think this challenge would be beyond him.”

“Yeah.”

“You know, it almost seems as if he has a vendetta against the whole Reed family.” Mark angled toward him. “Either that, or he has a serious gripe against Christy and has gone above and beyond making her pay for whatever she did to him.”

“I don't buy the family vendetta premise. All of their background checks came back squeaky clean. One family member might have an unknown enemy, but not all of them.”

“Since Christy is the only one left standing, my money's on her.”

Lance's grip tightened on the wheel. “How could she have made an enemy this evil without realizing it?”

“That, my friend, is the question of the day—and we're not going to find the answer here. You ready to head back?”

No, he wasn't. Now that he'd visited the scene and driven the presumed route, he was more certain than ever the location of the so-called accident wasn't coincidence. They might not have found anything to prove that theory, but his gut told him the evidence was here if they'd known what to look for.

“I guess so.” He unbuttoned his coat, put the car in gear, and pulled back onto the road.

“You're coming back, aren't you?”

Did his colleague have a sixth sense or what?

“I might.”

“If it was my case, I would too. Loose ends bother me. You planning to tell Christy about our speculation that this wasn't an accident?”

“No. She's got enough to deal with at the moment. Besides, even if we're right, it doesn't change anything. Bottom line, her parents are gone. If you come up with any other theories about the accident, let me know.”

“Will do . . . although I have a feeling this case will break wide open before you get around to making another trip out here.”

So did he. They were still working on the killer's timetable, and he'd already suggested the end was in sight.

The best they could hope for was that whether or not the news story about Ginny appeared in the St. Louis paper, their guy would somehow stumble and make a mistake that would give them the lead they desperately needed.

Soon.

Because while there were lots of unknowns in this case, Lance was certain of one thing.

They were running out of time.

N
o!”

As Neven's furious bellow boomed through the apartment, Mevlida jerked toward the door of her bedroom, fingers tightening on the book of prayers clutched in her hand.

A chair clattered, as if it had been kicked or knocked over.

What on earth . . . ?

Neven never raised his voice or was violent in noisy ways. His anger was always cold. Quiet. Controlled.

A cabinet door banged, shaking the walls.

A roller shade clattered.

Glass shattered.

Quivering, Mevlida stared at her closed door. Who knew what had triggered tonight's rage? But no matter the cause, one outcome was guaranteed.

Her life would become even more miserable.

Because whenever Neven was unhappy, he took it out on her.

Footsteps stomped down the hall, and she cringed as he approached her door—but he kept going, muttering words she couldn't understand.

She cocked her ear, listening as he inserted the key into the
lock on his door. A few seconds later, the slam reverberated through the apartment. Though muffled noises continued to penetrate the thin walls, they offered no clue what he was up to.

Ten minutes later, his door opened again. She tensed—but he continued down the hall, toward the living room.

The front door opened.

Banged.

Quiet descended.

For the next thirty minutes, Mevlida remained perched on the edge of her chair. Waiting. Listening. Trembling.

Finally, prodded by a gnawing hunger, she gathered up her courage and pushed herself to her feet. She needed to eat, and who knew when Neven would return? Sometimes after a bad day, he'd leave without a word and not come back until long after she'd gone to bed.

But she knew where he went on those nights. Bars had a distinctive odor that clung to skin and hair and clothing. Not that he ever overindulged in alcohol, as she and his father had. Neven was stronger about that, no matter his emotional state. But he wasn't above a drink now and then to celebrate—or lament.

Based on his mood tonight, he had a lot of lamenting to do.

She needed to eat dinner before he returned or she might not get any food until morning.

After setting the book of prayers on her bed, she crept across her room and cracked the door—in case he'd snuck back in. He'd done that to her once, jumping out as she entered the kitchen. Her hand had twitched for hours afterward.

All was quiet tonight, however.

Pushing her walker ahead of her, she shuffled down the hall and stopped at the kitchen door. The roller shade that had snapped had been pulled back down, but the chair remained on its side, and shards of glass lay on the floor below a gouge in the wall.

She surveyed the counter and table. No dinner had been prepared for her, and she dare not cook herself. There were consequences for that. Cereal would have to do—again. At least he'd restocked the pantry over the weekend.

As she passed the table, she glanced at the folded-back newspaper Neven had retrieved from a trash can at work, as usual. After all these years, the words were still hieroglyphics to her.

But the photo—it seemed familiar.

Moving close, she peered at the image.

It was the girl in the photo on the bulletin board in Neven's room. The skater.

This was a different picture, but the shot was similar enough to leave no doubt about her identity. She was dressed in one of those little skating outfits, arms outstretched as she glided toward the camera on one foot, her other leg raised in the air behind her.

There was another photo beside it, of a different girl. That one she didn't recognize—but the family resemblance was clear. Were the two sisters?

She examined the third photo, taken near a river. Emergency vehicles were in the foreground.

Had something happened to those girls?

What connection did Neven have to them?

And why had this story incited his fury?

Hunger evaporating, Mevlida swiveled toward the clock. That local news program Neven sometimes watched while he ate dinner should be on about now—and spoken words were easier to understand than the written language. Perhaps there would be a story about the skater.

She turned on the small TV that sat in the corner on the counter, found the news channel, and leaned on her walker as the woman broadcaster with the perfect hair and makeup spoke to the nice-looking man seated beside her.

Pictures of a school, a police car, the airport zipped across the screen as they bounced from story to story. No mention of the lovely skater.

Just as she was about to give up, though, a photo of her on the ice appeared behind the news duo.

Mevlida listened intently, trying to decipher their rapid-fire delivery, but only managed to pick out every few words as scenes of a fire played on the screen, followed by the same photo of the second girl that was in the paper.

Fire. Wrong. Dead. Sister. Those words she could distinguish.

Were the two pretty girls dead?

But no . . . some footage showing an older, distraught version of the skater began to run. The camera was in her face as she grabbed mail from a box, pushed past the reporter, and hurried away to disappear through a door.

The skater must be alive.

For now.

Her forehead began to throb, and Mevlida lifted a shaking hand to massage her temple. She needed one of those blue pills. Too bad she hadn't taken several the night she'd found Neven's door unlocked. Now she'd have to suffer until morning.

Unless . . .

Was it possible that in his rage, he might have forgotten to lock the door again? He
had
left in a hurry—and as best she could recall, the key hadn't rattled in the lock.

It couldn't hurt to check.

Gripping the walker, she slowly retraced her steps to his door. Paused. Listened. No sound of him returning—but he didn't usually stay out late on weeknights. He could come through the door at any moment.

She needed to move fast.

Summoning up her courage, she lifted her hand. Grasped the knob. Twisted.

Her eyes widened as the door opened. Unlocked twice in two weeks.

If nothing else tonight, she would have some relief for her headache—and she'd take a few extra pills to stash in her room too.

After pushing the door wide, she listened once again. All clear. Gripping the walker, she maneuvered it into the room and toward the desk as fast as she could. She should be able to get in and out in three minutes if . . .

Za ime boga!

She gasped, heart stumbling as she gaped at the picture of the skater.

There was a knife stuck through her chest.

An icy chill swept over her despite the wool sweater she was never without in the tepid apartment.

Her gaze dropped to the mutilated mouse on top of the desk.

Lifted again to the pretty skater.

Dead.

That single word, and the images from the news stories, surged through her mind.

Somehow, Neven was involved in all of that. The fire, the river, the distress on that young woman's face as the camera got too close.

And she was in danger.

Mevlida knew that as surely as she knew she couldn't stand by and let an innocent person be harmed. Maybe she hadn't been able to save Mihad or Daris or Sonja . . . or even Neven's father . . . but she had to try to help this young woman. To warn her.

Because difficult as it was to accept, something inside her grandson was broken—and for whatever reason, he was intent on destroying the woman in the picture.

But what could she do?

Her chin quivered as she looked from the stabbed photo to the dead mouse. If she called the police, they would probably dismiss her story. She had no proof. No command of the language to communicate her concerns. No words to make anyone grasp what Neven was capable of if they
could
understand her.

The pounding in her head intensified, and she fumbled for the bottle of pills. Shook out eight. Retreated to the hall, closing the door carefully behind her.

Only after she'd taken four of the tablets and the throbbing subsided did she allow herself to think through the problem.

If she did call the police . . . if she did find a way to communicate with them . . . if they did believe there was cause for concern and began investigating . . . Neven would be livid. And even if they
didn't
believe her, he would be furious. He hated dealing with anyone connected to the government.

No matter the outcome, if she called the authorities her life wouldn't be worth living.

The minutes ticked by as she wrestled with the dilemma, fingers clenched around the handle of the walker—until, all at once, a solution popped into her head. One so bold, so daring, her lungs froze.

No.

That was crazy.

She shook her head, trying to erase the idea from her mind. She didn't have the courage to carry out such an audacious plan.

But if she didn't, that skater could end up dead—at her grandson's hands.

And the blood would be on hers as well.

Trembling, she slowly lowered herself into the chair where she spent hours with her book of prayers—the only thing that offered her comfort these days. She picked up the well-thumbed volume, caressed the worn cover . . . and faced the truth.

Neven had no conscience. No respect for life. No humanity.

Perhaps he never had.

If that skater had offended him in some way, he could have decided she must die—and he would have no compunction about carrying out such a sentence. Her solution might be the only way to stop whatever evil intent dwelt in his heart . . . and she could carry it out tomorrow, while he was at work. It would be finished long before he arrived home.

But was that the best course of action?

Oh, Mihad, what should I do
?

How she longed to see her dear husband, take his strong hand, hear his wise voice! No matter what crisis had befallen them during their marriage, he'd remained calm and clear-thinking. What would he say about her plan?

She strained, trying to hear even a soft, distant yes or no.

No guidance came.

Yet she did hear the echo of a gentle encouragement he'd offered her long ago.

When one has hope and love, all things are possible
, pile moje.

She replayed the words in her mind, savoring the memory of his kind, soothing tone as he'd spoken them, his hands cupping her face in the loving gesture that never failed to make her throat ache with tenderness.

Might they be the answer to her dilemma?

Mevlida looked up, into the shadows, as some creature scuttled through the darkness above the ceiling. There was no hope or love left in her life. Nor any possibility of stopping Neven's plan, whatever it was, on her own. That would require the intervention of people with power and authority.

She knew no one who fit that description.

Yet she did know one person who would understand her message and make sure it reached the proper authorities.

With unsteady fingers, she paged through her book of prayers
until she found the card she'd tucked inside two years ago. Turned it over and read the scrawled note.

“If you
ever need anything, don't hesitate to get in touch
.”

She'd never expected to contact Jasna again. Finding Neven had seemed like the answer to her prayers, and he'd been so kind in those first weeks. She'd almost thrown the card away.

Lucky she hadn't.

Setting the book aside, she braced for the pain in her ribs, then struggled to her feet. Once she caught her breath, she shuffled over to her nightstand. Pulled out a tablet and a pen. Returned to her chair and eased back down. Most of her plan she could implement tomorrow—if her courage held—but this part she could do tonight.

She positioned the pen over the paper, tilted the tablet toward the light beside her chair, and began to write.

All the while praying her desperate effort to prevent a tragedy wouldn't be in vain.

Christy peeked through the peephole, verified the identity of her visitor, and pulled the door open just enough to admit him.

After squeezing through the gap, Lance nudged the door shut with his shoulder and scrutinized her. “Tough day.”

“Yeah.” So tough it took every ounce of her willpower to keep from throwing herself into his arms.

He jammed his hands in his pockets as if he was fighting the same impulse. “The coast is clear right now, or I would have come in the back way.”

“It was hard to tell in the dark. That's why I only cracked the door. I hoped once the camera guy got that shot of me at the mailbox he'd back off, but the crew was still hanging around when the sun set. Have a seat.” She backed away to give him access to the living room, where the cozy, flickering gas logs
helped dispel some of the tension that had been dogging her since Sarah appeared in her office this morning bearing the blood-pressure-spiking, page-three story in the
Post
, complete with photos.