Tess Gerritsen - Ice Cold

“You think she’s down there.”

“We have to be prepared for the inevitable.” He watched as Sansone moved steadily down the ravine. “He’s in love with her, isn’t he?”

She gave a sad laugh. “You think?”

“Whatever his reasons for being here, I’m glad he came. He’s made things a lot easier.”

“Money usually does.” Sansone’s private jet had whisked them straight from Boston to Jackson Hole, sparing them the ordeal of scrambling for flight reservations, waiting in security lines, and filing the paperwork to pack their weapons. Yes, money did make things easier. But it doesn’t make you happier, she thought, looking down at Sansone, who appeared as somber as a mourner as he stood beside the wrecked Suburban.

The searchers were now moving around the vehicle in ever-widening circles, clearly not picking up any scent. When at last Martineau and Fahey started hiking back up the trail, carrying the satchel with Maura’s belongings, Jane knew they’d given up.

“They didn’t pick up anything?” Gabriel asked as the two men emerged onto the road, both breathing hard.

“Not a whiff.” Martineau tossed the satchel into his vehicle and slammed the door.

“You think too much time has gone by?” asked Jane. “Maybe her scent’s dissipated.”

“One of those dogs is trained to find cadavers, and he’s not signaling anything, either. The handler thinks the real problem is the fire. The smell of gasoline and smoke is overwhelming their noses. And then there’s the heavy snowfall.” He looked down at the search team, which was starting to head up toward them. “If she’s down there, I don’t think we’re going to find her until spring.”

“You’re giving up?” said Jane.

“What else can we do? The dogs aren’t finding anything.”

“So we just leave her body down there? Where scavengers can get it?”

Fahey reacted to his dismay with a tired sigh. “Where do you suggest we start digging, ma’am? Point out the spot, and we’ll do it. But you have to accept the fact this is now a recovery, not a rescue. Even if she survived the crash, she wouldn’t have survived the exposure. Not after all this time.”

Searchers clambered back onto the road, and Jane saw flushed faces, downcast expressions. The dogs seemed just as discouraged, tails no longer wagging.

The last one up the trail was Sansone, and he looked the grimmest of all. “They didn’t give it enough time,” he said.

“Even if the dogs did find her,” Fahey quietly pointed out, “it won’t change the outcome.”

“But at least we’d know. We’d have a body to bury,” said Sansone.

“I know it’s a hard thing to accept, that you don’t have closure. But out here, sir, that’s the way it sometimes is. Hunters have heart attacks. Hikers get lost. Small planes go down. Sometimes we don’t find the remains for months, even years. Mother Nature chooses when to give them up.” Fahey glanced up as snow began to fall again, as dry and powdery as talc. “And she’s not ready to give up this body. Not today.”

HE WAS sixteen years old, born and raised in Wyoming, and his name was Julian Henry Perkins. But only grown-ups-his teachers, his foster parents, and his caseworker-ever called him that. At school, on a good day, his classmates called him Julie-Ann. On a bad day, they called him Fuckface Annie. He hated his name, but it was what his mom had chosen for him after she’d seen some movie with a hero named Julian. That was just like his mom, always doing something loopy like calling her son a name no one else had. Or dumping Julian and his sister with their grandfather while she ran off with a drummer. Or, ten years later, suddenly showing up to reclaim her kids after she’d discovered the true meaning of life, with a prophet named Jeremiah Goode.

The boy told all this to Maura as they slowly made their way down the slope, the dog panting after them. A day had passed since they’d watched the fires burning in Kingdom Come; only now did the boy feel it was safe for them to descend into the valley. On her boots, he had strapped a pair of makeshift snowshoes, which he’d crafted using tools scavenged from conveniently unlocked houses in the town of Pinedale. She thought of pointing out to him that this was theft, not scavenging, but she did not think he’d appreciate the difference.

“So what do you want to be called, since you don’t like the name Julian?” Maura asked as they tramped toward Kingdom Come.

“I don’t care.”

“Most people care what they’re called.”

“I don’t see why people need names at all.”

“Is that why you keep calling me ma’am?”

“Animals don’t use names and they get along fine. Better than most people.”

“But I can’t keep saying hey you.”

They walked on for a while, snowshoes creaking, the boy leading the way. He cut a ragged figure, moving across that white landscape, the dog huffing at his heels. And here she was, willingly following those two wild and filthy creatures. Maybe it was Stockholm syndrome; for whatever reason, she’d given up any thoughts of fleeing from the boy. She relied on him for food and shelter, and except for the initial blow on the head that first day, when he’d been frantic to keep her quiet, he had not hurt her. In fact, he’d made no move to even touch her. So she had settled into the wary role of part prisoner, part guest, and in that role she followed him into the valley.

“Rat,” he suddenly said over his shoulder.

“What?”

“That’s what my sister, Carrie, calls me.”

“That’s not a very nice name.”

“It’s okay. It’s from that movie, about the rat who cooks.”

“You mean Ratatouille?”

“Yeah. Our grandpa took us to see it. I liked that movie.”

“I did, too,” said Maura.

“Anyway, she started calling me Rat, because sometimes I’d cook her breakfast in the morning. But she’s the only one ever calls me that. It’s my secret name.”

“So I guess I’m not allowed to use it.”

He walked on for a moment, snowshoes swishing down the slope. After a long silence, he stopped and looked back at her, as if, after much thought, he’d finally come to a decision. “I guess you can, too,” he said, then continued walking. “But you can’t tell anyone.”

A boy named Rat and a dog named Bear. Right.

She was starting to get into the rhythm of walking on snowshoes, moving more easily, but still struggling to keep up with the boy and dog.

“So your mom and sister were living here, in the valley. What about your father?” she asked.

“He’s dead.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Died when I was four.”

“And where’s your grandpa?”

“He died last year.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated automatically.

He stopped and looked back. “You don’t need to keep saying that.”

But I am sorry, she thought, looking at his lonely figure standing against the vast background of white. I’m sorry that the men who loved you are gone. I’m sorry that your mother seems to drop in and out of your life whenever it suits her. I’m sorry that the only one you seem able to count on, the only one who stands by you, has four legs and a tail.

They descended deeper into the valley, entering the zone of destruction. Coming down the ridge, they had caught whiffs of the stench from the burned buildings. With every step they took, the damage appeared more horrifying. Every house had been reduced to blackened ruins, the village devastated as completely as if conquerors had swept through, intent on erasing it from the face of the earth. Except for the creak of their snowshoes, the sound of their breathing, the world was silent.

They came to a halt next to the remains of the house where Maura and her companions had sheltered. Tears suddenly clouded her vision as she stared at charred wood and shattered glass. Rat and Bear moved on down the line of burned homes, but Maura remained where she was, and in that silence she felt the presence of ghosts. Grace and Elaine, Arlo and Douglas, people whom she had not particularly liked, but with whom she had bonded nevertheless. Here they still lingered, whispering warnings from the ruins. Leave this place. While you can. Looking down, she saw tire tracks. This was the proof of arson. While the fires were raging, melting the snow, a truck had left a record of its passage pressed into the now frozen mud.