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- Herausgeber: Joslyn Chase
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
Playing for her life!
With the death of her husband and son, concert pianist Riley Forte’s life and career shattered. Her comeback performance bombs, her sponsor pulls out, and she faces the tattered ruins of a once-happy life.
When Mt. Rainier erupts, isolating her in a small community stalked by a serial killer, it seems like the end of everything, but it brings a new chance for Riley.
If she can evade the clutches of a determined killer.
In a riveting action story filled with breathtaking suspense, Riley fights to hang on to the one thing she has left—her life, and the one thing she needs to turn it around—redemption.
Fans of Jeffery Deaver, Lisa Gardner, and Peter Robinson will be captivated by this page-turner. If you like a gripping, suspenseful tale, grab your copy of Nocturne In Ashes and prepare to burn the midnight oil.
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Contents
Title Page
Free Book!
Quote
Prologue
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
CHAPTER 79
CHAPTER 80
CHAPTER 81
CHAPTER 82
CHAPTER 83
CHAPTER 84
CHAPTER 85
CHAPTER 86
CHAPTER 87
CHAPTER 88
CHAPTER 89
CHAPTER 90
CHAPTER 91
CHAPTER 92
CHAPTER 93
CHAPTER 94
CHAPTER 95
CHAPTER 96
CHAPTER 97
CHAPTER 98
CHAPTER 99
CHAPTER 100
CHAPTER 101
CHAPTER 102
CHAPTER 103
Thanks for reading
Author Notes
More books by Joslyn Chase
Sample from Steadman's Blind
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
NOCTURNE IN ASHES
A Riley Forte Suspense Thriller
Book One
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“A voice was heard upon the high places,
weeping and supplications of the
children of Israel:
for they have perverted their way,
and they have forgotten the
LORD their God.”
PROLOGUE
THE SUMMER HE turned thirteen, he took his first life. His first human life.
He’d killed scores of animals. His mother had taught him that.
“We’re living off the fat of the land and sometimes that calls for killing,” He watched her work over their latest kill, her long hair tangled and dangling, her arms bloodied to the elbow in the belly of the deer.
He’d learned to heed that call.
He gathered what he needed, sharpened the blade, laid everything ready to hand, the small pile of sticks and stones, the strip of cotton fabric. A three-quarter moon peered down through the trees, smoothing a layer of silver over the crisped and browning leaves and waving grasses, gilding the rippled lake. The last of the summer warmth came now in brief snatches, like the kiss of a capricious child. Autumn approached, and with it the familiar melancholy, the stirring ache of loss, after so many years, still sharp.
He felt the mantle heavy upon him, mourned the lonely course he was compelled to follow. So few understood his work. No one alive could appreciate his sacrifice. Was it necessary, what he did? Must he continue?
As he had that first time, in his thirteenth year, he asked the questions. As every time since, he has asked the questions. So many times. And every time, her voice comes back to him in a whisper. Yes.
And so he plods on. He has seen the fruit of his works, his gift to the world. And yet the hunger, the need grows stronger. Always, more is required.
The killer let his gaze and his thoughts wander to the clump of bushes to his right. No sound or movement drew his attention, but he strained his eyes through the blackness and wondered if the slight shape he discerned was real or a product of his hyped-up imagination. He remained still, regulating his breathing and the beat of his heart.
The scrape of metal against metal reached his ears, raising him from his seat against the smooth bark of an aspen. He watched through the low branches, his eyes focusing across the small clearing. The sound was repeated, made by the door of an RV scraping across the ill-fitting steps which extended from it. A figure emerged and lurched down the steps, weaving and muttering as he staggered between the tall birch and pines. Into the silence of the night came the splash of an over-burdened bladder being released, and it was under cover of this noise that the killer moved.
The man in the trees zipped up and dug into the pocket of his grungy, low-slung jeans. He came up with a twist of paper, lighting it, puffing on it while he gazed up at the distant moon. Spread over his bare chest and biceps, a parade of inked figures swayed slightly with the gentle movements of hand to mouth. Cricket song resumed. The night’s gentle pulse beat out.
The killer waited, letting the man finish his smoke. He listened as the man sang and repeated an unfamiliar phrase. He sang, revised, and tried again. The man was a songwriter, a guitarist and talented musician. Two nights ago, the killer sat in the twentieth row, enjoying the man and his band in concert. A Tuesday night, in a half-filled auditorium. Rolling Stone had featured an interview with the man in one of last year’s issues, but the great band’s comeback tour was falling short of expectation.
The man flicked the butt onto the urine-dampened earth and blew one last lungful into the velvet air. The killer nodded, gripping the knife, and stepped forward.
The man stopped singing.
CHAPTER 1
RILEY STOOD NAKED on the dressing room floor. She fingered the smooth black silkiness of the gown she would wear to cover herself on stage, knowing the very essence of herself would remain exposed, uncoverable by any length of silk. It was what she always felt before a performance and the knowledge exhilarated and terrified her.
She slipped a robe over lace-trimmed undergarments, knotting the cord at her waist, and walked to the battered upright, sitting down on the bench, touching naked fingers to naked keys. In Beethoven, there was no room to hide. Perhaps with Rachmaninoff and Debussy there can be some small degree of dissembling, but the spare lines of the Classical masters demanded the utmost precision and she had always been known for accuracy. Execution, interpretation, emotion—all are exposed under the stage gels at the piano.
For twenty-three months she had rehearsed and prepared, pouring herself into the work. She was ready. Certainly, she was ready.
There was a knock at the door and Helen entered, a sheaf of printed programs in one hand and a spray of roses in the other.
“They’re lovely, aren’t they?” she said.
“Which? The flowers or the programs?” Riley asked, inspecting the thick, ivory-colored cards that spelled out the evening’s fare. This concrete evidence that she was about to go under the spotlight kicked off a rush of epinephrine, bringing the heady mixture of anticipation and dread. Why do I put myself through this? flashed through her mind, followed by the thought, what else is there? Her very soul was made of music. Sharing it was all she knew.
Helen placed the flowers on a corner table, pushing and pulling at the blooms, arranging them to her satisfaction. She was a tiny woman, plump in a way that rounded her features and made her look like a wise, old child. She came to Riley at the piano, dropping beside her on the bench, and squeezed an arm around her.
“You’re gonna do great, kid. Jim would be so proud.”
Riley nodded. She had no doubts on that score.
Helen patted her leg and switched to business. “Miller Cantwell is in the crowd tonight and I think a rep from Universal. Also Frank Coston and Gabrielle Wilson, so keep your smile pasted on whatever you do. Now get dressed and warm up your fingers. It’s time to knock ‘em dead.”
She waved and left the room, and in that interval before the door shut behind her, Riley heard the bustle of backstage, the faint chatter of the hall filling with people. Her hands were like ice against her skin as she pulled the silk gown over her hips and drew up the zipper on the low-cut back. She took the pins from her long, auburn hair and let it fall loose, filling in the space left bare by the fabric. Running scales at the piano, she numbed out, shook herself, and numbed out again. She tried to remember the initial notes of Chopin’s Fantasie Impromptu which opened the program, but came up blank. A jolt of panic speared through her chest and she felt the urge to pull out the sheet music, study, cram, but she knew from experience that the notations would only turn to blurred Chinese characters before her face. Heaven help me, what have I done?
She closed her eyes, exhaling into her hands to warm them, and brought her breathing into a slow, steady rhythm. Her grandfather, Zach Riley, for whom she was named, had been a jazz pianist doing USO shows during WWII. She fastened her thoughts on him playing doggedly through raids and bombings. She thought of the orchestra members on The Titanic who went down with the ship as they played through, lending courage to others. This was the heritage she claimed. She could do this.
She had to do this.
Applause flooded over her as she stood center stage and bowed her acknowledgment to a houseful of half-seen faces. Turning toward the piano, she took the first steps on what was always the longest walk, the distance stretching out and holding all the possibilities of triumph and disaster.
Her back was straight, chin lifted, as she seated herself, arranged her skirts, flexed her fingers, and began.
She struck the first chord, letting it resonate, floating up, drawing the expectant audience, and then the Chopin flowed out, her hands agile and dancing on the keyboard. Her heart pounded, pumping out adrenalin, speeding the tempo, and she pulled back just slightly, a gentle tap on the brake as her fingers raced. The music enveloped her like a flurry of golden butterflies, filling her with a rush of pure excitement. She executed a perfect, rippling chromatic scale, spanning the keyboard and building to a series of crashing chords.
A slight stumble as she crescendoed down the piano, one finger sliding off the slick surface of a polished key. None but the most distinguishing of ears would catch it, but it threw her concentration and she struggled to maintain the rhythm and balance of the piece as she transitioned into the central melody.
Drawing strength from the gentle, lyrical notes, Riley regained her equilibrium, preparing to face the second round of chromatics and thundering chords. She felt a blip of panic as she approached the section, fighting to control the impulse to flee that always hit her when she lost focus. She clenched her jaw, then released it, zeroing her attention on the keyboard choreography.
Her hands flowed up the keys like a wave on the beach and moved back down again, hitting the chords with determination. She navigated the passage without mishap, returning to the tranquility of the melodic line. As the last gentle notes faded, applause surrounded her, and she felt her face grow pink with pleasure and relief. A good opening.
She sat at the bench, breathing in, breathing out, nodding her thanks to the audience. Lifting her hands to the keyboard, ignoring their palsied tremble, she straightened her spine and began the Tchaikovsky Barcarolle. She watched her fingers, almost with wonder, as they produced the tones of heart-rending sadness, feeling the music pulse within her, building through the impassioned midsection before coming back to the opening theme.
The gondola rocked, moonlight rippled, the midway storm raged and she conquered it. Riley was inside the music, constructing the image, living it, swaying and bobbing on the Venetian waters of the picture she played. As the last melancholy notes drifted and diminished, applause burst over Riley and it felt like sunshine.
This was her first concert in over two years and she had designed a short program, without intermission. She floated through the Bach Prelude and Fugue, the Haydn Sonata, and the Scarlatti. Only the Gershwin Preludes now and then the Beethoven.
She tried to push the thought from her mind. It was always at this point, when it seemed she was home free with a near flawless performance, that she tensed up and mistakes loomed like rocks on the shoreline. She focused, instead, on Jim, as she always had. He was her fortress, her rock, her support. He was her family, the father of her child. He was her anchor.
He was gone.
Jim was dead and Tanner, their son, gone with him. But she had practiced through this, prepared for it, playing through the pieces while holding this thought, this harsh fact, in her head. She’d learned to draw strength from it, to make her work a sort of tribute, to hold them with her in the music. But tonight, it wasn’t working.
The fall was coming. She felt its approach as the tension in her neck and arms increased. Her mind fumbled, small tremors at first and then increasing in intensity like the buildup to an earthquake. The flight impulse threatened again, and she wrestled it, fighting to keep herself at the piano even while her mind was already fleeing out the door, down the staircase, into the night.
She was furious with herself, felt hot tears on her face and ignored them. She skittered along to the end of the last Gershwin piece, hardly hearing or acknowledging the applause as it rose and petered out.
It was time to finish the program.
Her stomach roiled and the silence stretched and grew, punctuated with short coughs and the rustling of paper. Riley took a deep breath and positioned her shaking hands for the opening chords. They hung there, frozen above the keys for an agonizing eternity.
The blood rushed in her ears and a moan tore from her throat as she jumped up, tipping the piano bench. The swirl of her skirt caught in the adjuster knob and she heard it tear as she ripped free and fled the burning spotlight. The bench fell with an echoing thud, punctuated by the staccato clattering of her heels as she ran from the stage, leaving the shreds of her comeback performance drifting like the tatters of her silk dress.
CHAPTER 2
“I’M NOT A groupie, I’m his wife.”
Detective Nate Quentin eyed the woman who claimed she was married to Coby Waters, bygone rock star and notorious bachelor. He pressed his palm against the air as if activating a giant pause button.
“Phoebe?” He tossed his voice to the fingerprint tech but his gaze never left the witness. “What do you know, Feebs?”
“Married, huh?” The small black woman looked up from where she crouched, rolled her eyes, and considered. “No. I didn’t hear anything about a wedding.”
Nate folded his hands on the table in front of him, waiting for a response. The woman seated across the scarred board that doubled as eating surface and spare bed in the spacious RV sent a searing look in Phoebe’s direction. The bones in her shoulders rose like hackles under the spaghetti-string tank top and a flush spread from her breast up and over her cheekbones. She seemed to be gearing up for an explosion but then the huff went out of her. She shrugged.
“Three and a half weeks ago, in Vegas. We kept it quiet.” She paused, the pink-tinted cheeks turning sepia. “We didn’t even make it to one month.”
Nate leaned back against the bench seat, glancing at his partner, Rick Jimenez, who hovered over the kitchen sink with a notepad, taking down the details.
“I’m sorry,” Nate said, holding her gaze. “I am. Will you tell us what happened?”
“I already told. Twice. It’s not a moment I want to live over again.”
Nate leaned forward. “Mrs. Waters, those other times you told it, that’s for the record, well and good. But we,” he gestured at Rick and back to himself, “we are the ones who are going to find the guy who did this. You need to be real clear on that and tell us everything.”
“Okay, yeah. I get it.” She fumbled through a shoulder-bag on the bench beside her, pulled out a pack of menthols and lit up. Nate watched her eyes turn inward as she accessed the part of her brain that housed the terrible memory. She took a long drag.
“We got drunk, you know. We were sleeping it off.” Puff and pause. “I woke up feeling like—” She shuddered and blew out a cloud, waving it away. “I brushed my teeth, got in the shower. Pretty soon, Coby comes hammerin’ on the door.”
“What time was this?” Rick interrupted.
She stared at him. “How do I know? It was the middle of the night. I got no reason to look at a clock that time of day. I had the door locked, you know, and I tell him to find a bush.” She hugged herself, blowing out another mouthful of smoke. “I sent him to his death.”
Nate shook his head. “Don’t shoulder that weight, Mrs. Waters. It’s not your fault.”
She gave him a bleak look and crushed out the cigarette, wrapping her arms tighter. “I put my wet hair up in a towel and went back to bed. Never saw Coby again until—” Her hands clenched down on her own flesh, talon-like. “I woke up in broad daylight and came out here to the kitchen to put on the coffee. I looked at the clock,” she threw Rick a glare, “and it was eleven forty-seven a.m.”
Rick’s gaze was impassive. “When did you go looking for your husband?”
“After two cups of coffee and three slices of toast. With jam. Let’s make it a quarter past noon. I began to wonder what he was up to, so I went looking. Started off in the wrong direction, walked down caravan way.” She flung her arm eastward to indicate the sprawl of buses, trucks, and vans that hosted the remainder of the band’s entourage.
“I asked around. No one’d seen Coby. I got to talking with some of the girls, never dreaming anything was wrong, and then that chihuahua started sounding off. We thought he might have got himself hurt. You know, stuck in a trap, sprayed by a raccoon, something like that. But he’d found Coby and raised the alarm.”
She fell silent. Her eyes raked the tabletop as if searching for something to cover the awful scene inside her mind.
“He was cut bad, right across the neck, and it seemed every last drop of blood in him must have found its way out. The ground was soaked with it. Damn dog was standing in it, yapping his head off. Danny led me away, then, and I didn’t see no more.”
Nate let a respectful silence pass and then asked, “Why is your trailer separated from the others?”
Her washed-out blue eyes met his with reproach. “It’s not a trailer. It’s a motorhome. Coby’d kick your butt.” She caught her breath and swallowed hard. “He liked to be apart from the crowd. It’s a status thing, you know. Heaven knows he got precious little respect any more from the band, but he took what he could get.”
“Downed Illusion used to be a pretty big deal and I understand this tour was meant as a comeback. Can you think of any reason someone might have for harming your husband? Were there any disputes among band members, for instance?”
She stared. “You think someone here could have done this?” Her mouth fell open a little as she considered, then snapped shut with her emphatic head shake. “No way. Their arguments were small-time stuff. A punch in the face, maybe. Never this.”
Nate’s cell phone buzzed with his ex-wife’s ringtone. “Thank you, Mrs. Waters. That’s all for now.” He walked down the rickety metal steps and pressed TALK.
“What’s up, Marilyn? I’m at a crime scene so make it quick.”
“Quick as I can, but it does involve our daughter’s welfare. Forgive me if I take up too much of your time.”
“Come on, that’s not what I meant.”
“Yeah, I know. Sorry. I’ve got a lot on my plate, too. Can you take Sammi next weekend? I want to head out of town for a few days. I need a break.”
“Oh? Who’s going with you? You don’t like traveling alone.”
There was a pause. “Brad is taking me to Vancouver.”
“Geez, Marilyn. That guy? He gives me a bad vibe and I don’t want him around Sammi.”
“Sammi will be with you, I’m hoping.”
“For the weekend, sure, but what then?”
“You’re being ridiculous. Brad is a nice guy. The first guy I’ve really liked since I liked you. And does this mean you’ll take Sammi?”
Nate sighed. “I would love to have Sammi spend next weekend with me.”
“Wonderful! I’ll let you go. Bye.”
Rick joined him and they sat at a picnic table in the twilight. Lunch and dinner time had come and gone, hours ago and unheeded, and they fell like wolves upon the coffee and sandwiches being passed around.
“Are you thinking it’s the same guy they’re after in Seattle? We got a serial case?”
Nate chased down a bite with a swig of coffee, wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, and nodded. “That’s what I’m thinking. We need to get up to speed on those files. Looks like we’ve joined the team. Congratulations. First case out and you drew the short straw.”
“Hey, I’m happy with it. Go big or go home, right?”
“Sure, but if you foul this up, you’ll never be able to wash the stink out of your career. It doesn’t even have to be you that falls short. We don’t put this guy down, and fast, we’re all gonna catch hell, but first case makes or breaks.”
“Okay, pressure’s on. Let me tell you what I got from the Specials. Hansen found a place in the trees where the guy must have waited. Except, get this, there are two spots. So, did he switch from one to the other, or were there two guys? Hansen’s still working it out.”
“We’ll check the other cases, but I don’t remember hearing anything about a second suspect.”
“Also, there was a scattering of sticks and stones which might have been arranged like the cairn-type structures found at the other sites. It may have been knocked apart in the struggle, disturbed by animals, who knows? The makings were there, but unorganized.”
Nate drummed his fingers on the table to accompany his thought process. “Okay,” he said. “Continue.”
Rick checked his notes. “Stevens went into the lake, turned up a plastic raincoat weighted with rocks. Shows traces of blood, no fingerprints. Guy wore gloves and probably galoshes. Heck, he’d have to be completely encased to escape that bloodbath. If he likes the water, there’s plenty of holes around here where he could’ve dumped the gear and weapon, but nothing else has turned up.”
Nate watched a couple of grid-searchers sign their findings into the evidence log. Karen Boggs glanced up, caught his eye, and walked over. She carried something carefully in her gloved hands. Nate hoped it was something good.
“Hi, boss,” she said. “This was outside the perimeter, about a mile from camp, but I snagged it anyway. Figured it wouldn’t hurt. Wanna take a look?”
Nate cleared a spot on the table and she opened the large paper bag and used it like a tablecloth, placing the item in question gently on top. It was a dark blue zip-front jacket, sized for a man. One hundred percent polyester, with a tiny red figure playing polo stitched to the left breast. Nate lifted the cuff of the right sleeve, angled it so Rick could see the smears of blood. In the pocket, he found a wrinkled score card with Mountain Vista Golf Course printed at the top and an eighteen-hole score of 93 penciled in at the bottom.
“Not bad.” Nate liked to golf but hadn’t had time for a round in over three years.
“If you say so.” Rick was not a golfer.
“Relevant to our crime?”
“Hmm. Found a mile away, in a direction traveled only by foot. The blood on the sleeve seems too small an amount and in the wrong place if our guy was wearing gloves and a raincoat.” Rick tilted his head back and forth. “Ehhh…I’m leaning toward no.”
Nate ran a gloved finger down the length of the jacket. “On the other hand, it looks recently dumped and blood is blood. My experience, and my gut, tell me it’s important.”
“Yeah? Okay,” Rick said doubtfully. “Where’s Mountain Vista?”
“Hell if I know, but be ready to head out there tomorrow morning.”
CHAPTER 3
TOPPER WORKED IN the dark. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t go near the crater of an active volcano at night. Such an expedition, even in full daylight with a helicopter waiting, is fraught with risk. But there was nothing ordinary about these unfolding events and Topper’s amazement outweighed his fears. He was riding the edge of this thing. Like David had.
Early in the summer, Mt. Rainier had woken like a fussy baby after a long nap, gassy and petulant. She’d spit up and burped, raged and bawled, and then fallen back into an uneasy sleep. For two months she’d snored away, uttering only an occasional harmless grumble, and Seattle let out its tense-held breath and went about its business.
Topper’s business was volcanoes and his harvest of data suggested that Seattle’s nonchalance was unwarranted. Geoscientists primarily monitor three predictive factors for volcanic eruption—thrust faults, earthquakes, and tiltmeter readings. When the three factors register critical levels, a warning is issued to the public and safety measures activated.
Last February, Mount Mayon in the Philippines had drawn the gaze of the world. Her thrust fault measurements and tiltmeter readings took drastic turns, but seismic activity remained low and stable. Two out of three tipped the scales, officials issued alerts, and media hyped the story. Cities and communities were evacuated. Citizens put their lives and livelihoods on hold, perched in temporary housing, and watched the mountain puff serene on the placid landscape. Ten days and millions of pesos later, they returned to their homes and commenced recovery efforts from the damage not caused by the volcano.
Such occurrences are the land mines of leadership, and the political and economic fallout is harsh. Scientists may be willing to lay it on the line, but the political figures who hold the reins are more skittish, put in a position where they must weigh the potential for lost lives against the potential for lost dollars. And where the bottom line is lost votes.
At Rainier’s first sign of unrest, scientists had deployed an army of “spiders” and other devices able to monitor the mountain’s activities remotely and their readings were followed with great concern. But as the weeks passed, public interest waned and only the scientists remained keenly aware of the volcano’s activity while Rainier wrapped herself in a blanket of cloud and went back to sleep.
Topper clambered nearer the crater, his snowshoes making a rhythmic shushing sound. The light from his headlamp opened a little vista in the dark, pushing back the shadows which pressed in from all directions. Mt. Rainier appeared to be pulling a Mayon move, but he believed the end of this story would be far more dramatic than the instance in the Philippines.
The west flank of Rainier was primed to blow. For centuries, sulphuric acid had been mixing with rain and snow, seeping through the rock, altering it into a clay-like substance, unstable and susceptible to landslides. The Osceola mudslide, 5600 years ago, had blown away the east side of the mountain, displacing the altered rock and making the west side the weak spot in the next major eruption.
He collected samples of ash and snow, pressing the tube from a solution-filled gas sampling bottle into the vent, taking care to avoid a steam burn. He should have waited until daylight, but he was determined to make his case. His gut told him that Mt. Rainier was poised to erupt and time was short.
He imagined he felt the hair at the back of his neck singe and crackle. He started down the mountain, headed for the panel of tiltmeters and beyond that, the four-mile hike to the snowcat. At the tiltmeters, he paused to log in the readings. The figures were astonishing and he made a note to check the calibration. He stowed the samples and the logbook in his backpack and climbed into the tracked vehicle, maneuvering it forward over the rough terrain, navigable in the dark only because he knew these trails so well.
He worked his way down the mountain until he reached the ranger station, where he parked the snowcat and transferred himself and his collections to his Jeep Wrangler. He started down the road into the lower range of the mountain. As he came into cell phone tower range, his mobile blipped. He pulled it out of his pocket and squinted one eye at the screen, keeping the other eye on the road which became smoother as he neared civilization. Four text messages and three missed calls.
He stopped the Jeep and scrolled through the texts. All were from Candace.
Call me.
Call me, it’s important.
Urgent you call now.
Call now or die.
His heartbeat surged as his phone blipped again.
If you value your paycheck, pick up the phone.
Candace was his USGS supervisor at the Seismology lab at The University of Washington, Seattle campus. She was calling from the lab and with this degree of urgency, he bet they’d hit the Trifecta. Thrust faults, check. Tiltmeters, check. If Rainier’s seismic activity was on the rise, that could bring attention in all the right places.
Before he could punch the speed dial, Candace’s jazzy ringtone blared in the Jeep’s interior. He pressed answer and heard the excitement in her voice.
“Get down here now. You gotta see this.”
CHAPTER 4
THE RISE AND swell of voices in the corridor seemed to Riley like the hum of angry bees. She’d fled to the dressing room, locked the door, and ignored the persistent demands for entry. Her stomach churned and rolled under an enveloping wave of buffeting, suffusing misery. She dreaded looking into any human face and longed for the unreserved championing of a dog. In human eyes, she would encounter disdain, resignation, or worst of all, pity. And before she could face that, she needed to identify her own feelings, understand the mechanism underlying her disaster.
The wraith of some destructive force teased at the edges of her mind, refusing to come into focus. She could only return to the conclusion which she, and the world at large, had accepted for the last two years. That Jim and Tanner—beloved husband, treasured son—had been taken from her and that the hole they left is a maw which continues to consume her.
The pain was like stepping on broken glass under a threadbare rug. Riley sensed something sly and furtive, unwilling to be seen and dealt with, an unknown monster crouching in the shadows of her mind.
A banging louder and above the other pounding came at the door now and the theater manager’s voice rose above the ruckus in the hallway.
“Mrs. Forte. There’s an urgent matter we need to discuss.”
He set up a clatter on the thick wooden door and Riley’s mind scooped her away, took her back to fourteen years old, when she was a pale, skinny girl in a green one-piece swimsuit. She’d begged her parents to let her go with friends on a rafting trip down the Snake River in Idaho. Such a rare thing. The life of a budding concert pianist yields few such occasions and she remembered how peculiar it felt for her to do things, and eat things, and say things that ordinary teenagers did and ate and said, as if she was dabbling with another species. She’d started the four-day trip with a surge of homesickness, wishing she hadn’t come, feeling amputated from her piano. A day and a half later she’d become entranced with these creatures and their strange ways, wishing she could always live among them, like Ariel wishing for legs. A heady passion enveloped her. She was on a bender, drinking in all they had to offer.
She was burned bright red by then, her fair skin beginning to blister at the shoulders from sunburn, no matter how much sunblock she applied. She’d topped her green suit with a tee-shirt as the group had pulled their rafts up onto a sandbank where some of the boys began to scale the rocks, pulling themselves like monkeys up the steep face of a cliff.
“What are they doing?” Riley felt a shiver of apprehension, but her enquiry was met with a sprinkling of assurances.
“We all do it.”
“It’s fun.”
“You’ll love it.”
“Come on!”
There was an alternate way up which most of the girls took, though it was still a rigorous haul up the rock face and Riley was filled with misgiving. She was vulnerable to injury here, her hands could be damaged. She was literally pushed and pulled to the top amid laughter and chatter, which fell like an alien language on her ears. When she reached the crown of the rocks, she was horrified to see that the boys were jumping off into the river far below and her horror intensified as she realized she was expected to follow.
When her turn came, she stood at the edge of the cliff and stared down into the circle of water, ringed by the boys and girls who had jumped before her. Their thrashing arms and legs had stirred it into a murky pool, opaque and distant. Unthinkably distant. There was no going back. It would be more difficult and dangerous to try climbing down the steep rock than it would be to jump. Yet, jumping seemed an impossible option.
A boy and two girls pushed past her, throwing themselves over the edge, and then Riley was the last one on the clifftop and still she stood, frozen. The cries of encouragement acquired a tinge of impatience, and then outright disgust. They rose up to her like pounding on a door, like persistent knocking, battering her eardrums and her soul. She pushed away the fear and jumped.
Riley threw open the dressing room door and the crowd surged to meet her, to suck her down like murky water. She couldn’t breathe, felt the darkness close in. Her eyes searched the bobbing heads in front of her, focused in on one face as it moved through the murk until it reached her.
Teren drew her back into the dressing room and closed the door with a firm snap. The human wave lapped against it, but muted and murmuring now, and over the sound of it rose Helen’s voice. Tiny Helen, turning back the tide. She would handle the press and the fans, deal with the manager.
“Thank heaven for good agents,” Teren said, hugging her. “Sorry I got here late. I left my conference early, but my flight was delayed. I rushed straight from the airport, quick as I could get here, but I came in just as you were…finishing up.”
Riley dropped onto the sofa, too weary to answer. Teren sat beside her, took her hand and squeezed it. The door opened and Miller Cantwell admitted himself. His recording company had sponsored this event and even Helen knew better than to bar him entrance.
“Riley,” he shook his head, blowing out an exasperated breath. “What was that?”
Riley rubbed a hand over her face. “I apologize, Miller. I just blanked. I couldn’t remember how the Beethoven begins. I just…couldn’t do it.”
Miller sighed, stuck his hands in his pockets. “I just got the word from Henry. We’re pulling our support. I’m sorry, Riley. We really thought you were ready.”
Helen entered the room, slamming the door behind her. “Don’t be hasty, Miller. The situation is salvageable.” She sent him a look that crackled with challenge and took up a position behind Riley, rubbing her shoulders, like a trainer on a prize fighter. “Let’s consider. Some attendees wanted their money back. Four or five. That’s it. If that’s a fair representation of audience satisfaction, it’s hardly catastrophic. As for the press, Frank Coston will write a sympathetic story and garner support, make Riley the underdog. Curious concert-goers will queue up for tickets, just to see what she’ll do. That novelty will carry us through this crisis and soon Riley will be in top form. You’ll see.”
She waved down Miller’s protest. “Yes, I know. Gabrielle Wilson will shred her to pieces in that rag she writes for. So what? I think the bump in publicity from this will come out in our favor. Riley’s a champ.” She gave Riley’s shoulders a squeeze.
Miller walked to the door, placing a hand on the doorknob.
“For what it’s worth, I agree. You’re a jewel, Riley.” He paused and Riley watched his shoulders slump under his expensive suit. “I’m sorry. The remaining performances are canceled.”
He went out the door and Helen swept off after him, her voice raised and cajoling.
Riley sat hunched on the sofa, steeped in misery, wanting the comfort of her own bed and a box of tissues, unable to believe it had ended like this. Concert pianists do not flee the stage. She cowered there, in the crook of Teren’s arm, until the voices in the hallway diminished under a pervading silence.
Teren patted her knee and stood up. “I took a shuttle to the airport, so I don’t have a car. Can I hitch a ride home?”
Riley felt dull and weighted. She watched him assess her tired droop and felt a rush of gratitude that he’d come. He pulled her to her feet.
“Give me your keys. I’ll drive.”
CHAPTER 5
THE KILLER STRIPPED off his clothes, folding each item into a neat square, stacking them into a tower, with his shoes forming the foundation as a barrier against the dew-dampened earth. The chill of the early morning gripped him, raising gooseflesh as the watery, lemon-yellow sunlight filtered down through the sparse leaves and pine needles, slowing the flow of his blood to a sluggish stream. He raised the bloody strip, letting it flutter in the light breeze. This is the way she’d taught him. By blood and by fire.
He bent to the pile of sticks and stones and began arranging them, each of the three different types of wood laid in a distinctive pattern, the rocks like cornerstones, kindling on top. A small burlap sack yielded a nest of oakum, which he placed close at hand and from a tin box, he removed a cut of char cloth and folded it in half. A gust of wind slewed through the little clearing, making the leaves dance in a flurry of orange and gold, raising an eerie whistle in the thinning branches. The killer shivered and picked up the flint stone.
He’d found this stone in the run-off from the Nisqually River and imagined it had spewed from Rainier in some long-ago eruption. It was smooth as glass, except for the sharp edge where it had shattered from the heat or from tossing down the riverbed, and it felt slightly greasy when he rubbed it. He placed the folded char cloth on top of the stone and took up a thin strip of steel, curling it around the knuckles of his right hand. He swung the steel down at a thirty degree angle against the sharp edge of the stone. Again and again he struck steel against stone, working to peel away a tiny sliver, waiting for the spark to catch and ignite the char cloth.
The steel was unresponsive. In the distance, a dog barked. The inhabitants of the earth were waking, moving, swelling every finger and every vein of her. The killer struck harder, working faster. A cold sweat now coated his naked body, chilling him further, gathering in his creases like a distillation of fear. The dog barked again, nearer this time, and accompanied by the faint droning of human voices.
He threw himself face-down on the leaf-strewn earth, digging his hands and toes into the soil, feeling for the pulse. He pressed his moistened nose into the dirt, drew in shallow breaths through his mouth, and prayed. His mind went away, drawn down into the bowels, the warm, sheltering channels of the earth, the primitive instinct for deep cover enveloping him in her protective womb.
When he returned to himself, the filtered sunlight fell with more heat on his bare skin and the woods were as silent as woods can ever be. He scrambled to his feet and took up the flint and steel. It sparked right away, as he knew it would. He transferred the burning char cloth to the oakum and blew gently as smoke curled up from the nest of delicate fibers, catching and growing. He watched the tongue of flame lick and devour, felt his own arousal, the echoing fire within himself.
Soon the altar fire was burning in earnest. The killer held up the banner of blood and began.
CHAPTER 6
RICK ENTERED THE empty squad room, stirring cream into his coffee, taking a tentative sip. The bitter-hot liquid stung his lip and he placed the cup on the table amid a smattering of sticky rings. He was the first to arrive and he used the time to review the Seattle PD files on the first two murders and to marvel how fate had drawn him into the very case he’d hoped to investigate. He was green as they come, having just earned the rank of Detective, but he’d worked hard preparing for this over the last nine years.
He remembered that rainy day in the dark, run-down taco joint. Remembered meeting with Cal and how that meeting had changed the course of his life. He finished his third tour with the Navy SEALs, squeezing every bit of knowledge, training, and experience he could out of those years. He took an honorable discharge and entered the Police Academy, studied and earned a degree in Criminal Justice, and struggled his way up the ranks. He worked and waited for further instruction, pushing back at the wall of doubt, the whispering voice that said they’d forgotten him.
Two weeks ago, after years of no contact, Cal had called.
“You in the mood for tacos?”
“Do bears take a dump in the woods?”
They’d met at Chico’s and Cal assured Rick he’d not been forgotten. On the contrary, from the details of their discussion, Rick understood that he’d been under close observation for much of the last nine years. He felt vindicated, and a little creeped out. They sat in a dimly lit booth, eating fish tacos, dripping sauce from their chins, mopping up with waxy paper napkins, and talking about the future.
In the squad room, his coffee had cooled to the perfect temperature. He drank it down and pondered the possibility that it had not been fate, but something more deliberate, that had maneuvered him onto this case. He would not over-analyze. When the brass ring presents, you grab it and go. All other considerations aside, one thing was clear: this was a test he must not fail.
The other members of the squad trickled in, cradling their own coffee cups while Nate herded in the stragglers and closed the door. Nate was the acting homicide supervisor, while the detective who carried the official title was out on emergency medical leave, undergoing back surgery. He asked for updates on current investigations, inquiring into plans and making assignments. Rick was half afraid Nate would change his mind about letting a rookie homicide detective partner him on such a high-profile case, but he set the members of the squad about their business until only the two of them were left.
Nate scratched a few notes into the case book and flipped it shut. “Did you get an address for Mountain Vista?”
“It’s clear out in Mason County. You could just about stand on the eighteenth hole and cast a line into the Hood Canal. It’ll take all day just to follow up that one lead. What about splitting up, covering more ground?”
“Makes sense,” Nate said in a tone that suggested he was willing to be reasonable, even with a guy who had no track record. “You comfortable with that?”
“I am. I’d like to comb through these files, maybe follow up with some of the witnesses. Also check to see if they turned up anything more with the trace evidence, and be here to move quickly on any new information.”
“In other words, you still think the jacket’s got no legs.”
Rick grinned. “Jackets don’t, as a rule.”
“Got me there,” Nate said. “One problem, though. It’s a long drive to Mason County and my car’s got a bum radiator. I should have replaced it months ago, just never have the time.”
Rick was assigned one of the unmarked Ford Explorers used by the department detective squads, but Nate was accustomed to riding shotgun when he was on the clock, and drove his own car to the station each day.
“Leave me your jalopy and take the Explorer. Gas card’s in the glove compartment.”
Nate shrugged. “You sure?”
Rick felt a surge of confidence. “Absolutely.”
Nate dug in his pocket and tossed over his car keys, accepting Rick’s in return.
“There’s a jug of coolant in the trunk and four gallons of water. If you need to drive anywhere, just keep an eye on the temp gauge. You might have to stop to let her cool down and top it off.”
Nate left. Rick walked down two floors and entered the men’s restroom. He made sure he was alone and let himself into a stall, taking a cheap cell phone from his pocket and punching in a number he’d memorized but never called. Someone picked up and invited him to speak.
“I’m in,” was all he said.
CHAPTER 7
RAINIER WAS AWAKE and screaming. The earthquakes had resumed, increasing in both magnitude and frequency, accompanied by harmonic tremor for the first time in six weeks. Topper was galvanized, nearly dancing with frustration. Seattle and many surrounding communities slept within reach of the volcano, filled with populations lulled into complacency.
Someone had placed a copy of The Seattle Times on his desk, opened to an inner page, a short article circled in red pencil.
PARTY’S WINDING DOWN
Mt. Rainer has entertained Seattle in grand fashion since mid-July, but her game has grown old and now government officials are scratching their heads over how to pay for the road closures and lost revenue. Yes, Daddy has taken the T-bird away. We can no longer afford to pay attention to Rainier’s theatrics. The show’s over, Seattle. It’s back to business as usual.
The press had moved on, the briefings ended. Topper squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath. He knew when Rainier blew, it would not be lava flow or ash which posed the greatest danger, although these would be devastating. It would be the lahars, the rivers of mud created by landslides of melting snow mixing with boulders and debris, growing and picking up speed as they surged down the mountain like wet cement at forty miles per hour, destroying everything in their path.
Acoustic Flow Monitors, AFMs, had been installed on the mountain at the heads of major river valleys. These had sensitive microphones that can detect the sound of lahars traveling over ground and send the alarm. Scientists, working with local emergency services, had developed evacuation plans for the communities at risk, but time would be perilously short and the paths to safety were remarkably limited.
Some towns, such as Orting, directly in the flow channel, were equipped with a hi-lo siren signal and even the school children were drilled in how to react to it—run to high ground. But outside of these communities, few were prepared for the catastrophic effects of a big eruption. The natural disaster would be eclipsed by man-made pandemonium.
Candace gave the wall of his cubicle a quick double-knock. “They’ve shut the mountain,” she told him. “Moved the road blocks down, restricted the area. The ball is rolling.”
Topper pulled at his hair. “That’s spit in the wind. No one’s taking it seriously.”
“It’s progress,” Candace said. “The Forest Service can close federal lands, but anything beyond that requires the governor’s approval and she’s under a lot of pressure not to close.”
“This is crazy.” Topper blew out a long, frustrated breath. “Private citizens assert their property rights and ignore the road blocks. Logging companies sign waivers and send their people in. Thrill-seekers get their kicks sneaking in as close to the monster as they can get. Rainier is going to blow. She’s gonna blow big and she’s gonna blow soon. The governor needs to issue a state of emergency and evacuate.”
Candace banged her head gently against his cubicle wall, echoing his vexation. “I agree, and we’re working on it,” she said, running a tired hand through her long, dark hair. “But it’s like building a boat while you’re rowing it and the funds for dealing with it have been drained over the last two months.”
“Someone’s got to front the cash. This has to be done.”
“No argument here, but we’re dealing with ‘the boy who cried wolf’ syndrome. The mountain has been threatening and then not following through for so long that no one listens anymore. The Game Commission lobbies to keep areas open for fishing and hunting so they don’t lose license revenue. Business owners cry foul when closures affect their bottom line.”
Topper started a protest but she held up a hand, cutting him off.
“On top of that,” she continued, “we’re dealing with multiple jurisdictions. Who’s responsible for setting the road blocks? Who pays to maintain them? Who’s in charge? There’s a lot to consider—”
“Wrong. There’s only one thing to consider. How to get people away from the mountain as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, and that starts with an official action. Like I said, we’re working on it.”
Topper smacked his fist against the countertop, sending a tub of paperclips skittering across the surface. “Put me in a helo. Let me go up and get some more samples. I’ll bet the SO2 levels have spiked since last night.”
“And what if they have?”
Topper saw that her chest was heaving under the white lab coat she wore. Her cheeks were flushed, her brows drawn down in a shape like a winging bird. He felt a little sorry. She was getting pounded from both sides.
He reached up and traced his thumb along her full bottom lip, where the red tint she always wore had gone a little smudgy. “I’ll take care of this,” he said.
She slapped his hand away. “What are you going to do?”
He sketched a salute and backed toward the door.
“Topper, stand down. Leave it!”
He shut the door behind him. At the other end of the hallway, he entered the lounge and saw Jack Ridley drowsing on a couch after a long night running samples.
“Hey, buddy,” Topper said, “You up for a road trip?”
They headed south on I-5, threading through the early Saturday traffic. The morning was cool, the air clear, and Topper could see Rainier rising in the distance, the tallest mountain in the Cascade range, part of the fabled ‘ring of fire.’ He kept his foot pressed down on the accelerator and watched for cops.
Jack peeled the wrapper off another Egg McMuffin from the paper sack on the console between them. “So, you’re convinced eruption is imminent and yet you’re taking us to the mountain? If you’ve got a hot date with death, why’d you have to bring me along?”
Topper munched a hash brown patty. “I need someone to help me put the fear of God into these people. I’d like to cheat death, not cozy up with it.”
“You know the old Sufi story, right? The Appointment in Samarra?”
“Let’s say I don’t.”
“Takes place in Baghdad, where this servant goes to the market and sees this scary looking dude and realizes it’s Death with a capital D. So, Death reaches out to him and it scares him out of his wits. He rushes back to his master and begs for a horse so he can ride to Samarra and escape the terrible fate waiting for him in Baghdad. The master is a nice guy and sends him away on his fastest horse, then goes out to investigate, and see if he can figure out what so terrified his servant. The master finds Death and he asks him, ‘Hey, what’s the big idea? Why’d you have to scare my guy away?’ And Death says, “I didn’t mean to frighten him. I was just so surprised to see him here because I have an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.”
