Red and blue lights flashed as the state’s forensic van pulled off the gravel road and lumbered as far as it could before parking. The crew unloaded a tent and tables and established their base of operations.
“The forensic team is here mighty quick,” Sheriff Wexler said. “Takes pull to get them up here pronto.”
Bryce had made one call on the drive over. The fast results attested that this case did not require influence. Any officer who’d seen the file understood a dangerous killer was preying on their state. “Joan, what do you need from me?”
“Nothing either of us can do until I’ve processed the body and the forensic techs do their job,” she said, nodding to the three-person crew. “I need to radio my office and have my appointments canceled. It’s going to be a long day.”
“Most are,” Bryce said.
As she stepped away, Bryce stared at the hate-fueled devastation unleashed on this individual. Motivations for violence had never been much of an interest to him. Like any good hunter, he focused on following the physical evidence left behind by the killer. He left the higher reasoning to the doctors, defense attorneys, and judges. But if this scene was like the last, there would be precious little physical evidence, and he would need a specialist like Dr. Bailey to point him in the right direction.
He checked his phone and was not surprised to see he had no service up here. He would have to be nearer to the road for that. The silence this land offered was the reason he had returned home seven years ago. Far from the choppers, explosions, and endless gunfire, he had gladly disconnected.
But as he walked down the hillside, opened his contacts, and stared at Dr. Ann Bailey’s name, the idea of isolation was not so appealing.
CHAPTER TWO
Missoula, Montana
Wednesday, August 18
10:15 a.m.
Dr. Ann Bailey opened the front door of her former residence on Beech Street. She had purchased the house with her late husband more than a decade ago and had spent many happy and not-so-happy years in the one-story brick rancher. Ten years ago, she could not have imagined herself living anywhere else. And now it had been a year since she had stepped foot inside.
She peered into the shadowy interior, half expecting to hear her son’s laughter, or smell the lingering scent of chocolate chip cookies, or see her husband’s discarded work boots next to her son’s sneakers. Instead, there was the hum of the refrigerator, the stale musty air, and the dust particles dancing in unwelcome sunshine.
Monthly mortgage payments, utility bills, and lawn care services now outweighed any anxieties about the past. Like it or not, it was time to clean the place out and put it on the market.
Ann clicked on the foyer light, hoping it would buoy her resolve. Instead, it drew her attention to the graphite fingerprint dust marring the pale-blue walls, the crumpled strand of yellow caution tape, and a discarded pair of evidence gloves.
Though tempted to walk away, she could not let the ghosts, demons, or whatever stalked the house win.
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” she muttered as she picked up the moving boxes, tape, and box of plastic garbage bags.
This week’s tasks were simple: clear out personal belongings worth salvaging, interview the woman who would deep clean the house, and get the place on the market. Simple tasks complicated by emotions.
She assembled her first moving box and then walked into the kitchen, where the sink still contained the empty coffee cup left behind by her late husband. Ann had painted the #1 DAD mug with her son several years ago, and from the moment Nate gave it to his father, it had been a favorite of Clarke’s.
The cabinets were filled with dusty dishes that she had no desire to keep. Nor did she want the pots and pans or the FAMILY MAKES THIS HOUSE A HOME sign Clarke had given her on their first anniversary. A glance toward the basement door made her anxious to leave.
She crossed the living room and walked slowly along the hallway lined with a collection of pictures. The images featuring Nate were easy saves. Several made her smile, and she carefully dusted the glass with her sleeve and tucked each in her box. However, the portraits that included her husband triggered a complicated blend of anger and disbelief and were not so easy to salvage.
As much as she wanted to leave these pictures behind, she settled on one image she had taken of Clarke and Nate fly-fishing on the Bitterroot River under a flawless autumn sky. Both were laughing, radiating pure joy as Clarke helped six-year-old Nate hold up an eight-pound trout. She did not want to remember, but Nate might one day.
In Nate’s room, the twin bed butted against the blue wall. The navy comforter was as smooth as the day she had made it, and the Power Rangers pillow remained perfectly centered. On his desk stood a globe and a LEGO airplane he had built. The clothes in the closet were all too small now and not worth harvesting, because boys grew like weeds. Still, she selected a few shirts associated with memories of soccer games, school pictures, and birthday parties.
Next, she packed worn copies of Goodnight Moon and Where the Wild Things Are. She grabbed a soccer trophy, the third-grade science fair blue ribbon, Nate’s favorite fishing lures, and a small silver canister containing locks of hair from his first haircut.
The next stop was her bedroom. The bed had been stripped, Clarke’s closet cleared, and the drawers emptied by the cops. Ann glanced in her closet and drew her fingertips along the bright floral shirts and dresses, realizing she had taken what she had really wanted eighteen months ago, when she and Clarke had separated. All these clothes, like the rest of this house, belonged in the past. Shoes were the same. She had no use for the heels, but she did grab a worn pair of hiking boots.
Perfume bottles, earrings, bracelets, and brushes scattered across her dresser. She raised a perfume bottle to her nose, inhaling and remembering Clarke. After he’d returned home from conferences in recent years, he had brought her expensive perfumes and jewelry. Looking back, she realized these splurges were intended to satisfy his own guilt.
“Ann, you’re all that keeps me sane,” Clarke said. It was hours after she’d left, and he had tracked her to her parents’ house. They stood on the front porch, several charged feet separating them. Both had been careful to keep their voices low for Nate’s sake.
“We need a break, Clarke.” She could not articulate the tangled emotions that had chased her out of the marriage.
He gripped her arm in an unbreakable hold. Not enough to hurt but enough to remind her he was in control. “That’s bullshit. I know losing the baby was hard. But we’ll keep trying.”
“Please, give me this time.” In the cool air, her cheeks flushed.
“How much time?” he demanded.
Tears welled in her eyes. “I don’t know.”
He gently placed his hand at the base of her throat. Her pulse pounded under his calloused fingers. “I love you, and this cannot be forever.”
“It’s a break.” She whispered the lie, hoping he would leave.
Turning from the memory, Ann hurried through the house and out the front door, drawing in a deep breath. She locked the door and settled her box of precious memories on the front seat of the car.
An older red Ford truck pulled up in front of the house, and the woman behind the wheel glanced at a piece of paper as if confirming she had found the right place. Ann raised her hand to signal her, and the woman waved back.