Cold Fear Read online

  The wind whipped her hair past her cheeks, blinding her for a moment. She faced the sea and gathered the strands together in a long twist, stuffing it back under her hat. She pulled the hat down tight, ignoring the short, sharp tug on her scalp.

  Last night while she’d been working, a big Nor’easter had brushed its fingers against the flanks of the Outer Banks but thankfully hadn’t delivered a flat-out punch. Another storm was brewing in the Atlantic and promised even more fun, depending on which direction it decided to take.

  Storms and hurricanes were a constant danger to these barrier islands. Locals only worried when they had to and, frankly, right now, she was too tired. She’d been up all night, working the graveyard shift at the local hospital. Once Barney had a good walk she’d crash for a few hours before heading back to the hospital for a split shift that evening. She was covering for a few colleagues who’d gone to visit family over the holidays. She hoped her sister remembered not to make too much noise when she got home from Helena’s house later, but she wouldn’t put money on it.

  She whistled to her wet, sandy dog and headed toward the boardwalk that led through the cordoned-off dune system. Up on the road, a Department of Natural Resources vehicle had pulled up behind a burgundy sedan that had been parked there when she arrived earlier. God help the poor soul when Duncan Cromwell got hold of them. The guy was fanatical in his protection of those dunes. Her SUV was another hundred yards south, near the lighthouse. Barney arrived at her side, complete with rancid ball, and she clipped his leash to his collar and strode along the path.

  Barney started to whine a few seconds before she heard the sirens.

  “It’s okay, boy.” She rubbed his neck and opened the trunk of her SUV, letting the dog hop in before she turned to see what was going on. An ambulance screeched to a stop behind the DNR rig.

  Damn.

  As tired as she was, she couldn’t ignore the potential that someone might need her help. She got into her car and drove up to the other vehicles. Parking behind the ambulance, leaving plenty of room for a stretcher.

  “Stay, boy.” She got out and clambered through the thin wire fence, following the route the EMTs had taken. Dread skated along her nerves when she realized exactly where she was heading. Too bad, Izzy. Her muscles burned as she climbed the steep foredune, but she didn’t slow down. When she got to the top, the scene below made her flinch. Bile hit her throat but she swallowed it. Slipping her way down the bank, she shouted, “What’s the situation?”

  Duncan Cromwell had draped his coat over his daughter, Helena, who lay unmoving in the sand at his side. He was attempting mouth-to-mouth.

  Izzy pushed him out of the way and probed the girl’s neck for a pulse. Helena’s skin felt like ice. Her eyes were cloudy, her body slightly stiff, but no sign of lividity. Izzy took a clean tissue from her pocket and brushed it across Helena’s cornea. The girl didn’t blink. No corneal reflex. Izzy placed her hands over Helena’s eyes and held them there for long seconds. When she removed them Helena’s pupils showed no reaction to the light.

  Dammit.

  “Do something!” Cromwell grabbed her upper arm so hard she winced. She twisted out of his grip.

  “She’s gone, Duncan.” Cold fear raced through her mind as she looked at the dead girl. Her sister had been staying with the Cromwells last night. Frantically, she scanned the surrounding area. “Where’s Kit?”

  “I was going to ask you the same question,” Duncan said grimly. “Help me do CPR.”

  Izzy forced away the tears that wanted to form and found her professional armor. “Helena’s gone, Duncan. There’s nothing you can do.”

  “No.” He brushed her away and started once again to try to resuscitate his daughter. She met the gaze of the EMT who she recognized from the hospital, and silent communication passed between them. The guy had lost it and who could blame him. She moved to assess the other victim on the ground, a young man she recognized as Jesse Tyson, the police chief’s son. Blood matted his scalp, and his nose looked like it had been smashed. Unlike Helena, he was fully clothed. Beneath the trickles of blood, his skin was the blinding white of alabaster. She touched his neck but couldn’t find a pulse. His skin was soft, no sign of rigor. She frowned and pulled back his eyelids. His pupils were clear and responsive. She checked his airway, ripped open his shirt and palpated his chest. No penetrating injuries or bruising. Without proper equipment it was difficult to check for pneumothorax and haemothorax, but she did what she could. She undid his jeans and pressed her fingers into his groin, searching for a femoral pulse. All the time, she watched his chest for any sign that he was breathing.

  Did it move? Or was that the wind tugging his shirt?

  It was so cold out here, even she was shivering. Then his chest did move, just a fraction, evenly on both sides, she was certain of it. And the faintest pulse of blood stirred against her fingertips. She signaled the EMTs to bring over a stretcher. “He’s alive. Make sure his spine is stabilized before you move him. Cover him with all the blankets you’ve got in the rig.” Her brain buzzed as she recalled procedure and treatments for severe hypothermia. “Move him very gently because you can induce cardiac dysrhythmia if you jar him—go the long way around the dune.” She checked for fractures, but with this level of hypothermia the most important thing was getting the patient to the hospital as quickly and smoothly as possible. She dialed the ER. It was a fifteen-minute drive to the hospital. “You need to prepare for a patient with low GCS, apparent head injuries, and severe hypothermia.” They’d treat with warm mattresses, hot air blankets, heated IV fluids—but they had to take things slowly in a highly controlled environment. “He’ll need a full CT scan and general blood work. Call Chief Tyson to meet us at the hospital.” She hung up.

  “What about Helena?” Duncan called out angrily from his knees.

  Izzy stared at the guy. Tremors shook his body as he tried to rein in everything he was feeling. His eyes were frantic, skin pulled tight over his features as desperation drove him. Who could blame him?

  His daughter was her sister’s best friend. Responsibility weighed as heavy as a block of cement around her shoulders. What if she was wrong? What if Helena could be saved? She’d heard of miracles happening before, especially when severe hypothermia was involved. People weren’t dead until they were warm and dead.

  “Let’s take her, too.” She put her hand on his arm. “But, Duncan, don’t get your hopes up.”

  “Hope is all I’ve got left.” He flung off her touch and snarled before he ran to fetch another stretcher.

  She took out her phone and dialed her sister, each unanswered ring feeding her fear like wind stoking a wildfire. The joints in her fingers ached from her tight grip on the phone. Her jaw felt as if someone had wired the bones together.

  “S’up?” Kit answered groggily.

  The iron fist on Izzy’s throat released, and she sucked in a proper breath. “Oh my God. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Why?” Kit sounded tired, grumpy, but not upset. She obviously had no idea about Helena.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Home. I changed my mind and came back here last night. Why?”

  She hadn’t checked her sister’s room when she picked up Barney earlier, but hadn’t seen her car. She’d assumed Kit was still out. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.” She couldn’t tell Kit about Helena over the phone. “Look, I have something to tell you. You need to get dressed. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”

  “What? Why?” The grogginess was replaced with wariness.

  Izzy couldn’t face an argument. “Just do it. I love you.” She hung up. She was going to ground her sister until she was eighteen, and possibly for the rest of her life just to keep her safe. Duncan came back over the ridge and began slipping down the banks of his beloved dunes. She shielded her eyes against the spraying sand as he raced toward her. Together they very gently moved Helena onto the stretcher but Izzy didn’t hold out much hope for the girl. Her
heart wanted to break but she compartmentalized the feeling so she could do her job. They worked their way slowly around the biggest hill. Even though Helena was tiny, Izzy struggled to hold up her end of the stretcher.

  “We need to call the cops,” she shouted over the blustery wind. Her stomach churned at the thought of what they might find, but Helena’s death needed to be investigated. Her attacker had to be found.

  “I already called them,” said Cromwell.

  She nodded, and wished she didn’t want to run and hide. She was a coward. She’d always been a damn coward. The coat covering Helena slipped and Izzy saw the girl’s naked body. There was blood on her thighs and any thoughts Izzy had about her own problems were obliterated. Then her eyes latched onto a piece of jewelry on Helena’s slender wrist. The fine hairs on her arms rose as gooseflesh prickled her skin. “I didn’t know Helena wore a medical alert bracelet.”

  “It isn’t hers.” Duncan’s voice was low and guttural. “She was wearing it when I found her.”

  Dazed, Izzy marched onward as fast as she could. It couldn’t be the same bracelet. It couldn’t. But deep inside, Izzy knew it was. Even though it was impossible, someone knew her secret. A killer knew her secret.

  * * *

  LINCOLN FRAZER SAT at his desk reading yet another request for assistance, this one regarding a series of rapes occurring in Portland, Oregon. He scanned the details and emailed Darsh Singh to take a look at the case file in time for next Monday’s team meeting. It was January 1, but as head of BAU-4, which investigated crimes against adults, there was no time to take a break. A week ago, he’d helped exonerate an innocent man convicted of treason, but between high-level vigilante groups, presidential requests, international terrorism, assassins, agency spies, and miscarriages of justice, he was behind on the day job.

  Christmas had been a blur. He hadn’t seen his condo in days. He showered and ate at the academy, grateful for the peace and quiet of an almost empty building. With the turn of the New Year he hoped life would return to normal, and he could go back to his nice orderly world tracking down serial offenders.

  His landline rang. “Frazer.”

  “How’d I know you’d be in the office?” Agent Mallory Rooney’s voice held a touch of sarcasm.

  “It’s that razor-sharp intelligence of yours.” That and the fact Alex Parker had probably tracked his cell phone. “No wonder I plucked you from obscurity to work for me.”

  “Sure, boss, you plucked me from obscurity.” The eye roll that accompanied her droll statement came through loud and clear. He grinned because she couldn’t see him.

  “Did Parker finish running those background checks on Madeleine Florentine?” Frazer asked before she could speak. The Governor of California was President Hague’s first choice as replacement VP, and the man was growing impatient for answers.

  “Yep, he finished last night. Florentine checks out”—Thank, God—“But that’s not why I’m calling. Look,” she continued, cutting him off as he opened his mouth to ask why it had taken them this long to contact him. “I got a phone call from an old friend of mine, Agent Lucas Randall out of Charlotte. He was in charge of the Meacher case?” Frazer checked personnel files online as she spoke. He remembered the guy. “He’s been called in on a case along the Outer Banks. Wanted me to go down there to help him out.”

  Frazer searched the Internet for news stories coming out of that region. “A single victim homicide?” He had a stack of unsolved cases on his desk more than a foot high, not to mention trying to help a certain spook surreptitiously track down the assassin who’d murdered the Vice President last month. All of which required a few more skills than investigating a small-town homicide. “The locals can handle it.” He winced at the callousness of his tone. That’s what happened when reports of unbelievable depravity crossed your desk every single day.

  Rooney ignored him. “Two teens making out on the beach last night were subject to a vicious assault. Both were left for dead, but one miraculously survived. But that’s not why Randall called me.”

  Frazer’s spine tingled, and he knew he wasn’t going to like whatever she said next.

  “The female victim was wearing a medical alert bracelet.”

  “And?” Tension coiled inside him.

  “It wasn’t hers.” He heard the murmur of voices, probably Alex Parker telling Mallory to get off the phone and take a break on a federal holiday. “It belonged to a woman called Beverley Sandal.”

  “Why do I recognize that name?” He typed it into the Internet. “Damn.”

  “Yeah. Exactly.”

  His brain catalogued some of the factors in play. “Ferris Denker is due to be executed this month.”

  “I know.”

  “It could be a copycat trying to get him a last minute reprieve.”

  “I know.”

  “This was Hanrahan’s first big case—did you know that?” He squeezed his eyes shut. Of course she did. Rooney was as big a workaholic as he was. Goddammit. The conviction was solid. Denker had been transporting the body of a young woman he’d killed when the cops pulled him over on a traffic violation. He’d confessed to a series of murders, though some of the bodies had never been recovered. The conviction was good, but the last thing he or Rooney or Parker needed was investigators digging into his former boss’s cases. “I need you to get down there ASAP—”

  “I can’t.”

  His spine stiffened. Something was wrong.

  Another voice came on the line. “What she failed to mention was she’s in the hospital.” Alex Parker had taken the phone from Rooney. “She, hmm…” He cleared his throat. “Mal had some minor bleeding last night, and the docs want to keep her in and run more tests. Maybe put her on bed rest for a couple of weeks. You’re going to have to do this without us.”

  Fear jackknifed through Frazer. Rooney was in the first trimester of her pregnancy with the couple’s baby. Frazer was usually more cautious with his affection, but his friendship with the rookie agent and damaged assassin had begun under extraordinary circumstances. The connection was strong as tungsten steel, the only thing that would break it was death—a real possibility if anyone discovered their secrets. “Is she all right?” he asked carefully.

  “She will be.”

  Mallory Rooney was the best of them. If anyone could keep her safe it would be Alex Parker, but not even Parker could control a medical emergency. Frazer knew the thoughts going through the man’s head. Guilt. Fear, that this was somehow his fault. Desperation and panic that he couldn’t fix it no matter how badly he wanted to.

  Frazer understood because he was feeling them, too. He let out a long breath. “Tell her to take all the time she needs.”

  “I already did,” Parker said tightly.

  “Yeah, but tell her I said so. She listens to me.” He shut down his desktop computer. “I want her fit and healthy for work, even if she has to spend the next nine months in bed. I have some personal leave she can use.” And there’d be other agents who’d do the same for a colleague going through a tough time. The FBI was a family. They took care of their own.

  Frazer put his arm through his jacket sleeve, closed his laptop, and put it in its case. The thought of Rooney and Parker losing the baby put a rock in his throat and reminded him why it was always best to keep his distance. Too late now. “You should name him after me, you know, considering the circumstances.” Circumstances that traced back to a remote woods in the heart of West Virginia and facing down another serial killer.

  “Mal wants to name him after my grandfather if he’s a boy and after my mother if she’s a girl.” The controlled tension in Parker’s voice told him the guy was terrified.

  Frazer felt that lump in his throat grow bigger. Shit. “Keep her safe, Alex. I’ll take care of the situation in North Carolina.”

  “Call me if you need anything. I can work the case from here.” Amongst other things, Parker was an expert in cyber security and could run traces in his sleep.

  �
��I intend to.”

  “Happy New Year, Linc.”

  “Not yet it isn’t.”

  “No shit.” Parker sounded pissed off.

  “This is my fault, you know. For wishing things would get back to normal.”

  “You were hankering after serial killers?”

  “Yeah. I must be as aberrant as they are.”

  “Nah,” Parker drawled. “You’re way crazier than those fuckers.”

  A reluctant smile tugged Frazer’s lips. “Take care of her for us, Alex.” Then he hung up and strode out of his office.

  Happy New Year.

  * * *

  FERRIS DENKER WATCHED the cockroach idle its way across the floor. He planted one of his feet and the bug switched direction. He did it again and the roach tried to burrow under the rubber heel of his canvas shoe. Poor misunderstood creature. He picked it up and let it run over his hands. The creature’s legs felt sturdy but brittle, its feet grasping the whorls and ridges of his palm.

  He turned his hand over and the bug fell to the floor, its thin carapace making a dull clicking noise as it hit. The bug popped back up, and they started their game over. Handel’s Concerti Grossi Op. 6 played on his sound system—a pleasant change from the constant din of Christmas carols that had bounced around the Death Row facility over the last few weeks. He tried not to complain. The guys needed a little enjoyment in this sinkhole of despair.

  “Hey, Ferris.” A familiar voice hissed from the next cell. Billy Painter. The guy had raped and murdered a young woman and then done the same to her eighty-year-old grandmother.

  How the jury had wept.

  The kid had been here for the last five years and was on his second appeal.

  Ferris walked over to the door. The top half was made of steel bars. “What is it, Billy?”