You Can Hide

You Can Hide

by

Rebecca Zanetti

Chapter 1

 

The victim’s hands had been removed—most likely with the ax left leaning against an ice-covered pine tree. Her wrists were bloody stumps resting on cut logs, which the killer must’ve used to position the flesh for his strike. Perfectly preserved, burgundy-colored flowers littered the ground in every direction around the body, several petals frozen solid to rocks at the edge of the ice-encrusted river. Their stark color leeched into the white snow, creating icy pools of frozen blood.  

The victim was female and naked, her flesh frozen to a greyish-blue hue, her facial structure shattered beyond recognition. Blood marred the snow all around her. The techs had worked all morning to gently uncover her and the surrounding area without causing damage.  

Laurel Snow crouched on the craggy bank of Witch Creek, a hidden tributary of the Sauk River in northern Washington State. Icy snow clung to her knit hat and pinged off her show boots. “There’s not enough blood here. The mutilations happened postmortem,” she murmured, looking up at FBI Agent Walter Smudgeon, who had bent to study the ax.  

He straightened. “Not much blood on the ax.” He turned, his wide cheeks ruddy, his belly hanging over his belt. “Broken face and stolen hands. Somebody definitely wanted to keep her from being identified.”  

Laurel scrutinized the ligature marks around the woman’s neck. “She was strangled. We’ll know more after the autopsy.” She studied the woman’s hair, which was black with a clear demarcation of gray—maybe three or even four weeks’ worth. “She was due for a hair appointment.” 

 “What does that mean?” Walter wheezed.  

 
Laurel stood. “I’m not sure.” Her phone buzzed from her pocket, and she ignored the caller. Again.  

 
“What’s with the flowers?” Walter asked. “It’s interesting,” Laurel said, the wind burning the exposed skin on her face and ears. “I think these are black dahlias.” “Black? Those are red,” Walter said, pulling his down winter coat lower to cover his wide belly, his jowls moving as he spoke.  

 
“They’re burgundy colored, and I believe they’re black dahlias,” Laurel repeated, a sense of isolation cutting through her, even as state crime scene personnel worked efficiently around her. She tilted her head toward Captain Monty Buckley, who was photographing the petals closer to the creek. “Did you find the personal locator beacon?”  

 
The victim had activated the PLB, which sent a distress call through satellite to emergency services around midnight the night before, but searchers had to wait until light because of the devastating snowstorm that had only just abated. The second search team had found the body, which had already been mostly covered with snow and ice, except for her feet, which lay in the moving creek, shoved carelessly beneath a jagged layer of ice.  

 
Monty looked up, his eyes blue and his hair a silvery gray that was turning more white from his recent cancer treatments. “Not yet.” He surveyed the snow still gently falling to cover the earth in every direction. “It’s a long shot that we’ll find it at all.” He grimaced at the flowers. “What’s up with the red petals? Some symbolic thing?” “ 

 
I believe they symbolize betrayal,” Laurel said, clicking through her memory of a book she’d read years ago. “We can conduct more research later.”  

 
A tall figure walked between two trees,kicking snow out of the way and creating a trail with his size fourteen boots.  
 
“Huck,” Laurel said, taken aback. 
 
 “Where did you come from?”  
 
“Monty called me. There’s an old forest service trail to the north, and I drove my snowmobile along that route. I’ve cut a trail from there. You’re going to want to see this,” Huck Rivers said, his eyes a whiskey brown, his whiskers a day past needing a shave, and his hat partially covering his thick black hair. His Karelian bear dog, Aeneas, bounded behind him, tail wagging and tongue out. Laurel blinked. She and Walter had ridden in Fish and Wildlife UTVs from the Sauk River to the creek to reach the scene, and she hadn’t realized Huck would be out there. It had been they’d worked together, since they’d seen each other, and she’d wondered about him. Had he spent Christmas and then most of January alone in his cabin? She’d been in DC for much of January working on another case and had only been back in town for a couple of days. “All right,” she said coolly, stepping carefully over icy rocks and slippery snow to reach him. “Lead on, Captain.” His gaze inscrutable, he turned, his broad shoulders blocking the trail he’d created. “Follow me.” 
 
She’d forgotten how tall he stood and walked close to him so he could break the brutal wind. Her hands were chilled through the rubber gloves, but she kept them outside her pockets to avoid picking up trace evidence, although the snow continued to land and then melt on her. They walked for about ten minutes, around bushes, under boughs, and over icy brush, with snow piled on either side of the makeshift trail. Her legs ached, and the biting wind sliced to her bones, weakening her muscles. 
 
 Huck paused and partially turned to the right. In profile, his features were more rugged than the brutal mountains around them. “If you look there, the victim’s footprints are still visible in the snow because of the tree covering above them. I’ve taken pictures, because they’re going to disappear within the hour.”  
Laurel squinted to see through the thick trees at the smaller prints, followed by much larger ones. “Are those yours?” 
 
“No. Mine are a yard beyond those prints. I paralleled the trail as I took pictures.” He made a hand gesture, and the black-and-white dog sat obediently. “From the spacing of the steps, they were running, and both broke several branches on the way.” He pointed farther down the snowy trail. “She fell twice but got back up and kept running.”  
Laurel could imagine the woman’s terror. “Where did she come from?” 
 
 “This way.” He turned again.  
 
Aeneas sat in place, one ear up as if he wanted to ask her a question.  
 
She couldn’t pet him and get fur on her gloves, so she smiled. “Hi, Aeneas. Miss me?”  
Did Huck’s shoulders square at that question? They’d shared one intimate night together, and then nothing. She’d thought they might be becoming friends, but then he’d disappeared. The dog yipped and flipped around to follow his master.  
 
Laurel trudged behind the two males, stepping gingerly over the exposed root of a tree that rose high out of the deep snow. The pine would probably fall over in the howling wind. She turned at a bend and stopped upon spotting a dark structure that nearly disappeared into the rock wall behind it.  
“Incredible.”  
Huck nodded. “Yeah. It’s an old forestry cabin that was abandoned about ten years ago, according to my office. Nobody knew anyone was staying out here.”  
Weathered wooden logs created a square-shaped cabin built against a solid rock wall. A crumbled stack of planks showed what had once been a porch, leaving the door two feet above the ground, now iced over with snow. A tarp partially covered a battered old side-by-side utility terrain vehicle beneath two mature blue spruce trees to the right of the cabin.  
“I removed part of the tarp to see what was secured under there,” Huck explained. 
 
Laurel looked around. Her phone buzzed again and she ignored it. “I take it UTVs are the only way to access this area?”  
“Or snowmobile, during the winter.” Huck pointed to his black snowmobile with a Fish and Wildlife designation on the side. “I guess somebody could hike in during summer months. I took that old forest division trail, while you all drove along the river and then cut east along the creek.”  

 
A branch broke over by the tarp, the ice and wind having triumphed over the slim wood. Laurel jumped as ice and pinecones rained down. “Is that how the killer or killers reached this place? We didn’t see any tracks on our way in.” 
 
 Huck wiped snow off his cheekbone. “The snowstorm eliminated any possible tracks out here, so we don’t even know how which way the killer came.”  
Laurel looked around and shivered. “What a lonely place to hide.” “Hide?” 
 
“Yes.” Laurel moved beyond him, following his trail to the front door, which she nudged open. The cabin was one room with a blow-up mattress covered by several blankets, a fireplace with kindling and neatly stacked logs next to it, and a kitchen shelf holding a battery-operated hotplate, a plate, and a cup. Cans and more cans sat on the shelf. Noodles, soup, beans, veggies, and fruit. Even something that said turkey on it. Along with several gallon bottles of vodka and gin. Enough for months of self-numbing. 
 
She walked to the unmade bed and lifted a tablet from it, scrolling through pages of books. “How—” 

 
“Small portable generator,” Huck said, pointing to the one window above the kitchen shelf. “It’s right outside with gas not too far from it. She was able to charge her tablet, heating pad, hot plate, and it looks like a burner phone.” He gestured to a basket near the bed. “She has enough gas out there for probably another month.”  

 
It wasn’t even February yet. “So she’d need to traverse the forest again in that UTV, and the conditions will probably be even worse next month,” Laurel noted. “From what I can tell, she was more prepared than that.”  

 
“Maybe she didn’t know how much gas she’d need,” Huck mused. “Beyond the gas containers is a very old and rough outhouse. Yards away is an area of rock where she left the empty food cans, after washing them thoroughly with either water from the river or melted snow, from what I can tell.”  

 
So no animals would come sniffing around.  

 
Laurel spotted a cabinet barely visible next to the low bed. She removed her flashlight from her pocket and inched closer, shining it inside. “There’s something . . .” Tugging open the cabinet, she took inventory.  

 
Huck whistled behind her. This close, his body heat flushed along her back, even through her jacket. “SIG Sauer,” Huck mused, leaning over her shoulder for a better look. “And what looks like plenty of ammo.” Laurel turned and looked at the door. “She didn’t get a chance to use her gun. So he surprised her outside with his attack?” 
 “The footprints in the snow come from the outhouse area,” Huck said.  

 
Laurel tried to imagine the night and how terrified the woman would’ve been. “So she took her PLB with her to the outhouse but not a weapon? I don’t think so. She must’ve had another weapon.” She leaned in to study the bullets.   

 
Huck pursed his lips. “You’re right. We’ll search the area, and I’ll scout the way she ran again. Chances are he surprised her and got the gun but didn’t see the PLB before she pressed the button.”  

 
“If she was in hiding, she would’ve used that device to call for help as a last resort,” Laurel agreed. “We have to identify her.” She held the tablet in her hand.  

 
“This should help.” 

 
Her phone buzzed again.  

 
Huck’s left eyebrow rose. “Somebody is being persistent.”  

 
Laurel drew an evidence bag out of her other pocket and slid the tablet into it, before handing the bag to him. “Yes.” Giving in, she tugged her phone free, seeing Dr. Abigail Caine’s name on the screen. “What is it, Dr. Caine?” she asked by way of answer.  
“Now, Laurel, is that any way to talk to your sister?” Abigail bit out, her slight British accent emerging to make her sound more than a little peeved. “You returned to town a full two days ago, and you haven’t answered my calls.” 
 
 Laurel shut her eyes and centered herself. She would not ask about Abigail’s familiarity with her schedule. “I’m in the middle of a case right now. We’ll have to chat another time.”  

 
“No,” Abigail snapped. “We will speak now. I am in danger, and as my sister, you are going to help me.”  

 
“Half sister,” Laurel returned, unwilling to deal with this right now. “I will call you later, Abigail.”  

 
“No. Somebody is harassing me, and it has to stop. I returned late last night from a retreat to find flowers scattered all across my front lawn this morning, some already frozen and some still breezing along. It’s weird.”  
Laurel stilled. She cut Huck a look; he was watching her carefully. “Flowers? What variety of flowers?” Abigail sighed. “They’re black dahlias. A substantial number of them.” 

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