Sandra Brown - Chill Factor

SANDRA BROWN
CHILL FACTOR

CHAPTER 1

THE GRAVE WAS SUBSTANDARD. The storm was forecast to be arecordbreaker. Little more than a shallow bowl gouged out of unyieldingearth, the grave had been dug for Millicent Gunnageeighteen, shortbrown hair, delicate build, five feet four inches tall, reportedmissing a week ago. The grave was long enough to accommodate herheight. Its depth, or lack thereof, could be remedied in the spring,when the ground began to thaw. If scavengers didn't dispose of the bodybefore then.

Ben Tierney shifted his gaze from the new grave to the othersnearby. Four of them. Forest debris and vegetative decay providednatural camouflage, yet each lent subtle variations to the ruggedtopography if one knew what to look for. A dead tree had fallen acrossone, concealing it entirely except to someone with a discerning eye.

Like Tierney.

He took one last look into the empty, shallow grave, thenpicked upthe shovel at his feet and backed away. As he did, he noticed the darkimprints left by his boots in the white carpet of sleet. They didn'tconcern him overmuch. If the meteorologists were calling it right, thefootprints would soon be covered by several inches of frozenprecipitation. When the ground thawed, the prints would be absorbedinto the mud.

In any case, he didn't stop to worryabout them. He hadto get off the mountain. Now.

He'd left his car on the road a couple hundred yards from thesummitand the makeshift graveyard. Although he was now moving downhill, therewas no path to follow through the dense woods. Thick ground cover gavehim limited traction, but the terrain was uneven and hazardous, madeeven more so by the blowing precipitation that hampered his vision.Though he was in a hurry, he was forced to pick his way carefully toavoid a misstep.

Weathermen had been predicting this storm for days. Aconfluence ofseveral systems had the potential of creating one of the worst winterstorms in recent memory. People in its projected path were beingadvised to take precautions, stock provisions, and rethink travelplans. Only a fool would have ventured onto the mountain today. Orsomeone with pressing business to take care of.

Like Tierney.

The cold drizzle that had been falling since early afternoonhadturned into freezing rain mixed with sleet. Pellets of it stung hisface like pinpricks as he thrashed through the forest. He hunched hisshoulders, bringing his collar up to his ears, which were already numbfrom cold.

The wind velocity had increased noticeably. Trees were takingabeating, their naked branches clacking together like rhythm sticks inthe fierce wind. It stripped needles off the evergreens and whippedthem about. One struck his cheek like a blow dart.

Twenty-five miles an hour, out of the northwest,he thoughtwith that part of his brain that automatically registered the currentstatus of his surroundings. He knew these thingswindvelocity, time,temperature, directioninstinctually, as though he had abuilt-inweather vane, clock, thermometer, and GPS constantly feeding pertinentinformation to his subconscious.

It was an innate talent that he had developed into a skill,which hadbeen finely tuned by spending much of his adult life outdoors. Hedidn't have to think consciously about this ever-changing environmentaldata but frequently relied on his ability to grasp it immediately whenit was needed.

He was relying on it now, because it wouldn't do to be caughton thesummit of Cleary Peakthe second highest in North Carolina,after MountMitchellcarrying a shovel and running away from four oldgraves andone freshly dug.

The local police weren't exactly reputed for their doggedinvestigations and crime-solving success. In fact, the department was alocal joke. The chief was a has-been, big-city detective who'd beenousted from the department on which he'd served.

Chief Dutch Burton now led a band of inept small-townofficersyokels outfitted in spiffy uniforms with shinybadgeswho hadbeen hard-pressed to catch the culprit spray-painting obscenities onthe trash receptacles behind the Texaco station.

Now they were focused on the five unsolved missing personscases.Despite their insufficiencies, Cleary's finest had deduced that havingfive women vanish from one small community within two and a half yearswas, in all probability, more than a coincidence.

In a metropolis, that statistic would have been trumped byotherseven scarier. But here, in this mountainous, sparsely populated area,the disappearances of five women were staggering.

Further, it was a generally held opinion that the missingwomen hadmet with foul play, so finding human remains, not the women themselves,was the task facing the authorities. Suspicion would fall on a mancarrying a shovel through the woods.

Like Tierney.

Up till now, he had flown under the radar of Police ChiefBurton'scuriosity. It was crucial to keep it that way.

In pace with his footsteps, he clicked off the vitalstatistics ofthe women buried in the graves on the summit. Carolyn Maddox, atwenty-six-year-old who had a deep bosom, beautiful black hair, andlarge brown eyes. Reported missing last October. A single mom and solesupporter of a diabetic child, she had cleaned rooms at one of theguest lodges in town. Her life had been a cheerless, nonstop cycle oftoil and exhaustion.

Carolyn Maddox was getting plenty of peace and rest now. AswasLaureen Elliott. Single, blond, and overweight, she had worked as anurse at a medical clinic.

Betsy Calhoun, a widowed homemaker, had been older than theothers.

Torrie Lambert, the youngest of them, had also been the first,theprettiest, and the only one not a resident of Cleary.

Tierney picked up his speed, trying to outrun his hauntingthoughtsas well as the weather. Ice was beginning to coat tree limbs likesleeves. Boulders were becoming glazed with it. The steep, curving roaddown to Cleary would soon become unnavigable, and it was imperativethat he get off this goddamn mountain.

Fortunately, his built-in compass didn't fail him, and heemergedfrom the woods no more than twenty feet from where he'd entered it. Hewasn't surprised to see that his car was already coated with a thinlayer of ice and sleet.

As he approached it, he was breathing hard, emitting bursts ofvaporinto the cold air. His descent from the summit had been arduous. Orperhaps his labored breathing and rapid heart rate were caused byanxiety. Or frustration. Or regret.

He placed the shovel in the trunk of his car. Peeling off thelatexgloves he'd been wearing, he tossed them into the trunk as well, thenshut the lid. He got into the car and quickly closed the door,welcoming shelter from the biting wind.

Shivering, he blew on his hands and vigorously rubbed themtogetherin the hope of restoring circulation to his fingertips. The latexgloves had been necessary, but they hadn't provided any protectionagainst the cold. He took a pair of cashmere-lined leather gloves froma coat pocket and pulled them on.

He turned the ignition key.

Nothing happened.

He pumped the accelerator and tried again. The motor didn'tevengrowl. After several more unsuccessful tries, he leaned back againstthe seat and stared at the gauges on the dashboard as though expectingthem to communicate what he was doing wrong.

He cranked the key one more time,but the engineremained as dead and silent as the women crudely buried nearby.

"Shit!" He thumped both gloved fists against the steeringwheel andstared straight ahead, although there was nothing to look at. A sheetof ice had completely obscured the windshield. "Tierney," he muttered,"you're screwed."

CHAPTER 2

THE WIND HAS PICKED UP, AND THERE'S ICY STUFF FALLING outthere,"Dutch Burton remarked as he let the drape fall back into place over thewindow. "We'd better start down soon."