The Dead Season Read online

  “This is Kelsea,” Tim said. The woman rattled off a greeting, commented on the unseasonal weather. A local, like Tim. When she was done, Tim turned to me. “Looks like you need a refill. I’ll come with.”

  I eyeballed his fresh pour, fragrant and steaming in his hand, and the woman he was about to abandon. “Right,” I said, getting to my feet.

  We left Kelsea with Mac and made our way into the anteroom, where we found the coffee bar unoccupied. Tim, who hadn’t thought to leave his overfilled mug behind, cursed under his breath as the hot drink sloshed onto his wrist.

  “It’s good to see you,” he said, grabbing a wad of paper napkins as I reached past the thermal carafe of decaf for the good stuff. “That’s looking better.”

  He was talking about my hand. The burns I’d sustained during my last case, caused by a pot of boiling water and a troubled teenage girl, were healing well. Before I could make a joke about swearing off cooking for life, Tim said, “How are things?”

  “Good. Things are good.”

  He raised his thick eyebrows. “Well? When is it?”

  So this was why he wanted to talk. “What, my fitness-for-duty psych eval? That old thing?” I stirred cream into my coffee, licked the straw. “Next week.”

  “And you feel ready?”

  “It’s not the SATs.”

  “No, I know, I just—you’ve been slacking off long enough, is all. I could really use a hand back at the station.”

  As the senior investigator for our unit, I head up our team. All the guys answer to me. But the time Tim and I spent on Tern Island investigating the Sinclair family altered the dynamic between us, and with a pang of regret, I realized how much I’d missed our special brand of repartee. “Been busy, have you?” I said. I meant it as a joke—A-Bay in the off-season is as action-packed as a grade school in summer—but Tim’s face lit up.

  “You have no idea. Last Thursday? We had a drug deal go south in a hurry, this divorced couple fighting over who gets to keep the clients. The hubby goes out to sell from their mutual stash and his wife tips me off, failing to realize she’s implicating herself in the process.”

  “Dear God.”

  “But wait! There’s more. A motorboat got stolen from that RV park on Swan Bay—you know, over by the Price Chopper? Shittiest vessel you’ve ever seen, and someone felt the need to nab it while the owner was onshore buying groceries. She calls herself Miss Betty, and she calls me daily to ask why I haven’t found it yet. Says I’m a disgrace to the legal system.”

  I laughed so hard I had to stabilize my mug. “Did you point out you’re not a lawyer?”

  “Not yet, but I’ll be sure to mention it when she calls again on Monday, and Tuesday, and Wednesday. To be honest, I’d rather take calls from Miss Betty than the paper any day. Looks like Cunningham’s finally moved on from the Sinclair story. I was starting to feel like I had a stalker.”

  “You and me both.” When Tim and I went to Troop D headquarters to report on our last case, the Watertown Daily Times features writer tailed us all the way to Oneida. The resulting article led to more calls, more requests for a comment, which I promptly ignored.

  “Anyway,” Tim said, “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Mac insisted we squeeze in one last breakfast burrito before this place closes for the winter.”

  “Here in the county, I mean.”

  The atmosphere around us fizzled. “Where else would I go?” I said it lightly, but Tim’s expression was somber.

  “You know where. I’ve been thinking about our talk. That day in Oneida.”

  I remembered it well. While we’d managed to close the Sinclair case, it hadn’t been the cleanest of solves. I knowingly barreled onto the scene a liability, and did some serious damage. Our witnesses could easily have built a police misconduct case against me; it was a wonder they hadn’t. The fact that I’d worked the case on Tern Island while still wrestling with PTSD was irresponsible on every level. Over the last few weeks, the magnitude of what I’d done had settled on me like barbed wire biting into flesh. Little wonder the big guns wanted to know how it all fell apart, and how my conduct turned a missing persons case into an unholy mess.

  Behind us, a boisterous group of teenagers walked in and descended on the coffee bar. Tim cupped my elbow with his hand and guided me to a cluster of empty tables at the back of the room.

  “You’ve had some time on your hands these past weeks.”

  “Should I have knit you a hat?”

  By the look on Tim’s face, the time for jokes was done. “So you’re not looking for him?”

  Him. No need to specify who Tim was talking about. “Bram’s gone,” I said.

  “Maybe.” Tim’s tone was hard to read, and I sensed a trap. “After he got away in New York, Blake Bram had every reason to leave the state. He could have changed his name. He’s done it before. Or maybe he went home. Back to Swanton.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so because that behavior doesn’t fit? Or you don’t think so because you know otherwise?”

  Nearby, the teenagers cackled as they filled their mugs. Under his jacket and heavy crewneck sweater, I could see Tim’s shoulders were tense. “Bram could be gone,” he said, “or he could be here. I should have brought the wrath of God down on Cunningham for printing your picture in that story. How did they even know we’d be in Oneida?”

  “No idea,” I said with a pang of guilt. “The man’s thorough, I’ll give him that. Look, I don’t know where Bram is, or where he’s been since I left New York. There haven’t been any more murders that match his MO. That doesn’t mean he’s done.”

  “But you are, right? With him? Because you still haven’t actually answered my question.”

  The teens split into groups and took two tables, one on either side of where Tim and I stood.

  “You should get going,” I said. “I don’t want to keep you from your friend.”

  I’d always thought of Tim’s eyes as gray, but in the November sunlight that leaked through the restaurant’s front windows, they presented as starbursts of blue and white. He blinked at me, nodded, and advanced on the patio door.

  As I fell into step behind him, I overheard one of the waitresses talking to the group of teens. “Last bear claws for a while,” she said. “Better eat your fill while you have the chance.”

  Nelly’s last weekend. The dead season was coming. And there wasn’t a thing I could do to stop it.

  TWO

  Breakfast settled in my stomach like a hunk of cement, and thanks to my talk with Tim, I was running late. I made the half-hour drive from Clayton to Watertown in twenty-one minutes and jogged down Arcade Street with a stitch in my side.

  My destination was well concealed, tucked between a pizzeria and an art studio at the back of a courtyard, but I took a moment to survey the street before ducking under a brick archway. The paint on the walls of the building was flaking, and the pavement under my feet was tacky with grime, but it drew me in all the same. I’d gotten good at cultivating my anger so that when I entered the studio, my limbs were primed like a nocked arrow on a raised bow.

  The small foyer that led to the dojo was sparse and clean. There was a check-in counter on one side, a water fountain and a couple of benches on the other. The walls were lined with posters of Bruce Lee and Jet Li, and the lighting was dim in a way that reminded me of a subterranean cave. I winked away the sunspots burned into my retinas, slipped off my shoes, and rummaged through my gym bag for my belt.

  “You’re late,” Sensei said as I yanked the thick, curling strip of fabric free and shoved my bag and shoes against the wall. The belt was brown, just a few stripes away from black, but I didn’t deserve it. On my last case I’d been assaulted and had failed to employ even the most basic self-defense techniques. I was out of practice; until recently, I hadn’t attended
a karate class in more than a year. My new sensei was a burly guy called Sam, and he wasn’t going to let me forget the lapse. “Twenty-twenty-twenty,” he said before I could finish peeling off my socks. “And ten extra push-ups for being tardy.”

  I dropped to one knee and wrapped the belt around my waist, cinching it tight over my belly button. “Sorry,” I said. “Work stuff.”

  Sensei Sam raised an eyebrow. “You’re back at work?”

  “Not yet. Soon.”

  He stepped aside so I could bow and enter the dojo. Then he closed the door behind me and watched as I paid my penance: jumping jacks, crunches, and push-ups. The extra ten I did twice as fast, and by the time I was finished my arms were buzzing. When I paused to wipe my brow, Sam shook his head.

  “Roundhouse kicks, side kicks, back kicks, four times each way. Two-knuckle punches from horse stance until I say stop.”

  I wound up into a kick and made my way across the mirrored room. I’d gotten used to Sam’s brusque style, had even grown to like it. Sam didn’t coddle me. Back in Manhattan, my karate classes had been social affairs, a dozen adults of varying ranks practicing their pinans and katas, blocks and counterstrikes. My time was spent memorizing combinations, but there was just as much palling around. Sometimes we’d go for drinks afterward at the bar around the corner. The private class I was taking in Watertown couldn’t have been more different. Here, I was entirely focused on advancement. Readying myself for what was to come.

  “Faster,” said Sam, as I faced the mirrored wall and punched the air with quick, sharp thrusts. Against the peachy skin of his neck and forearms, Sam’s gi was extraordinarily black. I’d asked him once how he came to be a Shaolin Kempo master rather than, say, a professional caber-tosser. He told me he used to watch karate movies with his father before the man died of cancer. His rank, the culmination of a decade and a half of hard work, was a tribute to his dad. I hadn’t pried into his personal life since.

  “Soon, huh?” he said, assessing my form. “You sound confident you’ll be cleared.”

  I tried not to let him see me grimace. It was the second time today someone had brought up my psych evaluation, and all the meddling was starting to grate on me. Sam knew little about my situation, just enough to understand why I was here. Abduction. Trauma. Recovery. That last part was a work in progress, but he’d already given me some solid instruction. In some ways, I was getting more value out of my karate classes than the meetings with my state-appointed therapist.

  “Gasko is . . . hard to . . . read,” I panted as I punched. “But he seems happy with my progress.”

  Silently, Sam crossed the room to the padded targets piled in the corner. My eyes followed him in the mirror as he selected a kick shield and retraced his steps. When he got back to where I was, he peered down at me. “What about you?”

  I swiveled to face him and shook out my arms. I could feel my pulse in the tips of my fingers, and what remained of my burn throbbed. “It’s not like I have an actual problem. The flashbacks are gone. I’m back to normal. As normal as I ever was.”

  Sam grunted noncommittally and instructed me to kick the pad.

  My first few kicks were strong, but the pad didn’t budge. “Gasko’s acting like I’m going to start hallucinating the second I’m on a new case. According to him, if it’s a kidnapping or a homicide, I’m screwed.”

  “Kick through the bag.”

  I pivoted on the ball of my foot and channeled all the power I could muster into my right leg. Sam didn’t even wobble. “Apparently women are at greater risk of PTSD after a traumatic event, so Gasko’s convinced I’m still a mess. But I’m not checking those boxes, not anymore. I know the signs.”

  Sam narrowed his eyes. “Bring that leg back to chamber every time.” He arched an auburn eyebrow. “So no problems sleeping, then.”

  Kick. “I’m sleeping fine.”

  “No bad memories you can’t control.”

  Kick. “Not a one.”

  “You don’t avoid conversations that force you to think about your trauma. You’re not suspicious of strangers. No anxiety or amplified startle response.”

  “Jesus, Sam.” I kicked the bag three times in quick succession, and this time Sam momentarily lost his balance. My thighs were on fire—and what the hell was this? I hadn’t confided in him about my attack so he could throw it back in my face. I didn’t mention the mandatory therapy sessions so he could mock me. The last thing I needed was another person psychoanalyzing me. When I told him as much, Sam only shrugged.

  “I’m asking,” he said, “because it’s relevant to what we’re doing here. It matters, Shana. You can’t train your body to be alert without also training your mind.”

  It happened fast. The padded shield hit the floor with a muffled thud, and Sensei Sam went from a pillar of stone to a cyclone. I had just enough time to plant my feet before he was behind me, his right arm wrapped tight around my neck. The muscles in his forearm strained against my sternum and the soft underside of my chin. His left hand clasped his wrist to lock the hold into place. I could feel his breath in my ear and his sweat on my cheek as he pressed the length of his body against my back.

  Instantly, I saw it for what it was: a test. I know this one, I thought. Seize his forearm and twist my head toward his hands to escape the hold. Side kick to the gut, hammer strike to the head, and run. We’d practiced the drill dozens of times—and yet, my body refused to respond. Suspicion of strangers. Anxiety. Startle response. The room was suddenly stifling. Under my ponytailed hair my scalp was aflame and my pulse pounded in my ears, all dense noise and blood-whoosh. I fought against Sam’s grip like a squirming child, every action driven not by intent but desperation. Throw it against the wall. Thrash and writhe. See what sticks.

  I caught a glimpse of Sam in the mirror, confusion and pity writ large on his face. That’s when I gave up. I let my body crumple, and Sam let me go. When I spun away from him and looked down at my hands, they were shaking.

  “Shana.” He tried to put his hand on my shoulder, an innocent act meant to comfort. It made me flinch. “Look, you’re not the first woman to come here. Not the first cop, either. I wish I could say my students did this as a precaution, but for a lot of them, it’s about retaliation. Making sure there won’t be a next time, because the first time around was real bad. You’re stronger than most. But that’s not going to help unless you can get this guy out of your head.”

  I pivoted away from him so he wouldn’t see my mouth harden. You don’t understand, I wanted to say. I was held hostage by a serial killer who murdered three women and a rookie police officer. But I knew that Sam was right. I had to get Blake Bram out of my head.

  “Hey. You okay?”

  “Fine.” I held back tears of anger and shame. The room was uncomfortably quiet. I swiped my hands across my clammy forehead and turned to face him once more. Rolled out my wrists and stood tall. “Yes, Sensei,” I said. “Let’s do it again.”

  THREE

  Some might say I was asking for trouble, driving aimlessly on the outskirts of town where the only sign of life was the tumbledown farmhouses that dotted the flat horizon. Walking alone for hours by the river’s edge as the blustery wind buffeted my hair and stung my eyes. It had become a routine I enjoyed, a way to cope with my empty, endless days. I forced my muscles to relax as I studied the way the sky and river blended into a seamless canvas of pearly gray, and occupied my chattering mind by trying to name as many islands as I could.

  Some eighteen hundred of them rose up from the water, many crowned with homes that dated back to the nineteenth century, when well-to-do gentlemen from cities like New York and Philadelphia traveled north by train to erect these grand weekend estates. In summer, the St. Lawrence hummed with boat traffic, and flags bearing the heritage of the islands’ owners cracked in the breeze. Now, all was abandoned to winter. Aside from my own, there wasn’t another beating h
eart for miles.

  It was true that being out there in the open wasn’t without its risks. The closest thing I could compare it to was immersion therapy; I feared the exposure yet craved the pain of seeing Bram again, the exquisite relief of finally confronting my most intimate fear. And so, turning into the November wind, I welcomed him with arms spread wide. Come on, asshole. Here I am.

  It was late afternoon by the time I got back to Mac’s, which meant it was dark as a grave. A sickle moon lolled in the sky, and as I walked from the car to the house, flakes of hard, dry snow bobbed in the air around me.

  Mac had given me a key the same day she invited me to stay, and we’d joked about the enormity of this next step in our relationship. Now, I was happy to have it. McIntyre was visiting family up near Chippewa Bay tonight and wouldn’t be home until late, so when I opened the door, it was me on the receiving end of her Maltipoo’s unbridled euphoria. He exploded from his dog bed with a flurry of high-pitched barks and launched himself against my shins. “Hey there, Whiskey,” I said as I scooped him up and latched the door behind me. Mac had left the heat on low, and the house was positively frigid. I gave the tiny dog—named not for the spirit, but one of the islands—a cuddle before dropping my bag and heading for the fireplace. Twenty minutes later, I was curled up on the sofa with a bowl of microwave mac and cheese, a glass of Cabernet, and a ball of fur in my lap.

  The fire cast the room in a warm, golden glow. If every Saturday night panned out like this one, that would be okay by me. Somewhere in the village, Carson was partying. Right about now, he’d be charming some random girl with his carefully crafted story about a local boy who made it big as a police psychologist in the city before returning to the hometown he loved. He’d bring her back to the apartment we’d shared for two months and twenty-six days, just as if I had never existed. Word around town was that Carson was looking to buy a small island; Sam’s sister was an agent at the local realtor’s office, and she couldn’t keep quiet about the exciting potential deal. So much for Carson saving up until his private practice was established. I was familiar with his real estate fantasy, and could easily imagine him tearing down a historic home to make way for some modern monstrosity. Maybe the girl he’d bed tonight would become the dutiful wife he needed to complete his storybook life. For her sake, I hoped she wouldn’t. Carson’s thirst for control was a long way from being slaked.