Frost Line Read online

  He’d have to risk turning the headlights on, otherwise he couldn’t see where he was going and this job would take more time than he could spare. The falling snow would help hide his actions.

  Cursing with every step, keeping the bundle that was Amber balanced over his shoulder because that was less effort than putting her down and having to pick her back up would be, he opened the driver’s door and awkwardly maneuvered himself so he could reach the knob that turned on the headlights. The twin beams shot across the rough landscape, illuminating the dancing, swirling snow. Hurrying now, he carried Amber across the littered pavement and stepped up at the curb onto the grass, past the overflowing trash can. The darkness of some woods beyond the little park offered the best chance of concealment; he’d like to take her farther away from the road, but with the snow coming down and already accumulating on the winter-dead leaves, he couldn’t take the time.

  He was about thirty feet past the trash can when he stepped in a shallow hole hidden by the leaves, lurched off balance, and dropped the blanket-wrapped body.

  “Shit!” Breathing hard, sweat slicking his face despite the icy wind, he stared down at her. There was no way he could heft her back onto his shoulder, not from the ground; he’d barely managed getting her out of the trunk.

  After only a moment’s hesitation, he bent down, grabbed the end of the bundle, and began dragging it. If he left a trail on the frozen ground, the damn snow would soon cover it.

  He made it to the woods and stopped to rest, his breath huffing out in white clouds. The car’s headlights didn’t make much difference here; he was off to the side rather than directly in front. Looking around, he saw that what he’d thought was a nice section of woods was instead fairly thin, maybe twenty yards deep. Maybe dumping her on the far side would be better. Forcing himself to make the effort, grunting now with the exertion, he dragged her to the far edge of the woods and found himself standing on the edge of a rough ravine, a raw, uneven cut in the earth.

  Perfect.

  He tried pushing her with his foot, but even rolled in a blanket moving a dead person wasn’t that easy. Bending down, he gave the bundle a hard push and finally it rolled over the edge of the ravine and down, over brush and rocks, until he lost sight of her in the deep night shadows and the thickening snow.

  It was done—all except for the asshole’s cell phone.

  He pulled it out of his pocket and started to place it in the dirt, as if it had been accidentally dropped, but then he hesitated. He’d deleted the damnable video, and the texts that mentioned him, but what if they weren’t really deleted? What if the cops could still pull everything up somehow? One of his senate colleagues had been caught in an embarrassing situation because he thought he’d deleted something incriminating, only to find that the photo was still accessible to the right program.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  As much as he wanted to point the finger toward the asshole, he couldn’t take the risk.

  Fumbling in the dark, he tried to remove the battery, but found that he couldn’t get the iPhone open. Hell, he couldn’t even get it out of the damn case, especially not in the dark and going mostly by feel. He’d take it … somewhere. Maybe throw it out the window as he crossed over a bridge. Yeah, that was a good idea, toss it in a river, a lake, get it out of his possession. It would be gone, likely never found.

  But even when the asshole’s phone was gone, the asshole himself would still exist. He knew Amber had been seeing someone else, an older man. Did he know who Robert was? Could he point the police in this direction? Robert knew forensics in real life weren’t nearly as impressive as they were on television, but would a cleaning of his trunk remove all traces of Amber, or would a search turn up a hair, a fiber, a skin cell … ?

  Robert wanted to dump ungrateful Amber’s body, walk away, and forget it. But he couldn’t. There was the asshole, and the kid.

  He’d killed Amber in a fit of rage, but he wasn’t a stone-cold killer.

  Fortunately, he knew someone who was.

  Elijah woke with a strangled cry, shaking in terror. Uncle Bobby had his hands around his throat, choking him, and was looking at him with dead eyes. The dream—the memory—was so fresh and real he flailed his skinny arms, fighting the horror that wasn’t there. His fists tangled in fabric, fabric that seemed to dance away from him, then swing back and try to trap him. He sobbed, trying to scream again, fighting and kicking the invisible threat.

  “Help me!” The words scraped from his throat as he threw himself to the side. He landed on something kind of hard and lumpy, but the darkness was so thick he couldn’t see anything. He heard his own sobs, and instinctively tried to control his panic. Where was he? What had happened? Had he dreamed everything about Uncle Bobby and Mom, or was it real?

  The sense of panic, temporarily pushed back, surged over him again. “Help me!” he screamed, begging for someone, anyone, to come to his aid. His left arm hit something soft, something that fell over, and in the utter darkness he thought the thing and the sound was Uncle Bobby. He shrieked, over and over, scrambling backward as he tried desperately to get away from Uncle Bobby.

  He slammed against some obstacle and in his terror he tried his best to simply go through it, anything he had to do to get away. But whatever it was also fell over, this time with a heavy thud. Something fluttered around him, like a bunch of birds in the darkness, touching his face, his arms. There was a kind of swishing sound, then … a hush. Silence. Elijah whimpered, almost as afraid of birds being after him as he was of Uncle Bobby. Birds? How could there be birds?

  He couldn’t hear anything that sounded like Uncle Bobby. Uncle Bobby always breathed as if his nose was stuffy. Elijah couldn’t hear any breathing. Cautiously he reached out, felt nothing. Closet—he was in the closet. He remembered now. He wanted out, but where was the door? He couldn’t see anything. Maybe he could crawl around and find the crack under the door. He put his hand down and instead of carpet he felt some kind of paper, something thicker than normal, and slick.

  He suddenly felt a little weird, as if he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

  Because he was just seven, because he was terrified and alone, he said, “Help me,” again. This time he whispered the words. He was so tired, so scared and alone, he just couldn’t yell anymore.

  No sooner had the words left his mouth than a bright light hit his eyes, and he squeaked in terror as he cowered down and covered his head with both arms, squeezing his eyes as tightly shut as he could. A flashlight, he thought. It was a flashlight. It was Uncle Bobby, with a flashlight. He’d called for help and had instead showed Uncle Bobby where he was hiding. Whimpering, he scooted back as far as he could and waited for whatever was going to happen.

  A few seconds ticked by. Nothing. He couldn’t hear anything. Slowly, Elijah raised his head and peeked, just a little.

  It wasn’t a flashlight.

  No one was there.

  The box he’d knocked over lay open on its side, and the light was coming from the box, spreading over a bunch of slick, funny-looking cards that had paintings on them. Most of the paintings were of people, though there was one cool picture of a sun that looked like it might be the sun in one of the Transformer movies. One card lay on top of the scattered spill, a card with a painting of a pretty woman and a lion. There was a word at the top, but it didn’t make any sense to him. It was a word he didn’t know, and the letters were crooked and funny; it didn’t even look like a word. It looked like some drawings.

  Then they blurred and changed, the lines rearranging themselves. He blinked, because words weren’t supposed to change. Slowly he spelled it out. S.T.R.E.N.G.T.H. Strength. That was a word he knew, a word he had seen in a book he was reading for extra credit. Iron Man’s suit gave him superstrength. Maybe the lion gave the pretty woman strength. Maybe it was her pet.

  He reached out and touched the card, tracing the image. It was warm, as if the woman painted on it was alive. She was so pretty, prettier even than his