Dead Fall by Matt Hilton Page A

head dipped: he looked like a monk in prayer. But I recognized the stance for something else—it showed an old man shattered by the loss of his child.
    â€œTell me again what happened, Don.”
    â€œWhat’s the point?”
    â€œBecause I’ve traveled days to get here.” I stopped. I didn’t care for Don one bit. Not after what had occurred between us all those years ago, but it was like the man had already said: I wasn’t one to turn my back on women or children in need. “Look, Don. Let’s put our differences behind us for now. Tell me what happened . . . maybe there’s still something I can do. If what you originally told me is true, then this may not be finished with.”
    Don probably wasn’t even conscious of chewing the end of his moustache. He was too busy studying my face for a sign of insincerity. He must have come to a favorable conclusion because he slow-blinked like an old bull frog. “It is true. As crazy as it sounds.”
    Three days on the road had left their residue on me. Perspiration had dried on my skin, my clothes were grimy and uncomfortable, but that wasn’t the reason for the prickling sensation in my flesh. It was as though my nerve endings were charged with static. “It just takes a little coming to terms with, Don. How could a dead man be threatening your family?”
    â€œIt’s gone way beyond threats, Hunter. Didn’t you hear what I told you? Brook is dead .”
    The tingling in my skin was becoming painful, and a seething rush shot through my veins. I resisted the urge to scratch and bunched my fists in my pockets. “Brook was killed in a car crash. The police ruled it an accident.”
    Don grunted. Next to his battered chair was an equally worn cabinet. He pulled open the top drawer and drew out a folder which he opened and held out. I was still thinking about the gleeful faces that had only moments before flickered on the screen and didn’t want to see what Don offered.
    â€œTake it,” Don said. “Have a good look and tell me if you still think my daughter died accidentally.”
    I’m no stranger to death in any of its horrible forms. To some I’ve inured myself, but not all. Once, I bore witness to the aftermath of an attack by guerrilla fighters on a village of innocents. Some of the victims—mostly women and children—had been burned alive. The images of their bodies twisted into blackened husks still occasionally plagued my nightmares. I didn’t want to see Brook like that.
    But I looked. The rushing heat in my veins went cold. There were photographs from the accident scene.
    They showed a vehicle on its roof, so consumed by fire that even the tires had been burned clean off their rims. The distance shots weren’t so bad; only when the camera had zoomed into the interior did it became apparent that the bundled form lying amid the ashes and molten components had once been human. That was nasty. But nowhere near as horrific as the follow-up photographs from the morgue where Brook’s remains had been taken. Under the stark glare of lights, surrounded by dull steel, the extreme charring of the woman’s corpse was shocking. There was little left of her, just a blackened skull and the withered husk of a torso. The larger bones of the upper arms, the pelvic girdle, and legs had survived, but all the lesser bones of her extremities had gone to ash. She had been twisted by the intensity of the heat into the classic pugilist pose, but it wasn’t that evident with her hands gone.
    My blink was slow, and I held my lids shut for a time afterward.
    â€œWell?”
    Well, what?
    I handed the file back to Don.
    â€œIt’s a terrible thing,” I said. “I can’t begin to imagine the terror your daughter must have gone through. But, Don . . .”
    â€œIt was no accident.”
    â€œThe car rolled, the fuel tank erupted. A spark from the