the news much. Milwaukee had its share of troubles anyway, so a problem up north usually got stuck away on a back page somewhere. Now that it slammed home in the form of the headline on the front page of the newspaper sitting in the rack in the supermarket, he did recall hearing something about this going on in the usual quiet of Lincoln and Oneida counties. His mother might have mentioned the two missing girls last summer, but he hadn’t been listening well enough apparently.
No wonder Detective MacIntosh had been so intense and serious. Bryce reached over, took one of the papers, placed it with his groceries, and his fingers were clumsy as he extracted his credit card and paid.
A hundred and fifteen dollars later he wasn’t going to starve in the next week anyway. He loaded the bags into the Land Rover, stopped at the liquor store, added a couple of bottles of full-bodied red wine to his provisions, and headed out of town.
The day had dawned as nice as the one before, but the skies had grown to the color of molten lead and it was colder. He’d need more than baseboard heat this evening if the forecasters were right, though no significant rain or snow was predicted and it was supposed to clear off again and even warm up into the fifties in a few days before the next front rolled through.
Four missing women .
He drove slowly through the thickening afternoon, watching out for deer on the move, dusky forms through the breaks in the trees. A couple of flakes of snow drifted down, but it wasn’t supposed to drop below thirty. He took his turn off County B, went past Beaver Lake, and caught the curvy Pine Lane road.
Bryce had spent the day reading. It should have been restful. It was, actually, revisiting old friends. Paradise Lost. Milton.
Death … on his pale horse.
Perhaps he’d read something else tomorrow.
He’d considered doing his dissertation on Milton but it was overdone. Instead he’d chosen Henry James, though he still wasn’t sure even after spending the better part of two years analyzing his work he understood most of the symbolism in the man’s writing. The theme, however, turned him off. Death, the possibility of torment trapping human beings in a perpetual cycle of guilt and betrayal …
Not that James was very cheerful either. Maybe if Bryce had read one of those romance novels his mother had lying around the cabin instead, he thought with wry amusement, it would have been better. He wanted to relax, not dwell on the intricate dark side of mankind’s foibles. A little sex, a love story, and a happy ending. It would be nice for a change.
He pulled into the wooded lane that led to the cabin and immediately caught sight of the car parked in front of the cottage. Police cruiser.
Why the hell are they here?
Both Detective MacIntosh and Deputy Jones were out of the car, leaning against it, talking. They turned as he drove up and parked by a stand of birches in his usual spot, their conversation arrested. Bryce opened the door and slid out, his stomach oddly tight. Not very brilliantly, he said, “Hello.”
“Hello, Dr. Grantham.” MacIntosh smiled. It was very slight, and really didn’t reflect the emotion in her eyes. She had interesting eyes, he’d noticed that before. Greenish gold in color, and she had an assessing way of looking at you, which he supposed made most people feel as uncomfortable as it did him under the circumstances.
Actually, what were the circumstances?
“Sorry to bother you again, but can we have a few minutes?” Her voice was cool, low, just like the day before. A single flake of snow floated down and landed in her dark gold hair.
It was incongruous to the situation, but he found her attractive. What an idiot . “Have you … found her?”
“This won’t take long at all.”
The knot in his stomach tightened just a little at her refusal to answer, like someone using a wrench on the nut on a bolt. Next to the female detective, square in his dark jacket,
No wonder Detective MacIntosh had been so intense and serious. Bryce reached over, took one of the papers, placed it with his groceries, and his fingers were clumsy as he extracted his credit card and paid.
A hundred and fifteen dollars later he wasn’t going to starve in the next week anyway. He loaded the bags into the Land Rover, stopped at the liquor store, added a couple of bottles of full-bodied red wine to his provisions, and headed out of town.
The day had dawned as nice as the one before, but the skies had grown to the color of molten lead and it was colder. He’d need more than baseboard heat this evening if the forecasters were right, though no significant rain or snow was predicted and it was supposed to clear off again and even warm up into the fifties in a few days before the next front rolled through.
Four missing women .
He drove slowly through the thickening afternoon, watching out for deer on the move, dusky forms through the breaks in the trees. A couple of flakes of snow drifted down, but it wasn’t supposed to drop below thirty. He took his turn off County B, went past Beaver Lake, and caught the curvy Pine Lane road.
Bryce had spent the day reading. It should have been restful. It was, actually, revisiting old friends. Paradise Lost. Milton.
Death … on his pale horse.
Perhaps he’d read something else tomorrow.
He’d considered doing his dissertation on Milton but it was overdone. Instead he’d chosen Henry James, though he still wasn’t sure even after spending the better part of two years analyzing his work he understood most of the symbolism in the man’s writing. The theme, however, turned him off. Death, the possibility of torment trapping human beings in a perpetual cycle of guilt and betrayal …
Not that James was very cheerful either. Maybe if Bryce had read one of those romance novels his mother had lying around the cabin instead, he thought with wry amusement, it would have been better. He wanted to relax, not dwell on the intricate dark side of mankind’s foibles. A little sex, a love story, and a happy ending. It would be nice for a change.
He pulled into the wooded lane that led to the cabin and immediately caught sight of the car parked in front of the cottage. Police cruiser.
Why the hell are they here?
Both Detective MacIntosh and Deputy Jones were out of the car, leaning against it, talking. They turned as he drove up and parked by a stand of birches in his usual spot, their conversation arrested. Bryce opened the door and slid out, his stomach oddly tight. Not very brilliantly, he said, “Hello.”
“Hello, Dr. Grantham.” MacIntosh smiled. It was very slight, and really didn’t reflect the emotion in her eyes. She had interesting eyes, he’d noticed that before. Greenish gold in color, and she had an assessing way of looking at you, which he supposed made most people feel as uncomfortable as it did him under the circumstances.
Actually, what were the circumstances?
“Sorry to bother you again, but can we have a few minutes?” Her voice was cool, low, just like the day before. A single flake of snow floated down and landed in her dark gold hair.
It was incongruous to the situation, but he found her attractive. What an idiot . “Have you … found her?”
“This won’t take long at all.”
The knot in his stomach tightened just a little at her refusal to answer, like someone using a wrench on the nut on a bolt. Next to the female detective, square in his dark jacket,
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