Page 40 of Ice Falls

That’s helpful. Can you go back?

Maybe. If Molly was willing. I’d have to bring someone into the loop.

No. Can’t risk it. Just make something else up.

Agent Bradley didn’t understand how smart Molly was. He was sure she wouldn’t go near the Chilkoots again unless she knew the full story.

That won’t work, not with this woman.

How about joining the cause? It doesn’t look like you’ve tried that.

Sam sighed, frustrated by having to bring his handler up to speed. They still didn’t know what the Chilkoots’ core beliefs were, other than outsiders were untrustworthy and they only worked with family. Even though they tended to have biblical-sounding names, they didn’t seem to be religious. That was why Sam cultivated a “neutral uncaring” facade. Luke would never buy a sudden change in heart.

We don’t even know what their cause is. Is there any news about Daniel O’Connor?

Tox screen indicated high levels of alcohol in his system. Judgement impaired. No suspicion of foul play at this point. No investigation.

No THC?

No.

That was odd. Daniel was known to be a stoner. He might be a drinker, too, but he would have expected there to be cannabis in his system as well. Can you send me a copy of the results?

In your email.

He scanned them quickly, but they were just as Agent Bradley said. Daniel must have gone on one hell of a bender. At this point in the winter, a guy could start to lose it, and maybe that was what had happened.

Even if he was secretly seeing Ruth Chilkoot?

Yeah, even then. Maybe the relationship was giving him stress, especially considering it was secret. He could have driven his truck toward the Ice Falls with a fifth of scotch, wanting nothing more than an escape. Maybe he’d been passed out when the first rumblings of the avalanche had been heard. Maybe he’d never even woken up before his truck was buried under twelve feet of snow.

Buttercup plodded onto the porch and gave a yawn that sounded more like a whine. He needed to go out.

So did Sam. His eyes stung from staring at his laptop for so long. He needed to move his body.

He pushed open the side door that he used in the winter, since it was easier to shovel. Buttercup pushed his furry body in front of Sam, as if insisting that he go first. Strange behavior from his dog.

“Buttercup, sit.”

He ignored the command and body-blocked Sam from taking another step. Sam propped one hand on the doorjamb and leaned out to see what Buttercup might possibly be reacting to.

A bird lay fluttering in the remnants of snow in his yard. This time of year, migrating birds began to reappear in the Wrangells—varied thrushes, golden-capped chickadees, white-throated sparrows. Sam was familiar with the most common species. Once, during a flight to Blackbear, he’d found himself flying next to a magnificent V formation of Sandhill cranes on their way north. The sight was so beautiful that it had brought tears to his eyes.

This particular bird’s feathers were black and white, with a speckled pattern, and it had a bright red cap and a sharply pointed beak. Woodpecker?

It stopped moving, and Sam realized it must have taken its last breath. He moved closer to it; Buttercup allowed it this time. Crouching down next to the bird, he saw that it hadn’t died of exhaustion the way most migrating birds did. Its neck had been snapped.

Someone must have just been here and deliberately broken a bird’s neck and left it in his yard. No wonder Buttercup was freaked out. He got to his feet and scanned the woods that surrounded his property. He spotted no obvious footprints, and caught no glimpse of fleeing intruders.

An uneasy sensation trickled down his spine. Was someone watching him? Waiting for him to react? Was the bird meant to draw him out of the house so they could take a shot at him?

No shot came in the vibrating stillness of his empty yard. He pulled out his phone and took some photos of the bird. Maybe identifying it would help. Should he save it as evidence? Maybe there were fingerprints on the feathers?

Just in case, he went back inside and grabbed a Ziploc bag to store it in. When he came back outside, the bird was gone.

“Buttercup.” His stern tone made his dog look up, licking his chops. “You didn’t. Did you?”

Buttercup didn’t answer one way or the other. Of course. He was certainly capable of gulping down a bird that quickly. And the alternative was even more unnerving—that someone had darted into the yard while he’d been inside, snatched up the bird and disappeared with it. Without causing Buttercup to go on high alert and bark the way he usually did.

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