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1
It would be wrong to say that life had passed Beau Grainger by.
Beau Grainger had ambled along steadily, without excitement or drama (for the most part), but also without bitterness or rancor. He had always lived in the small Alaskan town where he had been born and saw no reason to move elsewhere. Most places became familiar after a time, like most people.
He had loved two women and married one of them. They had raised three children and seen them make their way in the world. A fourth they had buried before the infant could take his first breath. Funny how that was the child Beau wondered about the most. We always hanker after what we can’t have. Human nature.
Beau had lost his wife, Patricia, to dementia ten years ago and she had been dead almost three years now. By the time she passed, Beau had finished mourning the woman he loved and buried a stranger.
Now, in his seventy-ninth year, Beau had a few good friends and few regrets. And that is really the best a man can hope for as he starts the final lap of life. That, and a swift and painless death. Beau was content. Or as content as anyone truly can be. But even a man like Beau, not given to introspection or sentimentality, had days when he thought too much.
Today was one of those days.
His joints ached, which they did sometimes in bad weather. His coffee tasted bitter, and not even a shot of whiskey helped. TV held no interest and books failed to distract him. He couldn’t settle.
Beau wandered around his living room. Small and snug, with worn leather armchairs and a large, open fire. Above it hung Beau’s trophies.
Beau was a hunting man. He loved nature, but he also loved the thrill of the kill. To be a good hunter took patience. And Beau had plenty of that. Watching, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. To truly know another beast is to look into its eyes as it dies.
Beau moved closer to the heads. Three of them, mounted on solid wooden stands made for him by Cal Bagshaw (dead almost a year now from throat cancer).
Beau stared into their glassy eyes, ran a finger over their pale, dry skin and around their sharp white teeth.
“Bite me,” Beau whispered, and chuckled. But a whisper of cool ice still drifted across his neck.
Okay, Beau-boy. But remember, the first cut is the deepest.
Beau backed away, and then told himself not to be such an old fool. He turned to the window. Black clouds bristled on the horizon. The white snow undulated like a vast frozen sea. A storm was coming, something foul on the air. Beau had smelt that smell and felt that chill before.
They were back.
It was about to begin again.
2
The cab driver was a talker.
Great.
Barbara guessed he didn’t get a lot of business this time of year, so he was hungry for company. He lived alone. Probably always had. His heavy beard and food-stained shirt, plus the odor of BO, suggested long-term “don’t give a shit.” Not that she was suggesting a man needed a woman to take care of him. No, sir. But everyone needed someone to make an effort for. Without that, you got used to your own stench pretty quickly. She should know.
The driver’s name was Alan, according to his license. “Call me Al,” he had grinned. “You know, like the song.”
Barbara had nodded and smiled. “Yeah.”
She hated that song. She wasn’t so hot on the silver cross and rosary beads dangling from “Call Me Al’s” rearview mirror either. But to each their own.
For the next few miles, she batted away the endless questions: First time here? Yes. Sightseeing? Yes. A lie, but it led to him giving her a rundown of the best tourist attractions in the area, which was pretty short yet somehow still kept him occupied for the next thirty miles or so.
The scenery swished by in a breathtaking gust of ice and snow. And it was breathtaking stuff, Barbara supposed. If you liked snow, forests, mountains, more snow, more forests, more mountains. Pretty. Sure. But get lost out there and you’d be a frozen corpse within minutes. Not so pretty.
She fought back a yawn. An early flight from New York to Anchorage, a nerve-shredding air taxi to Talkeetna and now an hour-and-a-half drive along the snowy AK-3 highway to her destination. Man, why had she agreed to this?
“You’re our best forensic detective,” Decker had told her.
“What about Edwards?”
“Family commitments, which you don’t have.”
