Zero-Degree Murder Read online

  He needed water.

  Without it, all other actions, all other decisions, were meaningless.

  He had trotted down the trail the entire way to the trailhead.

  Now Milocek squatted in the shadows next to his car. Lying inside on the passenger seat was a half-carton of cigarettes, a handful of Slim Jims, and a roll of peppermint Life Savers. The earthquake kit in the hatchback contained a blanket, several cans and packets of food, a penlight, and, most important, two gallon jugs of water.

  He opened the driver’s-side door. The interior light flared on. Sliding into the seat, he pulled the door toward him until he heard the soft click of the latch. The light blinked off.

  CHAPTER

  27

  SHIT. Hell. Dammit. Shit.

  Gracie had been standing outside the makeshift shelter for fourteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds. The space blanket was doing almost nothing to keep her warm. Her teeth were clacking together at woodpecker speed and she was growing colder by the second.

  The prospect of crawling into the tiny shelter and spending the night with Rob Christian—the very thought of which would make the average woman swoon—had rendered Gracie immobile with . . . She couldn’t quite identify the emotion. Fear? Shell shock? What she finally settled on, much to her disgust, was teenage angst.

  Five of the fourteen minutes she had spent chiding herself for not bringing a bivy sack—not even owning a bivy sack anymore, because someone on some search somewhere had borrowed hers and never returned it—and she had spent all of this year’s SAR budget money on other necessities like her high-tech sleeping bag and titanium ice axe.

  Yet unless she wanted to sit up all night propped against a tree, freezing her rear end off, or bury herself in pine needles or burrow beneath some giant fallen log to stay warm, she was going to have to crawl inside the shelter to warm up.

  She didn’t move.

  Against her will, her thoughts flitted back to Mr. X. To Tristan the Psycho Killer. Maybe he really had killed someone and tried to kill Rob. Maybe right now he was out there in the woods. Maybe he had slunk up behind her when she was dithering about whether to crawl into the shelter. Maybe at this very moment he was leering out at her from behind a tree.

  Gracie dropped to her knees, hauled the pack aside, and wriggled into the shelter.

  “Sorry to barge in on you like this,” she whispered in case Rob was awake. “It’s friggin’ freezing out there.”

  Of course Rob was awake. With her every move, the space blanket crinkled as loudly as a candy wrapper in church.

  Gracie replaced the pack in front of the doorway and lay down on her back, half of her body on the two-inch thick sleeping pad, the other half off.

  “Well, this is about as comfortable as standing on my head in a rainstorm,” she muttered.

  “Do you want to share this sleeping bag thing?” Rob’s voice sounded only inches from her ear, which, in actuality, he was.

  “I’ll be fine. Believe it or not, it’s quite a bit warmer in here. And this is a warm parka. Thanks anyway.”

  But within minutes, she could feel the cold from the ground seeping in through her pants. Another few minutes and she was shivering audibly again.

  “If somehow we could unzip this bag,” Rob said, “then we could put it—”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine. You’re shivering. And I’m feeling a bit of a dick hogging—”

  “Give it a rest! I’m fine!”

  “Damn, woman. Are you always this bloody cheerful?”

  “Quit calling me that!” she practically yelled back at him. “I am most decidedly not your woman. The name is Gracie. Grace. In fact, to you, it’s Ms. Kinkaid.”

  It was quiet in the little shelter.

  When Rob spoke again, his voice was calm and steady. “You’re absolutely right, Ms. Kinkaid.”

  Was that a smile she heard in his voice?

  She heaved a sigh. “Sorry. I get cranky when I—” What? Am forced to sleep two inches away from a hunky movie star? “I get cranky when I have to . . . overnight in the winter, I get cranky,” she finished quickly and pulled the gap in the space blanket closed.

  Well, that was brilliant. If we had ham, we could have ham and eggs . . . if we had eggs.

  CHAPTER

  28

  BOREDOM was the bane of a one-person Command Post. Ralph had learned from countless interminable nights running searches in the Command Post trailer that keeping his mind occupied between radio transmissions was the key to staying alert and awake.

  As a result, he busied himself with minutiae, filling out ICS forms and organizing the Command Post trailer. For an hour, he segmented the map, making assignments for the relief teams due to arrive at 0700. He passed some of the time rereading the vehicle registration information Deputy Montoya had provided. Some of the RPs were still in the RV across the parking lot. Still drinking. Still bickering. Some had driven back down to the hotel in town.

  Ralph’s eyes burned from the wind stirring up something outside and his nerves jumped from the steady infusion of too-strong coffee. He flexed his right leg, trying to relieve the pain and stiffness in the joint. He had aggravated the old injury on a recent training. Plus, a drop in barometric pressure always made it ache more than usual.

  As far as he knew, his search team was bedded down for the night. There was nothing else for him to do at the moment except monitor the radio and wait out the rest of the shift.

  Still it rankled that he didn’t know exactly where his search team was, especially Gracie.

  He had been aware for several years that he was protective of Gracie. He wasn’t sure why since she was tough, and more highly trained and experienced than the majority of the men on the team. Had he revealed his protectiveness to Gracie or anyone else on the team by an outstretched hand to help her across a wide gap between rocks, or an offer to carry a portion of her gear when she was tired, she would have been indignant, even outraged.

  She worked hard to maintain the level of “one of the boys,” more than pulling her own weight, expecting no special favors. In return, she expected only the same respect afforded her teammates possessing the Y chromosome.

  Yet there was a vulnerability about her, a frailty hovering below the surface, carefully guarded, about which she had never spoken to him.

  And why should she? Everyone had their secrets. Hell, Ralph certainly did.

  He glanced at his watch. 0158. A little more than five hours until he needed to leave.

  He drew the crumpled cigarette from the fold of his hat, spending an inordinate amount of time straightening it out.

  Both Department and team rules prohibited smoking inside any Department building or vehicle. When he was alone in the Command Post was the only time Ralph could smoke uninterrupted and in peace during a search. So he did.

  He mussed around in a side drawer of the desk, found the box of Strike Anywhere Matches he kept stashed there, and lit the cigarette. Cracking open the window nearest him, he blew a pencil of smoke in its general direction.

  He balanced the cigarette on the edge of the desk and stood up, arching his back and cracking his knuckles over his head. Ignoring the acid corroding his stomach, he poured himself another cup of stale coffee. He was going to regret it tomorrow. Hell, he already regretted it.

  It was going to be a long goddam night.

  CHAPTER

  29

  THE neon green numbers of Gracie’s watch read 3:11. She had slept all of four minutes. Now she was wide awake and shivering with her teeth clacking so loudly she was sure they could be heard all the way to Anaheim.

  Get the blood moving. Do some isometrics.

  Trying not to crackle the space blanket too loudly and awaken the man lying six inches away from her, she clenched every muscle in her body. Held it for two second
s. Three. Four. Five. Then released for two seconds. Three. Four. Five. Then clenched again. A little better. She could feel the warmth creeping through her body.

  Rob’s voice came sleepy and soft. “You still cold?”

  “I’m f-f-fine. Sorry t-to wake you.”

  The unzipping of the sleeping bag within the confines of the shelter sounded as loud as a fire engine siren. “Get in the bag then. There’s room enough.”

  “I’ll b-be all right.”

  “You’re freezing to death!” Nothing sleepy about the voice now.

  “I just have to make it ’til it gets light.”

  “Quit being so pigheaded and get in the bag here.”

  “Fine then!”

  “Fine!”

  Gracie sat up and, with a maximum of rustling and wiggling, shed her parka and boots. “I’m not getting naked or anything, so don’t get your hopes up.”

  “Pity,” came the voice out of the darkness.

  She patted her hand over to where she felt him holding the sleeping bag open, scooted over and slid her legs into the luxurious warmth. She lay down on her side, ramrod straight, as far away from Rob as she possibly could and still zip up the bag, which was only about a centimeter.

  It had been a while, years, since Gracie had lain next to a man. She had forgotten how big they could be. Rob had looked large. She knew in reality he was only five or six inches taller than she was. But lying full-length beside the man made Gracie feel like Jill and the Beanstalk next to the giant.

  “I have to put my arm—” Rob began.

  “Fine.”

  The two lay together as cozy as newborn chicks in a nest.

  Gracie detected a hint of cologne. Or maybe it was aftershave. Couldn’t quite identify the scent. It had been a while. Nice though.

  Quit it!

  She realized that her body was as taut as a climbing rope under load. I’ll never sleep. And I can’t move. At least I’m warm.

  She exhaled slowly, trying to release the tension in her body.

  Rob moved his leg.

  “I don’t care if you are hurt,” she hissed. “You try anything and I’ll punch your lights out.”

  “Petrified.” He sighed, his breath tickling the back of her neck.

  Gracie was toasty within two minutes, and, in spite of the fact that a killer might be lurking out there in the darkness, she was dead to the world within three.

  CHAPTER

  30

  MILOCEK squatted on the trail across from the rock outcropping.

  He knew daylight was coming by an almost imperceptible lifting of the darkness that half an hour before had been absolute. It was more humid than the previous day, the damp chill burrowing through his multiple layers of clothing, the moisture drawing out the rich, full scents of the surrounding evergreens and shrubs.

  For more than five hours, Milocek had waited in the dark, listening, smoking, sucking on peppermint Life Savers, even dozing. But he heard and saw no one.

  The water had rejuvenated him. And, as far as he could discern, the time spent traveling to his car had cost him nothing. And he had gained valuable information. No alarms had yet been raised. No manhunt begun. No dogs barking. No glaring searchlights.

  He pushed himself to his feet and stretched his arms above his head to keep the blood flowing to his fingers and toes. As a young man, he could remain motionless for hours, then rise to strike, unaffected by the immobility.

  But in that regard, time had also taken its toll. A single hour was the longest he could last without moving.

  His dry lips pulled back into a smirk. Still, he thought, not bad for an old man.

  Milocek squatted back down and waited for the darkness to lift.

  CHAPTER

  31

  GRACIE snapped fully awake with the comprehension that she was lying on her back with her cheek molded up against Rob’s scratchy, but deliciously warm neck. His arm was draped around her as naturally and comfortably as if they were longtime lovers.

  Crap.

  Gracie wormed away to scrutinize the man with whom she had just spent the night.

  If Rob had awakened at that moment, he would have caught Gracie with her mouth hanging open like a large-mouthed bass. Even in the dim early-morning light within the orange plastic shelter, and beneath twenty-four-hours’ worth of beard and a disguise of grime and scratches, Rob Christian was the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

  In Gracie’s opinion, God’s biggest mistake was bestowing upon men eyelashes for which any red-blooded female would commit first-degree murder. Rob’s were so dark and thick and long, Elizabeth Taylor would have been snap-pea green with envy. Dark, heavy eyebrows slashed a straight, thick line across his forehead, then tapered downward at the temples. Straight nose sloped off at the tip. Lips curved upward at the corners like a cupid’s bow. Hair, which apparently had been dyed from blond to black for the movie, curled out from beneath her own forest-green fleece cap. The dirt-smudged hand that was visible looked strong, but expertly manicured and smooth, as if it hadn’t done anything more taxing lately than lift a glass of Beaujolais.

  She wondered what color his eyes were. The night before it had been too dark to tell. Somewhere in a pocket of her parka was her notebook with notes of Rob’s physical description. And it was on the LPQ. That’s the kind of thing she should remember. Maybe she could—

  What the hell was she doing?

  He was a screen idol. He was supposed to be good looking. Plus he was nothing but a big baby. From the city. And he called her woman. What was that all about? Anyway, she was the rescuer. He was the victim. She was supposed to remain detached. Professional. Aloof.

  Holding her breath, Gracie plucked at his sleeve with two fingers and moved his hand off her body.

  That task accomplished, her breathing resumed. Her next thoughts were that she was warm, but stiff and sore from the previous evening’s foray into the canyon and sleeping on the ground in one position, followed by the realization that her bladder was fair to bursting.

  Gracie lay contemplating the unpleasant proposition of leaving the warmth of the sleeping bag and, she was loathe to admit, the British Adonis who slept beside her and going outside into the chill of early morning.

  Hmm, let’s see. Snuggling up to a hunky warm body? Or exposing my bare butt to the cold? Tough choice.

  She stayed where she was, listening to Rob’s steady breathing and reveling in the warmth until she decided she’d better not stall any longer or by the time she actually exited the shelter it would be too late.

  It took what seemed like infinity to unzip the sleeping bag one tooth at a time. Then millimeter by millimeter she wiggled her way out of the warm cocoon, no mean feat since every joint in her body felt as creaky as the tin man’s in need of a couple of good squirts of oil.

  She crawled to the entrance, silently lifted her pack aside, and poked her head outside the shelter.

  Oh. Shit.

  An opaque veil of cloud enshrouded the entire mountainside, so thick that particles of moisture hung visibly in the air. Gracie could see nothing of the surrounding trees, boulders, or mountains. She could barely even see Cashman, still sleeping in his bivy sack a few yards away.

  She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs and senses with the heady scent of wet evergreen, then exhaled a long, slow breath of white vapor.

  A moan floated up behind her.

  Gracie looked back over her shoulder at Rob, who was sitting up and scratching his cheek. Not a vision. Not a demigod. Just a normal man doing what men do when they wake up stiff and sore the morning after a nasty fall and a night sleeping on the hard ground.

  Gracie sat back on her heels so he wouldn’t be overwhelmed by her Gore-Tex-covered bottom staring him in the face. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  In a voice slurred with sleep, Ro
b answered, “Like I’ve been rode hard and put up wet.”

  “I’m not touching that one with a ten-foot avalanche probe,” Gracie said and was thoroughly charmed to see, even in the dim light, a blush creep up his cheeks.

  “Line from one of my movies,” he said. “Bit of a habit, I’m afraid.”

  “Ah,” she said.

  “Actually I’m feeling better than I would have expected,” he added. “Still have a bugger of a headache though.”

  “How’s the ankle?”

  “Throbs a bit. Tolerable if I don’t move it.”

  With an understandable amount of groaning punctuated with “sodding this” and “bleeding that,” he crawled over and plopped on his stomach beside Gracie to look outside.

  “We’re in a bloody fog!”

  “Actually it’s cloud,” she said, noting his eyes were large and bright and a dark brown so piercing and intense she felt as if they wouldn’t simply look at her, but see right through into her soul.

  She scootched herself back inside the shelter to pull on her parka and boots.

  CHAPTER

  32

  “DAMMIT!” Ralph checked his watch, then the Command Post clock, confirming it was 0627.

  His search team hadn’t called in. He would expect this of Cashman, blundering baboon that he was. But Gracie was as reliable as Old Faithful.

  Ralph could count on one hand the number of people currently on Timber Creek’s SAR team whom he considered truly competent. Grace Kinkaid was one of those people.

  Steve Cashman was another story. The man was a screw-up with something to prove. That made him unpredictable. And dangerous.