Dakota Meltdown

“Yeah.” Nick’s lips thinned. “Now we know for sure we’re dealing with a killer.”

All the more reason to bring him in as soon as possible. She turned the vehicle and headed toward the shoreline, memories of better times flooding in.

“You act like you know your way around on the ice,” Nick said.

“I used to come out here with my father to ice fish.” She remembered the old ice hut he’d built with scrap lumber. As soon as the ice was thick enough to hold his truck, he’d drag the shanty out on the lake and spend many contented hours fishing for walleye and trout. Brenna joined him most of the time, relaxed by the sound of the wind wailing against the boards and a companionable silence with her father.

Not Alice. She preferred to be out and about with her friends, shopping, bowling or playing games indoors. Brenna always thought she should have been born a boy. But her father had never made her feel that way. “What can a boy do that you can’t?” he’d asked, and handed her a fishing pole and bait.

“You and your father were close?” Nick’s low tone broke through Brenna’s thoughts.

“Yeah.” The old ache settled against her chest. He’d been the main man in her life. The only man to understand her and accept her for who she was, not what she looked like.

“Must have been nice. My father was gone a lot while I was growing up.” He said with no emotion, as if he were stating a fact.

Brenna pictured a little boy sitting on the front porch with a fishing pole and no one to take him fishing. She was very fortunate to have had a father as supportive as hers, who’d cared enough to teach her how to enjoy life’s simpler pleasures. The cold days spent on the lake with her father would be forever etched into her heart.

But Eagle Lake had changed.

“I had good memories of this place until today. Now I can’t get the image of Dr. Drummond’s body out of my mind.”

Nick nodded, staring out across the white landscape. “We’ll get him.”

“You bet we will.” Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “Let’s just hope we do before he kills again.”

“I’m afraid he already has. Question is where’d he hide the bodies?”

THE REST OF THE DRIVE back to town was accomplished in silence. Sun shone down on the snow and ice, making a smooth glaze of moisture over the top. When darkness fell, the water would freeze and make a treacherous layer of black ice.

Nick stared out the window without absorbing the scenery. Instead, he combed through what little evidence they had so far and came up with nothing.

Brenna drove straight to Janine Drummond’s little cottage nestled among towering barren cottonwoods on East Thirty-second Avenue. Yellow crime-scene tape marked the exterior of the fifty-year-old white house with the forest-green trim.

As soon as she shifted into Park, Brenna climbed down from the Jeep and headed for the house on the east side of Dr. Drummond’s.

Behind her, Nick admired her no-nonsense pursuit of answers and the way her hips swayed as she picked her way across the slippery, wet driveway.

After knocking several times with no answer, Brenna turned to leave.

Nick touched her arm. “Wait.” He nodded toward the front window where a curtain twitched. “Sir,” he called out, “I’m Agent Nick Tarver with the FBI. Could we have a word with you about Dr. Drummond?” Nick pulled his credentials out of his pocket and held them high.

Brenna followed suit.

Several seconds passed before they heard the sound of a dead bolt being unlocked and the door cracked open.

An old man dressed in wool slacks and a gray sweater peeked through the opening. “We already gave our statement.”

Brenna stepped forward. “I’m Special Agent Brenna Jensen. We just want to ask a few questions,” she said softly, extending her hand. “Please, sir, we need more information.”

Nick was impressed with the gentle quality of Brenna’s voice. How different from the tough-as-nails cop back at the station. And whatever she was doing was working on the old man.

“Dean Helmke.” The man reached out and shook Brenna’s hand. “I don’t know what I can add to what we told the police department.”

“We’ll only take a few minutes of your time, sir.” Brenna smiled. “We want to understand the case.”

The man sighed. “You’ll have to talk to me. My wife’s lying down. All the excitement and worry is making her sick.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Brenna said softly.

“Come in.” The man held the door wide and waved them forward. “It’s still too cold to stand outside for long.”

“Thank you.” Brenna stomped her feet on the outside mat before she stepped through.

“Although, the way the sun’s been shining, won’t be long before the spring melt.” Mr. Helmke moved aside to make room for them. “Hope it doesn’t do it all at once. Sure don’t want a repeat of the flood of ninety-seven.”

“No, we don’t.” Brenna kicked off her boots and hung her jacket on a coat rack. Then she nudged Nick in the side, staring pointedly at his boots, before she padded in her stocking feet to the living room.

Nick removed his boots and jacket and followed, glad he didn’t have holes in his socks.

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” Mr. Helmke asked.

“No, thank you.” Nick took a seat across the room. “We’ll only take a minute of your time.” He nodded at Brenna. Having made the man feel at ease, she could lead the questioning.

Brenna waited until Mr. Helmke sat in a faded recliner before she launched into her questions. “Sir, when was the last time you saw Dr. Drummond?”

“Last Wednesday when she got home from work. I offered to help carry in her groceries.” He dropped his head into his hands and his bony shoulders shook. “Can’t believe she’s gone. I should have gone by and checked on her later that night.”

Brenna sat patiently until the man straightened.

“I’m sorry.” The old man scrubbed a hand down his face and looked up, his eyes red-rimmed. “I keep thinking of all the things I should have done, if I’d been a good neighbor.”

“You couldn’t have known, Mr. Helmke. You weren’t responsible for what happened to her,” Nick said.

But Mr. Helmke wasn’t listening. No matter what Brenna or Nick said, he’d probably carry the guilt, anyway.

Brenna patted the man’s hand, a good technique for gaining his confidence. Yet, Nick didn’t think she was as worried about technique as she was about the man’s feelings. She had a natural familiarity with the people of Riverton, an affinity with their way of life and the loss of one of their own. She rested her elbows on her knees, clasping her hands together. “Did you hear anything, or see anything unusual Wednesday night?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” He shook his head. “How could someone walk right in and steal a person away and no one see or hear anything? How?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Helmke.” Brenna stared straight ahead at nothing Nick could see. “But we’ll do our best to catch him.”

The old man kept talking as if Brenna hadn’t said a thing. “It’s so bad, my wife is afraid to sleep at night and afraid to take sleeping pills in case the kidnapper comes after one of us.” He reached out and grabbed Brenna’s hand. “I have a loaded pistol in my nightstand. Never in the sixty years I’ve lived in Riverton have I slept with a loaded pistol in my nightstand.”

The fear in the old man’s face made Nick’s gut tighten.

“Oh, Mr. Helmke.” Brenna brows dipped low. “Please be careful you or your wife don’t end up shooting each other.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll be careful.” He squeezed her hand. “I knew your daddy, God rest his soul, and I’ve heard good things about you. You’ll catch him, won’t you? We won’t sleep at night with that maniac on the loose. I don’t see how anyone in this town can rest knowing they aren’t safe in their own beds.”