Deadly Christmas Secrets

“No sense arguing,” Stella said, cutting off Harper’s protest. “He’s stubborn as a mule.” She grabbed Harper’s arm and dragged her back the way they’d come.

Picasso followed, silent for once. The dog probably sensed the tension in the air, the danger that seemed to lurk just out of sight.

Logan flashed his light on the ground, studying the leaves and foliage for signs that someone had passed that way. Minutes went by, the forest coming to life—small animals scurrying through underbrush, an owl calling from a nearby tree. Thick flakes of snow tumbled through the tree canopy, dancing in the beam of his light. If he didn’t hurry, the trail would be lost, the guy gone.

In the distance, sirens were screaming, the police racing in. Hopefully with their K-9 team. The dogs had come up empty earlier, but the scent would be easier to find this time, the area they’d be searching a lot smaller.

His light bounced across the ground, glowing on dead leaves, moist earth and a slick wet splotch halfway hidden by pine needles.

He moved closer and studied the spot.

Blood for sure. A drop that was just beginning to dry. The guy wasn’t that far ahead. Maybe the injury was slowing him down, keeping him from escaping to the road.

Or maybe he wasn’t running.

Maybe he was waiting in the underbrush, hoping for another chance to strike.

FOUR (#ulink_7be7f89e-927e-5995-a7c4-2762984669b7)

Forty-five minutes. A long time to walk through swirling snow and gusting wind. Logan had done worse—hiking desolate regions of Afghanistan in the middle of the night, scaling rock faces and climbing mountains in search of enemy strongholds. He’d been a scout sniper, trained in night operations. He’d probably still be that if his parents hadn’t died. He’d loved the work, the adrenaline rush, the high-stakes play.

He’d traded it all for a two-thousand-acre soy farm in North Carolina, which three generations of his family had owned and operated. He hadn’t done it because he’d wanted to farm. He’d done it because his father was dead, his mother was missing and his brothers needed him. Five years in the military hadn’t prepared him for finishing up the job of raising three teenage boys. They’d had a couple of rocky years, but he’d managed to get them through college and into life without much of a problem. Colton ran the farm now and had turned it into an organic venture that was making way more money than their father had probably ever thought was possible. Trent was the town sheriff. Gavin was pastor of the church they’d attended when they were kids. They were all productive citizens doing what they thought God was calling them to. Their parents would have been proud. Logan was proud. And he was going back for Christmas.

His brothers had begged him. When that hadn’t worked, they’d had Andrea call. Colton’s wife had a way of convincing anyone of anything, and when she’d mentioned how long it had been since Logan’s nieces had seen him, he’d agreed to spend his ten-day Christmas vacation in Rushers, North Carolina.

Those plans weren’t going to work out if he died, so he ignored the snow and the wind, the cold that seemed to burrow deep into his bones. He focused on the trail, on the stillness of the forest around him, the dogs coming up behind him.

The perp had to know the police were on his trail, and he had to be panicked. Panicked people made dangerous decisions. Anything was possible. The guy could be just up ahead, waiting to ambush his pursuers. He could be running for the highway. He could be hunkering down, hoping that the snow would wash his scent away.

Logan was prepared for any of those things as he crested a hill and caught sight of the highway—just lights flashing through trees. He moved toward them, the dense foliage thinning as he drew closer to the interstate. The trees were sparser here, snow layering the ground, providing a thick cushion to Logan’s footsteps. He searched the ground and found what looked like footprints pressed into fresh snow. The perp had veered off course, heading south rather than east. If Logan were going to venture a guess, he’d say there was a structure of some sort nearby, a place where hiding a vehicle would be easy. A gas station, maybe. Or a rest stop.

He moved cautiously, the sound of interstate traffic mixing with the rustling of leaves and the swish of the wind.

The trees opened into a field of rotting cornstalks. Beyond that, a house jutted up toward the cloud-laden sky. An old farmhouse of some sort. No lights. No sign that the place was occupied. The footprints disappeared into the field, the old husks and tangled plants making it impossible for Logan to find them again.

He followed his gut, heading across the field and straight to the house. An old porch sagged along the front and sides of it, the boarded-up windows and doors speaking of neglect and abandonment. Someone had loved the house once. Now it was simply a place that had once been a home.

Snow blanketed the porch. No footprints there. Logan bypassed the building, moving around to the back of the structure and into an overgrown yard. Still no sign of a vehicle. No footprints. Nothing that would indicate the perp had been there, but Logan could sense something out of place.

He ducked back into the cornfield, crouching low as he moved toward a group of outbuildings clustered near the back of the property. Looked like a couple of sheds and a barn, but it was hard to see through the falling snow. There’d been a driveway once—he could see that—the crumbled asphalt just a few feet from the edge of the field.

It didn’t look as if it had been used. No tire tracks in the weeds and grass that tangled around chunks of blacktop. Logan wasn’t taking any chances, though. He stayed low, stayed hidden, sliding through the darkness the way he’d done dozens of times on dozens of other cases. Set back from the interstate, the property seemed cut off from the world, the hushed tones of the winter storm and the whisper of distant traffic the only sounds.

If he looked, he could find the lights of cars traveling the highway, but he was focused on the mission. The cold, the snow, the wind, all of it ceased to exist as he moved toward the outbuildings.

At first, it was just a hint of something in the air, a chemical scent that brought Logan to a complete stop. He’d nearly been taken out by improvised explosive devices on several occasions, and he recognized the acrid smell of burning electrical wires. He inhaled cold, crisp air and caught a whiff of it again.

He scanned the property and saw a black column of smoke billowing up from the barn. No flames that he could see, but the place was burning.

A distraction of some sort?

Didn’t matter. Logan had to check it out, make sure that no one was trapped inside the wooden structure. It would go up in minutes, the entire thing devoured by the fire. Someone inside would have limited time to escape.

He pulled out his firearm as he crossed the clearing that separated the field from the barn. At one point, there’d been fencing. Now the old posts lay in piles on the ground.

He moved around to the back of the barn, searching for a window he could climb through. The wide front door would have opened easily, but he didn’t plan to be ambushed as he stepped into the structure.

Flames lapped the back corner of the building, the falling snow adding just enough moisture to the old wood to keep the entire wall from being consumed. It would happen eventually. If he was going to enter the building, he needed to move quickly.

He rounded the corner, found a broken window and climbed through. Mice scurried through the rotten hay beneath his feet. A cat yowled from somewhere deeper in the barn. He’d rescue it if he could. After he made sure the perp wasn’t hiding in one of the stalls.

His light illuminated bridles and harnesses, old tools, all of it hanging from hooks on the walls. Smoke drifted listlessly through the empty stalls, the open and broken windows sucking it out as quickly as it entered. Whoever had set fire to the barn hadn’t poured accelerant inside. A mistake. On a dryer day, the place would already be consumed. Tonight, though, the fire was taking its time. But once it entered the building, it would have plenty of fuel—dry hay, dry walls, dry boards that lay abandoned on the floor.

He stepped over a few, moving toward the front of the barn and the double doors that he could use to escape. His light flashed on piles of hay, bags of food, glowing eyes...

He moved toward whatever was crouched in the corner and saw the kitten that had been yowling. Ugly as sin, its black fur long and matted, one of its ears missing a chunk. He’d seen plenty of barn cats when he was growing up. This one wasn’t more than three months old. He expected it to run, but it approached instead, mewing pitifully as it wove through his legs.

He scooped it up and tucked it into the pocket of his coat. His light glanced off more feed bags, a water barrel, a foot. Leg. Body. Nearly hidden by the water barrel and the feed bags. Not a hint of movement. Not a breath.

Dead.

He knew it before he approached, was certain of it before his light flashed across the prone body, the vacant eyes. Shot in the head. Point-blank from the look of things.

Blood stained the guy’s jacket, and Logan pulled back the fabric, revealing another bullet wound. This one to the left of the collarbone. A nice, neat little hole, a gunshot wound the guy would have survived. Had survived. The guy’s boots were covered in dirt, his pant cuffs wet from snow. Pine needles were stuck in his hair and jutting out of his coat hood.

The perp.

No doubt about it.

He’d made it to what he thought was safety.

And then he’d been killed.

* * *

“This does not make me happy,” Stella said for what seemed like the hundredth time since they’d left the cabin.

Harper ignored her, her gaze focused on the slushy road, the headlights of her pickup truck splashing across gravel, dirt and snow.

“I know you heard me,” Stella pressed, her voice tight with frustration. She wasn’t happy with Harper’s plan, but short of tying her up and locking her in a closet, there hadn’t been a whole lot she could do about it.

Except come along for the ride.

Which she had.

A shame, because Harper would have preferred solitude to Stella’s griping complaints.

“It would be difficult not to hear you, seeing as how you’ve said it a hundred times,” she muttered, and Stella laughed.