“Ranger, come.”
He obeyed, pushing his way through the heavy, wet snow back out to the walk. She instructed him to heel to her left—her nondominant side—and continued with him around to the back of the house, stopping in front of the shed. She peered down the wide, open slope toward the stone guesthouse of Lowell Whittaker’s dream-come-true gentleman’s farm. The early-morning light created undulating shadows in the undisturbed drifts of snow. There was no sign of anyone else there. No smoke from the guesthouse chimney, no footprints in the snow.
The breeze stopped, the stillness and silence almost complete. The river was frozen, no sound of its steady flow east to the Connecticut River. That would come later, with the spring thaw.
She could hear only Ranger panting next to her, awaiting her next command. He was an experienced search dog, but she hadn’t told him what to do. She hadn’t expected the smell of smoke and had to decide whether to check for its source or go ahead and call it in.
The sun rose over the horizon and sparkled on the snow, the sky turning to a clear, cold blue. She’d dressed in layers and was warm in her windproof and insulated outdoor clothing, but she’d left her ready pack in her Jeep. She and Ranger weren’t here on a mission. She patted him on his broad head. He was patient but paying close attention to the situation. They had encountered charred conditions in their work together, although not since last summer in Southern California.
Now wasn’t the time to think about that experience.
Rose noticed the door to the shed was padlocked. Lowell Whittaker had stacked cordwood out front, playing the congenial new neighbor while inside the shed he’d assembled at least three different crude pipe bombs.
She stood back from the door. The unoccupied buildings, the fire damage and the mix of open space, woods and river provided a challenging environment for keeping her high-energy search-and-rescue dog exercised and on top of his game. For the past six weeks, every Wednesday at dawn, and sometimes more often, they’d headed out whatever the weather—rain, snow, sleet, freezing rain, fog, frigid temperatures. Except for the occasional passing car or truck, they’d never encountered a soul.
Could someone have camped out here, or stopped to check out where a wealthy killer mastermind had lived—where two homemade bombs had gone off?
The doors to the house were covered up with plywood. Getting in would require a crowbar or ax. The temperature was just in the upper teens now, but Rose wondered if the wet, warmer conditions over the past few days had brought out the smells of smoke and burnt wood.
Ranger raised his head, nose in the air as he sniffed, alerting to a fresh scent. She gave him a signal to follow the scent. He moved quickly, leading her onto a narrow, icy path that circled around to an ell off the back of the shed, facing the woods above the river.
Her normally playful, inquisitive golden barked fiercely, stopping at the solid wood door to the ell. Rose saw that it was ajar, its padlock broken in half.
The scent of smoke was sharp, nauseating.
She got Ranger back to her left side and signaled for him to stay. He sat on the path, panting but quiet, and she tapped the door, opening it farther. If any part of the shed had burned in January, she’d have heard about it.
She peered inside. The sun didn’t reach the solitary eyebrow window high up on the back wall, and her eyes weren’t adjusted to the dim light inside.
She kicked the door open wider, letting in more light and gagged at the overpowering odor of burnt flesh, burnt hair, burnt clothing.
With a gloved hand over her mouth, Rose stepped onto the threshold. A sleeping bag and a backpack lay on the rough wood floor to the right of the door, as if someone had just popped in and dumped them off. The ell was small, used primarily to store old furniture and seldom-used yard equipment.
She steeled herself against what she knew she would see and, remembering her training, focused on the task at hand.
Someone was dead in here, possibly someone she knew.
Her eyes adjusted to the dim light. In the back corner, the body of a man lay sprawled facedown on the floor. He was clearly dead, badly burned from his waist up, unrecognizable. Bits of glass and metal were embedded in his neck, head and upper torso. Something—a kerosene lamp, perhaps—must have exploded, and he’d taken the full brunt of the ensuing flames and shrapnel.
The fire appeared to be out. Rose suspected he’d extinguished any flames when he’d hit the floor, either from the impact of the blast or from trying to save himself. He’d almost certainly been dead hours before she and Ranger had left her house in the predawn darkness.
She could make out strands of dark blond hair that hadn’t burned. He appeared to be about six feet tall and had on insulated pants, thick socks and good boots that were untouched by the flames. Rose noticed he wasn’t wearing a coat and glanced to the side wall, where an expensive parka hung on the back of an old wooden chair.
Why camp out here, in the cold? How had he gotten here? Had he been hiking in the woods along the river? Had he been lost, unaware of who owned the property, and seized on a dry spot to spend the night?
Was his death just bad luck?
Had Lowell left behind a clever little bomb that the victim happened to trigger?
Rose shook off her questions. A basic tenet of her work was to stick to the facts and not leap ahead. Nothing indicated the man he was, but she knew she needed to let the police check his backpack and coat pockets for identification.
She stepped back outside, where Ranger was still in position, waiting for her. “Oh, Ranger,” she said quietly. “It’s not a pretty scene in there.”
She pulled off a glove and dug her cell phone out of a jacket pocket. As part of a regional wilderness search team, she and Ranger generally dealt with lost or injured hikers, Alzheimer’s patients who’d become disoriented, runaways in over their heads in the woods. Shock and hypothermia were usually the biggest concern, but they’d encountered scrapes, bruises, broken bones, head injuries and heart attacks.
And death, she thought.
Their disaster work was often intense, but this was different. She’d been caught off guard, and she and Ranger weren’t with a team. They were alone.
She couldn’t get a cell signal and motioned for Ranger to go with her around to the front of the shed. Lowell Whittaker had used a cell phone to detonate two bombs on his property. There had to be a signal out here somewhere.
She heard a movement in the woods just as Ranger stiffened and barked once. She quieted him with a hand command and steadied her footing, prepared to run or defend herself. She could grab a hunk of cordwood, a shovel. She wasn’t entirely sure how Ranger would react if she were attacked. He wasn’t trained in apprehension and his work in search and rescue, as well as his temperament, made him comfortable around strangers.
A shadow fell on the snow and a man walked out from behind a spruce tree.
Rose took in the short-cropped gray hair, the dark eyes, the strong jaw and lean, fit body and motioned to her golden retriever to remain at her side.
Sexy, rugged Nick Martini was in Vermont, less than ten yards from a dead man.
Less than five yards from her.
“Hello, Rose.”
His voice was tight, controlled, his gaze narrowed on her. She closed her fingers around her cell phone.
Eight months ago, they’d fallen into each other’s arms after another fire, another death.
“Nick,” she said, her own voice tight. “There’s been a fire. A man’s dead.”