“Help,” Paulson cried out. The bank of the creek was starting to give way. One of his feet slipped.
“Don’t panic,” he coaxed as panic filled every single cell in his body. “Just—”
He felt someone grab him from behind.
Pritchard.
Who held him in a bear hug.
Jeffery reached out for Paulson’s belt, but it was too late. The ground fell out from underneath Paulson’s feet. Jeffrey struggled to hold on to the belt as gravity took over. It all happened in slow motion, like the cold was trying to freeze them in place.
Paulson’s narrow shoulders rolled.
The belt slid up higher, over the arms, past the head, then finally past the hands. Like watching a magician pass a hula hoop over his floating assistant.
Ice cracked beneath Paulson. Water poured out. Paulson screamed and groaned, then pitched down into the creek below. He must’ve been like a pine needle hitting the water straight on. There was barely a splash.
Time sped back up to normal.
Jeffrey fell against Pritchard, the belt still in his hands. Perry fell back, too. He held on to the belt as tightly as Jeffrey.
None of them had been able to save Paulson.
They all three got down on their knees and peered over the side.
The skein of ice had broken apart.
Paulson was floating on the top of the water. His hands were still over his head. His legs were splayed. He was trapped somewhere between a snow angel and a crucifixion.
Pritchard stood up and brushed the snow off his pants.
Perry was still staring at the river, even though Paulson was now out of sight.
Nobody spoke.
Paulson had been a piece of shit, but they’d all wanted him in a cell, not being dredged out of the creek whenever the ice thawed.
Jeffrey coughed. He’d swallowed more damn snow. Why did he keep opening his mouth when he fell?
“What now?” Perry said.
“I guess we deal with what we’ve got left,” Pritchard said.
And Jeffrey nodded.
There was nothing they could do for Paulson except tell the coroner where to find the body. Double would have to be put in a cell. Antonio Childers, on a plane—once his broken legs were set at the hospital.
“One good thing about the snow,” Perry said as he turned from the water. “The trail back is clear enough.”
Jeffrey took one last look at the frozen falls. He shivered from the bitter cold. His fingers ached. His arms ached. His balls still ached.
He smiled.
The last part was easily fixable.
Nora hadn’t been the only woman at the bar last night. There was another girl he’d talked to—tall, brunette, not so smart, but smart didn’t really matter. She’d said that she was heading out of town this afternoon, but nobody in their right mind had headed anywhere this afternoon. Maybe no one would be leaving tomorrow, or the next day, or maybe for the rest of the week. If he was going to be trapped in this alpine version of hell, the least he could do was make sure he had a warm body to wile away the hours with.
He turned around and headed toward the truck.
Perry was right about the trail being clear. Even with the snow falling in waves, walking back the way he’d come was a hell of a lot easier than forging new ground.
Which seemed the story of his life.
At least so far.
CHARLAINE HARRIS AND ANDREW GROSS
THIS TEAM MAY BE THE epitome of everything we strive for with an anthology. Andy and Charlaine are nothing alike. Charlaine is a Mississippi girl, who cut her teeth on mysteries before making a name for herself with vampires. Andy is a born and bred New Yorker, who started off writing with James Patterson before forging a career of his own with what he calls “suburban thrillers.” Their characters are likewise utterly different. Andy’s Ty Hauck is a rough and gritty detective hailing from the land of the wealthy in Greenwich, Connecticut, while Charlaine’s Harper Connelly is a young woman who, after being struck by lightning, is able to locate dead bodies, then visualize their last moments.
But it was all these differences that made everything click.
The idea for the story came from Andy. He’d taken a trip to Alexandria, Egypt, a city literally built on the bones of other ancient civilizations. Once learning of Harper’s ability to communicate with the dead, he knew the story had to be set there. Charlaine was a bit dubious at first, but together they adapted both their characters, and individual styles, into a superb tale. Their only problem came with their personal generosity, each trying to give the other’s character more page time.
But they found the right balance.
So let’s—
Dig Here.
DIG HERE
THE WOMAN IN THE PALE blue headscarf came out to meet him. She was around forty, attractive, in Western clothes, other than the blue hijab. “You’re the American? Mr. Hauck?”
“I am,” Ty Hauck said, standing up to meet her. He’d been in the outside waiting room of Sikka Hadid police station for an hour, and he’d been getting restless.
They shook hands.
“I’m Inspector Honsi, but everyone calls me Nabila. We’re all a little rushed today. Some bigwigs are in town. Come on back.”
Nabila took him into a large room crammed with rows of desks. It looked similar to a hundred other detective bullpens Hauck had seen in the States, down to the Siemens computers. Men in open shirts, jackets off. The temperature in the eighties, but the electric fans made the room comfortable.
“Welcome to Alexandria,” Nabila said, pointing him to her desk. “First time here?”
“It is.”
It didn’t escape Hauck’s notice that Nabila was the only female detective in the room.
“It’s everyone’s first time in Alexandria these days. Since the Arab Spring, Egypt has kind of been on lockdown to the world. There’s a cruise ship in the port. First one in two years. We used to get two a week.” They sat at Nabila’s desk, which was crowded with folders and computer printouts. “Now all tourists want to do is go to Cairo, see the Nile and the pyramids for a day, and then get out as fast as they can. May I offer you some tea?”
“No, thanks. I had some at the hotel. Mind if I take off my jacket?” He didn’t want to offend Inspector Honsi by breaking local protocol.
“Of course not. It’s not as hot here as everyone expects, since we’re on the coast, but it’s definitely a warm day. And I’m sure you are probably used to air-conditioning. Where are you from in the States?”
“Greenwich,” he replied. “It’s in Connecticut. Near New York.”
“I know where Connecticut is,” she said.
Inspector Honsi was pretty, her dark hair streaked with traces of blond highlights pulled back beneath her headscarf, one of a hundred mixes of the old and the modern he’d seen here in just a day. She had smooth, coffee-colored skin, and sharp, dark almond-shaped eyes. He didn’t know if the glances the male detectives sent their way were because Nabila was pretty, or because they wanted to be sure an American minded his manners around an Egyptian woman.
“You’ve studied American geography?” he said, smiling.
She laughed. “I spent two years studying criminology in D.C. American University. I became a basketball fan there. And I fell in love with hockey. The Capitals. Imagine, an Egyptian. Here, you’re lucky to get enough ice to put in your drink. Mr. Hauck, did I understand correctly that you’re a police inspector?”
“I was.” For twenty years, he’d been a detective both in New York City, and in Greenwich, where he’d been head of Violent Crime. “Now I’m a partner in a private security firm. And please call me Ty.” He took out his wallet and slid his card across the desk.