The First Death (Columbia River, #4)(2)

“What hurts?”

“My leg.”

The man inched closer and pushed a few branches out of the way to see her leg. He caught his breath and then pressed his lips together as he studied it. Rowan kept her gaze on the man, refusing to peek. She knew her leg was hideous. Below her knee the skin had a huge, weird lump. The tissue was black and blue and an ugly yellow brown. It’d been turning different colors for days. Malcolm had said it was broken.

“I’m going to lift you as carefully as I can,” the man said. “Wrap your arms around my neck, and we’ll get you to a doctor.”

Rowan nodded, steeling herself for the pain. Malcolm had said almost the exact same words.

He came close and gently scooped her up. She yelped as pain shot through her, making stars flash in her eyes. Rowan wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder, breathing hard. He stood and held perfectly still until she caught her breath. “Ready?”

She nodded, unable to speak. Her cheeks wet with tears.

“Let’s go see your parents.” He turned smoothly and set off through the brush, Colin darting before him.

Rowan looked over his shoulder and watched her hiding spot vanish, blending into the greens and browns of the woods.

Malcolm was never found.





2


Present day


Deschutes County detective Evan Bolton stepped into the small home in Bend, Oregon, and smelled death. Outside the house he’d passed four patrol units, ducked under crime scene tape, signed the log, and then slipped blue protective booties onto his feet before entering the murder scene. The distinctive scent made him pause, swallow hard, and tuck away his emotions so he could focus on his job.

An hour ago a neighbor had walked into twenty-four-year-old Summer Jensen’s home and found the young mother brutally beaten and dead on her kitchen floor.

Why are they always in the kitchen?

“First officer on scene had just cleared the home when the husband pulled up and parked in the driveway,” said the sergeant as he escorted Evan inside.

Evan had seen the husband sitting on the back seat of a patrol vehicle, the door open, his feet on the concrete and his head in his hands. Despair surrounded him. An officer stood close, one hand on the man’s shoulder as he comforted him in low tones. Evan hadn’t talked to the husband; he wanted to see the victim and scene.

First suspect to eliminate is always the spouse.

“Husband seemed genuinely freaked out,” the sergeant continued. “Took two officers to contain him. And once he realized his son was missing, he went ballistic.”

Evan would have done the same. “The boy is five, right?”

“Yeah. We’ve got a neighborhood door-to-door search going on, checking for the boy and asking who has camera views of the street.”

“K9s?”

“Our officer and his K9 are on their way, but he suggested we contact the local canine search and rescue to check the area for the boy. They train specifically for this sort of thing. Someone was available to come immediately.”

“They’re excellent at what they do,” Evan agreed. “We can’t have too many hands on deck with a kid missing. FBI been notified?”

“Yes. They’re sending an agent.”

“Good. What’s the boy’s name?”

“Wyatt.”

In the kitchen Evan found medical examiner Natasha Lockhart standing next to the body, writing on a clipboard. He studied the victim’s battered face and fought back a surge of emotion. The victim looked younger than he’d expected. Too young to have her life brutally taken away. A pair of medical gloves lay on the victim’s torso, and a forensic tech slowly paced around the kitchen, taking photographs. Natasha looked up from her clipboard. “Good morning, Detective.”

“What can you tell me, Natasha?” he asked. The gloves on the body indicated she’d finished her preliminary examination.

“First tell me what you see, Evan,” she said with an inquisitive raise of one eyebrow.

He studied the blonde mother, who lay on her back, arms and legs spread-eagled. “Looks like she was hit in the mouth and left eye. Several times.” He crouched beside the body. “Hands and nails don’t show blood or contusions, so either she didn’t fight back or couldn’t. I don’t see the beginning of any bruising on her arms.” He took a pen out of his pocket and pushed Summer Jensen’s hair off her neck. Faint marks. “He choked her?”

“I strongly suspect that’s what I’ll find when I get her on my table,” said Natasha.

This can’t be related.

Evan had two other murders on his desk. Both of young women who had been strangled during the past two months. But their remains had been abandoned in rural areas. They’d come from bad situations. One was from Portland and had been living on the street. The other was a runaway from Idaho. This death didn’t feel like the others.

But the other murdered women were in the forefront of his mind as he studied the body. He’d gotten to know them through photos and interviews with their families. Summer Jensen’s life experience was still present in the small house. And in her son.

“Her death was recent,” added Natasha. “Within the last four hours.”

“Our suspect can’t be too far away, then. Maybe he has the boy with him.” Evan noted that Summer was barefoot. She wore midcalf yoga pants and a thin T-shirt with the Nike logo. Evan stood and glanced around the kitchen. It had older black appliances and was neat and clean. It was very homey. An open box of Lucky Charms and a milk jug sat near the sink. An empty bowl featuring Thomas the Tank Engine waited nearby.