Bone Cold

Praise for the novels of Erica Spindler

“It’s time for another pulse-pounding,

page-turning, absolutely can’t-put-it-down

roller coaster ride of a read!”

— Lisa Gardner, author of The Neighbor, on Blood Vines

“Intoxicating suspense…Best served with a glass of

your favorite wine for a sleepless one-night read.”

—Alex Kava, author of Black Friday, on Blood Vines

“A masterful thriller that causes

serious tingling in the spinal region.”

—Daily Record on Breakneck

“The body count rises at a dizzying pace,

and Spindler’s clean writing style

keeps the plot moving along.”

—Star Magazine on Breakneck

“Take a Big Easy tour down Erica Spindler’s mean

streets. This lady knows her turf…and her terror.”

—Mississippi Clarion Ledger on Last Known Victim

“Addictively suspenseful.”

—New Mystery Reader Magazine on Copycat

“Copycat will keep you on the edge of your chair and up for hours turning page after page.” —Writers Unlimited

“Almost impossible to predict the outcome.”

—Bookreporter.com on Killer Takes All

“Get ready to stay up all night,

and if you’re prone to biting your fingernails

when things get tense, wear gloves!”

— Dean James, Murder by the Book, Houston, TX, on See Jane Die

Dear Reader,

Thank you for picking up Bone Cold. Originally published in 2001, it remains one of my personal favorites of all my novels. It is often mentioned by fans as their favorite, as well. And now, finally, it is again available to my readers who missed it!

To celebrate I’m offering a free Erica Spindler refrigerator magnet* to anyone who writes and requests one. You may do so via email through my website or snail mail at my P.O. box. In addition, you may communicate with me on Facebook and Twitter. I love to hear from my readers!

I hope you enjoy reading Bone Cold as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Best wishes,

Erica Spindler

To request your magnet, visit

www.ericaspindler.com/contact, or send

your request to

P.O. Box 8556, Mandeville, LA 70470.

*supplies are limited

ERICA SPINDLER

BONE COLD

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For my readers.

Thank you.

Acknowledgments

I need to thank the following people for their offering of time, expertise and support during the writing of this novel. Without their generosity, Bone Cold would not have become the book it is.

Lieutenant Marlon A. Defillo, Commander, Public Affairs Division, New Orleans Police Department.

Evan Marshall, The Evan Marshall Literary Agency.

Dianne Moggy and the entire amazing MIRA crew.

And finally, a special acknowledgment to Rebekah Bevins, my youngest fan, whose (perfectly innocent) letters sparked the original idea for this story. Thanks, Bekah!

Prologue

June 1978 Southern California

Terror held thirteen-year-old Harlow Anastasia Grail in a death grip. She huddled in the corner of the dimly lit, windowless room, Timmy cowering beside her, weeping.

The matted carpet smelled faintly of urine, as did the mattress she and Timmy had awakened on hours before. Or had it been days? Harlow didn’t know. She had lost all sense of whether it was day or night and of the hours passing. Time had ceased to exist the moment Monica, her father’s trusted nurse, had coaxed her and Timmy into a car Harlow hadn’t recognized.

He had been waiting inside it. The man Monica called Kurt.

Harlow shuddered, remembering the cold way he had smiled at her. She had known instantly that he meant her and Timmy harm; she had screamed and lunged for the door handle. He had stopped her, holding her fast while Monica injected her with something that had turned her world black.

“I want to go home,” Timmy whimpered. “I want my mom.”

Harlow drew the boy closer to her side, protectiveness surging through her. It was her fault he was here. She had to take care of him; he was her responsibility. “It’s going to be all right. I won’t let them hurt you.”

From the adjoining room came the sound of a TV news report in progress:

“—yet in the kidnapping of little Harlow Grail and her friend, Timmy Price. Harlow Grail, daughter of actress Savannah North Grail and Hollywood plastic surgeon Cornelius Grail, was abducted from the stables on the family’s estate. The housekeeper’s six-year-old son had apparently followed Grail to the stables and was also abducted. Authorities do not believe he was part of the original plot and FBI officials—

A crash rent the air, followed by the sound of splintering wood. “Son-of-a-bitch!” “Kurt, calm dow—”

“I told them what would happen if they went to the cops! Stupid Hollywood assholes! I told them—” “Kurt, for God’s sake, don’t—” The door flew open with such force it crashed against the wall behind it. Kurt stood in the doorway, breathing hard, face white with rage. Monica and the other woman, the one called Sis, hovered behind him. They looked terrified.

“Your parents didn’t listen,” he said softly, voice vibrating with hatred. “Too bad for you.”

“Let us go!” Harlow cried, pulling Timmy closer. The boy clung to her, sobbing, hysterical.

He laughed, the sound cruel. “Spoiled little bitch. If I let you go, how will I get what I want?”

He crossed the room and grabbed Timmy, wrenching him from her.

“Ha’low!” the boy screamed, terrified.

“Leave him alone!” As she scrambled to her feet to help him, Monica and Sis sprang forward, stopping her. Harlow fought them, but they were too strong. Their hands circled her arms, their nails dug into her flesh, holding her fast.

Kurt tossed Timmy onto the dirty cot and held the struggling six-year-old down. “Watch carefully, little princess,” he said to her. “See what your parents caused. They didn’t listen to me. I warned them not to go to the authorities. I told them what the consequences would be. They did this. Stupid Hollywood assholes.”

Laughing, Kurt grabbed a pillow and pressed it over Timmy’s face.

“No!” The word, her scream, flew out of her, reverberating off the walls and back. “No!”

Timmy struggled. He clawed at Kurt’s hands, his legs flailed wildly at first, then with less force. Harlow watched in horror, a litany of pleas slipping from her lips, tears streaming down her face.

Timmy went still. “No!” Harlow screamed. “Timmy!”

Kurt straightened. He turned and faced her, an evil smile twisting his lips. “Your turn, little princess.”

He and Monica dragged her to the kitchen. Harlow told herself to fight, but terror had leeched her of her ability to do more than beg. Monica forced her right hand out over the white porcelain of the chipped and stained sink.

“Ready or not, here I come.”

Harlow caught the glint of metal. Some sort of cutters or clippers, she realized, a scream rising in her throat.

He found her hand, closed the cutters over her right pinkie. First came the pain, hot, blinding. Then the pop of bone being snapped in two. The white sink turned red.

Harlow’s vision blurred, then faded to black.

Pain emanated from Harlow’s bandaged hand and up her arm in fiery waves. With each crest, a bitter, steely taste filled her mouth, all but choking her. She bit down hard on her bottom lip to keep from crying aloud. She had to be quiet. Absolutely still. Kurt and the others thought she was asleep, knocked out by the pain medication Monica had given her. The medicine Harlow had only pretended to take.

The wave passed and Harlow experienced a moment’s respite from the agony. Tears flooded her eyes, tears of horror. Of hopelessness. With the emotion came another wave of pain. Light-headed, on the verge of passing out, Harlow struggled to breathe. She couldn’t pass out now. She couldn’t give in to the pain. Or the fear. Not if she wanted to live. Her parents were making the drop tonight. She had heard Kurt talking. He’d told the other two he would let her go when he got the money.

He was a liar. A filthy bastard liar. He’d killed Timmy even though the boy hadn’t caused any trouble. Sweet little Timmy. All he had wanted was to go home.

Dirty bastard was going to kill her, too. No matter what he promised. She might be only thirteen, but she wasn’t stupid—she had seen all three of their faces.

Harlow eased herself off the cot, careful not to cause the springs to squeak, and crept across the matted carpet to the door. She pressed her ear to it. Kurt was speaking, though Harlow couldn’t make out exactly what he was saying. It involved her. And the pickup.

It was happening tonight.

Harlow hurried back to the cot, lay down and closed her eyes. She heard the click of the doorknob being twisted then the soft whoosh of the door opening, of someone crossing to stand beside her.

Once again the door hadn’t been locked. Why would they lock it? They thought she was in a deep, drug-induced sleep.

Her visitor bent over the bed and Harlow realized it was the old woman, Sis. Harlow could tell it was her by the way she smelled—of roses and baby powder, sweet scents that only partially masked the gross smell of cigarettes.

Sis leaned closer. Harlow felt the woman’s breath on her face and fought to lie perfectly still, to not recoil.

“Sweet lamb,” the woman whispered. “It’s almost over now. Once Kurt has the money, everything will be all right.”

He had left to make the pickup. Time was running out.

“I couldn’t stop him before. He was angry…he…Your parents shouldn’t have defied him. It’s their fault. They’re the ones—” Her voice thickened. “I did the best I could. You have to understand, he…”

You didn’t do the best you could. You could have saved Timmy, you old witch. You made such a fuss over him but you didn’t do a thing to save him. I hate you.

“I’ll be back.” The woman pressed a kiss to Harlow’s forehead; it was all Harlow could do to keep from screaming. “Sleep sound, little princess. It’ll be over soon. I promise.”

The woman exited the room, closing the door behind her. Harlow listened intently for the telltale click of the lock turning over.

It didn’t come.

She cracked open her eyes. She was alone. Carefully, heart thundering, terrified of making a sound that would alert the old woman, she sat up. Too quickly. Dizziness assailed her and she grabbed the edge of the cot for support. She held herself perfectly still, breathing deeply through her nose, fighting to clear her head.

The dizziness passed, but still she remained motionless. She collected her thoughts. From what she had been able to ascertain over the past few days, she was being kept in a small, relatively isolated house. She hadn’t heard sounds of traffic or passersby; nobody had rung the doorbell. In the morning she had heard the twittering of birds and twice at night the lonely howl of a coyote.

What if she couldn’t find anyone to help her? What if she got lost? What if the same coyote she heard howling found her and tore her apart?

Act or die, she reminded herself, trembling. Kurt intended to kill her. At least if she ran she would have a chance.

A chance. Her only chance. Harlow climbed out of the bed, swaying slightly as she stood. She pressed on anyway, creeping toward the door. She inched it open. The room beyond appeared to be empty. The TV was on, sound muted. A cigarette burned in the ashtray on the arm of the easy chair, a curl of acrid-smelling smoke wafting toward the ceiling.

She had to go now. She had to run.

Harlow reacted to the thought, darting toward the front door. She reached it, fumbled with the dead-bolt lock, then grabbed the handle and yanked it open. With a small, involuntary cry, she stumbled out into the dark, starless night. And began to run. Blindly. Sobbing. Across scorched earth, through a thicket. She pitched headlong into a ditch, then clawed her way out and back to her feet.

And onto a deserted road. Hope exploded inside her. Someone, there had to be someone…

As the words made their way through her head, a car crested the hill ahead, its headlights slicing through the darkness, pinning her. She stood frozen, trembling, too weak and exhausted to even wave. The lights grew closer; the driver blew his horn.

“Help me,” she whispered, dropping to her knees. “Please, help me.”

The vehicle screeched to a stop. A door opened. Footsteps sounded on the pavement.

“Don’t, Frank,” a woman begged. “What if—”

“For God’s sake, Donna, I can’t just… Oh my God, it’s a kid.”

“A kid?” The woman emerged from the car. Harlow lifted her head and the woman caught her breath. “Dear Lord, look at her red hair. It’s her, the one they’re searching for. Little Harlow Grail.”

The man made a sound of disbelief, then apprehension. He glanced around them as if suddenly realizing he could be in danger.

“I don’t like this,” the woman said, obviously frightened. “Let’s get out of here.”

The man agreed. He scooped Harlow up, his grasp strong but gentle. “It’s all right, it’s going to be all right,” he murmured, starting for his vehicle. “You’re going home. You’re safe now.”

Harlow shuddered and slumped against him, though even as she did, she knew she would never feel safe again.

1

Wednesday, January 10, 2001 New Orleans, Louisiana

“Timmy! No!”

Anna sat bolt upright in bed, drenched in a cold sweat, Timmy’s name, her screams, reverberating off the walls of her bedroom.

With a squeak of terror, she dragged the blankets to her chin. She looked wildly around her. When she’d drifted off, her bedside light had been on—she always slept with a light on. Yet her bedroom was dark. The shadows in the corners mocked her, deep and black. What did those shadows hold for her? What could they hide? Who?

Kurt. He was coming for her. To finish what he’d begun twenty-three years ago. To punish her for escaping. For spoiling his plans.

“Ready or not, here I come.”

With a cry, Anna scrambled out of bed. She ran from the bedroom to the bathroom, located down the hallway. She raced to the commode, flipped up the seat, bent and threw up. She heaved until she was empty, until she had nothing left to expel but memories.

She yanked off a length of toilet tissue, wiped her mouth, then dropped the tissue into the commode and flushed. Her right hand hurt. It burned, as if Kurt had just done it. Severed her pinkie finger to send to her parents as a warning.

But he hadn’t just done it, she reminded herself. It had happened a lifetime ago. She’d been a child, still Harlow Anastasia Grail, little Hollywood princess.

A lifetime ago. A whole other identity ago.

Turning, Anna crossed to the sink and turned on the faucet. Bending, she splashed the icy-cold water on her face, struggling to shake off the nightmare.

She was safe. In her own apartment. Except for her parents, she’d cut all ties to her past. None of her friends or business associates knew who she was. Not even her publisher or literary agent. She was Anna North now. She had been Anna North for twelve years.

Even if Kurt came looking for her, he wouldn’t be able to find her.

Anna muttered an oath and flipped off the water. She snatched the hand towel from the ring and dried her face. Kurt wasn’t going to come looking for her. Twenty-three years had passed, for heaven’s sake. The FBI had been certain the man she’d known as Kurt posed no further threat to her. They believed he had slipped over the border into Mexico. The discovery of Monica’s body in the border town of Baja, California, six days after Harlow’s escape had supported that belief.

Disgusted with herself, she tossed the hand towel onto the counter. When was she going to get over this? How many years had to pass before she could sleep without a light on? Before nightmares no longer awakened her, night after night?

If only Kurt had been apprehended. She would be able to forget then. She would be able to go on without worrying, without wondering if he thought of her. Her escape had upset the ransom pickup. Did he curse her for spoiling that? Did he wait for the day he would make her pay for spoiling his opportunity at wealth?

She looked at herself in the mirror, expression fierce. She couldn’t control her nightmares, but she could control everything else in her life. She would not spend her days—or nights—dodging shadows.

Anna stalked back to her bedroom, grabbed a pair of shorts from her bureau drawer and slipped them on under her nightshirt. If she couldn’t sleep, she might as well work. A new story idea had been kicking around the back of her brain and now seemed as good a time as any to start it. But first, she decided, coffee.

She made her way to the kitchen, passing her office—a desk tucked into a corner of the living room—as she did. She flipped on the computer then moved on, past the front door. Out of habit she stopped to check the dead bolt.

As her fingers closed over the lock, someone pounded on the door. With a small cry, Anna jumped back.

“Anna! It’s Bill—”

“And Dalton.”

“Are you all right?”

Bill Friends and Dalton Ramsey, her neighbors and best friends. Thank goodness.

Hands shaking, she unlocked the door and eased it open. The pair stood in the hallway, expressions anxious. From down the hall she heard the yipping of Judy and Boo, the couple’s Heinz 57 mini-mutts. “What in the world…you scared the life out of me.”

“We heard you screa—”

“I heard you scream,” Bill corrected. “I was on my way back in from—”

“He came and got me.” Dalton held up a marble bookend, a miniature of Michelangelo’s David. “I brought this. Just in case.”

Anna brought a hand to her chest, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She could picture fifty-something, mild-mannered Dalton winging a chunk of marble at an intruder. “Just in case of what? That my library needed tidying?”

Bill chuckled; Dalton looked irritated. He sniffed. “For protection, of course.”

Against the intruder who would have made his escape by the time her friends had gathered their wits about them, selected a weapon and made their way to her door. Thank goodness she had never actually needed saving.

She bit back a laugh. “And I appreciate your concern.” She swung the door wider. “Come on in, I’ll make coffee to go with the beignets.”

“Beignets?” Dalton repeated innocently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Anna wagged a finger at him. “Nice try, but I smell them. Your punishment for coming to my aid is having to share.”

New Orleans’s version of a doughnut, beignets were fried squares of dough, liberally dusted with powdered sugar. Like everything New Orleans, they were both decadent and addictive.

And definitely not for those, like Dalton, who professed to be watching their weight.

“He made me do it,” Dalton said as they stepped into the apartment. He looked accusingly at Bill. “You know I’d never suggest such indulgences at two in the morning.”

“Right.” Bill rolled his eyes. “And whose figure suggests a tendency toward…indulgences?”

The other man looked at Anna for support. Bill was ten years Dalton’s junior, trim and athletic. “It’s not fair. He eats everything and never gains weight. Me, I eat one little thing and—”

“One little thing? Hah! Ask him about the Fig Newtons and barbeque chips?”

“I was having a bad day. I needed a little pick-me-up. So sue me.”

Anna linked her arms through her friends’ and nudged them toward the kitchen, the adverse effects of her nightmare melting away. The two men never failed to make her laugh. Nor did it ever cease to amaze her that they were a couple. They reminded her of a peacock and a penguin. Bill was outspoken and often outrageous, Dalton a prim businessman whose meticulous manner tended toward fussiness. Yet as different as they were, they had been together for ten years.

“I don’t care who’s guilty of the idea,” she said as they reached the kitchen. “I’m just grateful for it. A 2:00 a.m. beignet-binge is just what I needed.”

Truth was, it was their friendship she was grateful for. She’d met the pair her second week in New Orleans. She had answered an ad for a job at a French Quarter florist shop. Although she hadn’t had any experience, she’d always had a flair for arranging and had been in need of a job that would allow her the time—and energy—to pursue her dream of being a novelist.

Dalton had turned out to be the owner of the shop; they had hit it off immediately. He had understood her dreams and applauded her for having the guts to pursue them. And unlike the other potential employers she had interviewed with, he had been comfortable with her need to think of her position at The Perfect Rose as a job, not a career.

Dalton had introduced her to Bill and the two men had taken her under their wing. They’d alerted her to an upcoming vacancy in the French Quarter apartment building they not only lived in, but that Dalton owned, and had given her recommendations for everything from dry cleaners to restaurants and hairstylists. As Anna had come to know them better, she had allowed them to take a real interest in her writing: it had been Bill and Dalton who had cheered her up after every rejection and Bill and Dalton who had cheered her on with each success.

She loved them both and would face the devil himself to keep them safe. They, she believed, would do the same for her.

The devil himself. Kurt.

As if reading her mind, Dalton turned to her, aghast. “Good Lord, Anna. We never even asked, are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Anna poured milk into a saucepan and set it on the stove to heat. She retrieved three mugs from a cabinet and a tray of frozen coffee cubes from the freezer. “It was just a bad dream.”

Bill helped her out, dropping a cube of the frozen cold-brewed coffee concentrate into each mug. “Not another one?” He gave her a quick hug. “Poor Anna.”

“It’s those sick stories you write,” Dalton offered, artfully arranging the beignets on a plate. “They’re giving you nightmares.”

“Sick stories? Thanks, Dalton.”

“Dark, then,” Dalton amended. “Twisted. Scary. Better?”

“Much, thank you.” She poured the steaming milk into the mugs, then handed each man his café au lait.

They carried the pastries and coffee to her small, bistro-style table, sat and dug in. Dalton was right. Her novels—thrillers—had been described by reviewers with just such adjectives. Also by ones like compelling and gripping. If only she could sell enough copies to make a living writing them.

Nobody was holding her back but herself. That’s what her agent said.

“Such a nice, normal-seeming lady.” Bill lowered his voice to a horror-flick drawl. “Where do her stories come from? Experience? Extracurricular activities? What gothic horrors lurk behind her guileless green eyes?”

Anna pretended to laugh. Bill couldn’t know how close to the truth his playful teasing had come. She had been witness to the darkest depths of the human spirit. She knew from firsthand experience the human animal’s capacity for evil.