Emily Kenyon 01 - A Cold Dark Place

fell over the lawn and cobblestone walkway to the ten-foot leaded-glass doors that led inside the turn-ofthe-century Tudor-style home that Miranda shared with her husband, Karl, and their son, Aaron. She threw her Coach bag over her shoulder and hooked her fingers into the loops of plastic grocery bags holding the ingredients for tonight’s dinner chicken, button mushrooms, shallots, and a decent bottle of Bordeaux. She knew better than to buy the cheap stuff.
    “Cooking wine should never be anything less than what you’d imbibe from a Baccarat glass,” Karl had said a time or two. He was only half-kidding, and Miranda had learned not to repeat the remark because it made him seem like such a snob. And a snob he could be.
    He’s a proctologist, for goodness sake, she thought. He’s a success, of course, but bottom line he’s no neurosurgeon. What he knows of wine he’s learned from the pages of Wine Spectator or what I’ve told him.
    An attractive woman with symmetrical features and dark brown hair that had been artfully streaked gray by nature, Miranda balanced the sacks of groceries on her hip as she reached with her key for the doorknob. Her charm bracelet with its collection of miniatures revealing a happy life dangled from her wrist. A baby carriage. A typewriter. Books. Miniature maps of Washington and California. A tiny Space Needle replica had been placed next to the Eiffel Tower and the St. Louis Arch. She considered each memento a keystone in her life.
    The measly pressure of her inserting the key made the door move inward. It wasn’t locked. It wasn’t even shut. It only alarmed her for a second that DJ, the cocker spaniel that had been an unwelcome birthday gift from her son, might have gotten outside. If he hadn’t, he’d have been at the door like a rocket to greet her. The dog saw every shadow through the glass as an opportunity for escape.
    “Karl? Aaron? DJ got out!” she called from the foyer. Her heels clacked against the marble flooring as she moved from stone to carpet.
    No one answered.
    In turning to go down the hall toward the kitchen, Miranda noticed several reddish spots on the surface of the oriental rug that she’d purchased from a street vendor in Iran before the shah lost power. Miranda had been a correspon dent for a network affiliate and the carpet, with its intricate pattern of green, cream, and pink, was the one souvenir she’d allowed herself.
    “What?” she said softly. It looked like the dog had gotten into something. She set the groceries on the floor and touched the red spot with her fingertips. Wet. She rubbed the stain between her fingers.
    “Karl!” she screamed. “Aaron!” She stared at her hand. The red liquid wasn’t dye. It wasn’t tomato sauce. She knew in an instant that it had to be blood. “Guys! Where are you?”
    Miranda started for the kitchen. Her heart threatened to burst through her chest. She knew she was hyperventilating, but in her horror and worry she did not know how to stop herself. Slow down. Get a grip. The phrases meant to give her strength and composure only got in the way of her real thoughts. Her sense of smell picked up the odor of something that had burned. It was a wisp of a scent.
    “What happened here?” she asked aloud. “Where are you?”
    She turned in to the kitchen and gasped.
    Then, as if a curtain had hurriedly been closed by the cruelest of unseen hands, everything went completely dark.

Chapter Eight
    Tuesday, 2:48, an abandoned mine office near Cherrystone
    The blood had dried on his hands by the time daylight came through the Krueger-like slashes in the old roof over the smelly nylon plaid couch in the abandoned mining office where he’d spent a restless night. Or had it been longer than a single night? Maybe two? In a second of frazzled introspection, he struggled to knit together all that had really happened. He gripped his hands tightly, and opened them to reveal his lifelines, clear, clean. He almost smiled at the irony. The blood had turned to powder. He faced his palms downward and the fine dark particles snowed to his chest. Blood had stiffened his T-shirt, the taut fabric now more brown than green. He shuddered as he shifted his weight. If he had always felt somewhat alone, somewhat alien, he felt it no more so than then. His mouth was dry. His body ached. And all he could think of was her. She alone would understand.
    But how could he get to her? To find her, to talk to her, would be to risk