Emily Kenyon 01 - A Cold Dark Place

to reach anyone from the family since the storm. The big cell tower past Canyon Ridge was knocked out in the twister. Sheriff wants me to drive out to their place tomorrow morning and have a look around”
    “I think Nicholas has a brother, Donovan. He’s younger. Third grade?”
    “Oh, now I remember. Nice family. I’m sure they’re fine.”
    “I could IM Nicholas when I get home. He hangs out in that Goth chat room Shali and I go to all the time.”
    Emily attempted to suppress a weary smile. “Uh, you’re kidding, right?”
    “Yeah, I’m kidding.”
    “No need, honey. I’ll handle it.”
    Emily parked in front of the house. The night air was filled with the scent of white lilacs her mother had planted when she was a girl. They were enormous bushes now, nearly blocking the front windows. Emily didn’t have the heart to give them a good pruning, though they desperately needed it. She only thought of the job when springtime rolled around and the tallest tips were snowcapped with blooms. The memory brought a smile to her face that fell like a heavy curtain with the ring of another call.
    Sheriff Kiplinger, again.
    She glanced at Jenna and flipped open her cellular. “Kenyon, off duty,” she said, putting a reminder of her status up-front.
    “Emily, you’ll need to go out to the Martin place tonight. Jason will meet you there. Neighbors say they think the twister might have touched down that way.”
    “Jesus,” Emily said, waving Jenna inside. “Can’t it wait until morning? I’m about half dead right now.”
    “You know the answer. Once we get a call from a concerned citizen we have to act on it right away. Damned public relations. Damned lawyers.”
    Sheriff Brian Kiplinger had a point. An adjacent county nearly went bankrupt in the late 1990s when a woman reported that her sister was being abused by her husband. When law enforcement arrived two days later, the woman was paralyzed from a beating that happened after the sister phoned in her concerns.
    “All right,” Emily said. “I’m going.”
    “Jason’s already on his way.”
    Emily exhaled. She was needed. She told herself that she’d be back home in bed within a couple of hours. She grabbed one of Jenna’s Red Bulls from the fridge, thinking that the energy drink’s sugar and caffeine could fuel her for the drive out to the Martin ranch on Canyon Ridge, about fifteen miles out of town. Once there, she knew adrenaline would kick in. So would Jason Howard’s bottomless reserve of energy. Jason was only twenty-five, a sheriff’s deputy with a four-year degree in criminology from Washington State University. He was single. Bright. Always up for anything. Youth and enthusiasm counted during the grindingly long hours after the storm.
    She glanced at it, but ultimately ignored the red Cyclops of the answering machine light. Whoever had called could wait. She blew a kiss at Jenna, who was now in front of the TV watching some trashy dating show set on a cruise ship. Emily was too tired and too preoccupied-to say anything about it. She clutched her purse and went for the door. The car radio was playing a B. B. King song, which was like comfort food for her soul. She loved that New Orleans sound-B.B. was her favorite.
    This, too, shall pass, came to mind as she drove.
    The sky had blackened like a cast-iron pan, pinning her headlights to the roadway. A tumbleweed, a holdout from the previous season, skittered in front of the Accord. The wind that had converged on Cherrystone and obliterated everything in its wake had become gentle, but was still present. Dust and litter swirled over the roadway as she drove into the darkness of a spring night. Lights off the highway revealed the neat ranch homes amid fields of hops and peppermint the two most important cash crops of the region. Emily felt the buzz of the Red Bull’s caffeine as she took a sharp left off the highway.
    The mailbox announced who lived there: MARTIN. She’d been out there before, of course. She’d probably been to every place in the entire county before she got her detective’s shield despite her big-city credentials. Growing up in Cherrystone had also brought even more familiarity, though much of the place had changed. She vividly remembered the Martin place as a typical turn-of-the-century two-story, with faded red shutters and gingerbread along a porch rail that ran the length of the front of the house. The roofline featured a cupola covered with verdigris copper