Emily Kenyon 01 - A Cold Dark Place

sheathing, topped with an ele gant running horse weathervane. The house sat snugly in a verdant grade etched by meandering, year-round Three Boys Creek.
    Emily pointed the Accord down the gravel driveway. Dust kicked up and the sound of the coarse rock crunched under her wheels. She was surprised by the contrail of dust following her car. It billowed behind her, white against the night sky. She didn’t think she was going fast and she didn’t think that any dust could have remained in the county. She negotiated the last curve and saw Jason’s county cruiser, a Ford Taurus made somewhat more legit by its black-and-white “retro police” car livery. It was parked with its blue lights stabbing into an empty darkness.
    “What in the world?”
    Emily Kenyon could barely believe her eyes the Martin house was gone.
    Before the tornado, exact time and place unknown
    Those who saw it later considered it to be a scrapbook of horror, a dark album of so much that could never be forgotten. Why memorialize such things? Affixed to each black paper page were the yellowed clippings of his unspeakable crimes. The most notorious among the nine he claimed were the ones for which he was convicted Shelley Marie Smith and Lorrie Ann Warner. They were college roommates from Cascade University in Meridian, a midsize port city in the extreme northwestern corner of the state. Both girls worked at a store that specialized in hardware and garden supplies. Shelley had wanted to save the world one child at a time; elementary education was her major. Lorrie Ann had been less sure of her future than her roommate. She’d bounced from major to major, unable to decide her life’s calling. She told her parents that she was still “searching for a passion.”
    The young women were found bound, shot in the back of the head, dumped along a sandbar along the Nooksack River late in the summer. An unlucky kayaker had found the dead young women some three months after they’d been reported missing. Their bodies were badly decomposed, but the telltale evidence of their horrific last hours had not been obliterated by the warm summer days or the icy mountain waters. They had been sexually violated and tortured. It was the most disturbing crime ever reported on the pages of the Meridian Herald.
    Yet they were not his first victims. Certainly not his last. Even so, they held the distinction of commanding a full ten pages of Herald clippings in the black memory album. It might have been because there were two victims or because they were so young. But when their photos and clippings were pasted into the book, it told a story.
    No one knew it, but it was a love story.
    In turning the pages it was easy to see there was more to come.

Chapter Two
    Monday, 10:48, Cherrystone, Washington
    The temperature had dropped and Emily Kenyon felt the chill of a late spring breeze nip at her. The strobe of blue from the police light made her shudder and she grabbed a jacket as she got out of the car. Jason Howard, his flashlight like a light saber, raced toward her. Broken glass and splinters of wood were everywhere. It was like the heavens had opened and snowed fragments of the Martin house all around them.
    “Glad you’re here,” Jason said, his flashlight’s beam aimed at Emily’s face, making her look even more tired and almost ghoulish. She blinked back the light and made a quick nod. “I think I found Mrs. Martin,” he said. Emily caught the fear in his voice. She also saw it in his deep-set dark eyes, burrowed into his head under a characteristic knitted brow. The kid is scared shitless.
    Before she could say anything calming, her eyes followed the swift movement of the young deputy’s flashlight beam.
    “She’s over here,” he said.
    Amid the darkness, the light fluttered over the ground like a moth. Emily’s heart sank when a white figure popped against the darkened backdrop.
    “Oh, dear, there she is,” she said, her voice catching slightly.
    “I’m pretty sure she’s dead.”
    “I can see that, Deputy.”
    Margaret “Peg” Martin was splayed out nude; her clothes appeared ripped from her body by the fury of the storm. She was facedown in the mud. Kitchenware was scattered helter skelter. Broken dishes. Fiestaware, Emily thought. Shards of glass glittered around her chalky frame. Pieces of fabric and slivers of paper fluttered as the wind passed through the gully that once held the pretty home. It was as if a bomb had gone off. It was