Ice Cold: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

he end up dying right here?”
    “As opposed to where?” said Elaine.
    “Maura raises a good point,” said Doug.
    “I’m not getting it,” Elaine said, clearly annoyed that no one was following her back into the house.
    “Dogs have common sense,” he said. “They know enough to seek shelter from the cold. He could have dug himself into the snow. Or crawled under the porch. He could have found any number of places where he’d be better protected against the wind, but hedidn’t.” He looked down at the dog. “Instead he ended up here. Fully exposed to the wind, as if he just keeled over and died.”
    They were silent as a gust whipped their clothes and whistled between buildings, whirling white glitter. Maura stared at deep drifts rippling the landscape like giant white waves, and she wondered: What other surprises lie buried beneath the snow?
    Doug turned to look at the other buildings. “Maybe we should take a look at what’s inside those other houses,” he said.
    T HE FOUR OF THEM walked in single file toward the next house, Doug leading the way as he always did, breaking a path through deep snow. They mounted the front steps. Like the house they’d slept in the night before, this one had a porch with an identical swing.
    “You think maybe they got a volume discount?” said Arlo.
“Buy eleven swings, we throw in the twelfth for free?”
    Maura thought of the glassy-eyed woman in the family photo. Imagined a whole village of pale and silent women sitting in these swings, mechanically rocking back and forth like windup dolls. Clone houses, clone people.
    “This door’s unlocked, too,” said Doug, and he pushed it open.
    Just inside lay a toppled chair.
    For a moment, they paused on the threshold, puzzling over that fallen chair. Doug picked it up and set it upright. “Well, that’s sort of weird.”
    “Look,” said Arlo. He crossed toward the framed portrait hanging on the wall. “It’s the same guy.”
    The morning light spilled down in a heavenly beam on the man’s upward-gazing face, as though God Himself approved of his piety. Studying the portrait, Maura saw other details she hadn’t noticed before. The backdrop of golden wheat behind him. The white peasant shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, as though he had been laboring in the fields. And his eyes, piercing and ebony black, staring into some distant eternity.
    “And he shall gather the righteous,”
said Arlo, reading the plaque mounted on the frame. “I wonder who this guy is, anyway? And why does everyone seem to have his portrait hanging in their house?”
    Maura spotted what looked like a Bible lying open on the coffee table. She flipped it closed and saw the title, embossed in gold on the leather cover.
    Words of Our Prophet
    The Wisdom of The Gathering
    “I think this is some sort of religious community,” she said. “Maybe he’s their spiritual leader.”
    “That would explain a few things,” said Doug. “The lack of electricity. The simplicity of their lifestyle.”
    “The Amish in Wyoming?” said Arlo.
    “A lot of people these days seem to crave a simpler life. And you could find that here, in this valley. Grow your own food, shut out the world. No TV, no temptations from the outside.”
    Elaine laughed. “If showers and electric lights are works of the devil, then sign me up for hell.”
    Doug turned. “Let’s see the rest of the house.”
    They moved down the hall, into the kitchen, and found the same pine cabinets and wood-burning stove, the same hand pump for water that they’d seen in the first house. Here, too, the window was open, but a screen had kept out the snow, allowing in only the wind and a few sparkling motes. Elaine crossed the room to shut the window, and suddenly gasped.
    “What?” Doug asked.
    She backed away, pointing at the sink. “Something—there’s something dead in there!”
    As Maura moved closer, she saw the butcher knife, its blade smeared with blood. In the sink were frozen splatters of more blood and mounds of gray fur. “They’re rabbits,” she said, and pointed to a bowl of peeled potatoes sitting nearby. “I think someone was about to cook them.”
    Arlo laughed. “Good going, Salinger. Scare the bejesus out of us over someone’s dinner.”
    “So what happened to the cook?” Elaine was still hanging back, as though the carcasses in the sink could reanimate into something dangerous. “She’s about to skin the rabbits and then what? She just walks