Ice Cold: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

coming back to Wyoming.”

M AURA AWAKENED TO THE CRACKLE OF BURNING WOOD . F IRELIGHT danced across her closed eyelids, and she smelled the sweetness of molasses and bacon, the scent of pork and beans bubbling over the campfire. Although she lay perfectly still, her captor sensed that she was no longer asleep. His boots scraped closer, and his shadow blocked out the firelight as he bent over her.
    “Better eat,” he grunted, and shoved a spoonful of beans in her direction.
    She turned away, nauseated by the smell. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered.
    “Trying to keep you alive.”
    “There’s a man, in the village. He needs to be in the hospital. You have to let me help him.”
    “You can’t.”
    “Untie me.
Please.”
    “You’ll just run away.” He gave up trying to force the food onher and slipped the spoon in his own mouth instead. She looked at the face staring down at her. Backlit by the fire, his features were invisible. All she saw was the outline of his head, frighteningly enormous in the fur-lined hood. Somewhere in the shadows a dog whined and claws scratched. The animal moved closer and she smelled his hot breath, felt the lick of a tongue across her face. He was a huge dog, his silhouette shaggy and wolf-like, and although he seemed friendly, she recoiled from his attentions.
    “Bear likes you. Doesn’t like most people.”
    “Maybe he’s telling you I’m okay,” she said. “And you should let me go.”
    “Too soon.” He turned and moved closer to the fire. Scooping up beans from the pot, he shoveled spoonfuls into his mouth with feral hunger. Veiled in smoke, he looked like some primitive creature squatting in the light of an ancient campfire.
    “What do you mean, it’s too soon?” she asked.
    He just kept eating, noisily slurping from the spoon, his concentration completely focused on filling his belly. He was an animal, stinking of sweat and smoke, no more civilized than the dog. Her wrists were raw from the rope bindings, and her hair was matted and infested with fleas. For days she had been wheezing and coughing in the smoke that hung thick in their shelter. She was suffocating in here, while that filthy creature sat calmly stuffing food into his mouth, not caring if she lived or died.
    “Goddamn you,” she said. “Let. Me. Go.”
    The dog gave a low growl and moved beside his master.
    The figure squatting by the fire slowly turned to her, and in the featureless shadow that was his face, she imagined evils that were all the more frightening because she could not see them. In silence, he reached into his backpack. When she saw what he brought out, she froze. The firelight’s reflection gleamed in the blade and cast ripples of shadow along the serrations. A hunter’s knife. She had seen, at the autopsy table, what such a knife could do to human flesh. She had probed incised skin, used a ruler to measure the wounds thatsplit apart muscle and tendon and sometimes even bone. She stared at the blade poised above her, and cringed as he brought the knife down.
    With a sharp flick, he cut the rope binding her wrists, then freed her ankles. Blood rushed into her hands. She scrabbled away, retreating into a shadowy corner. There she huddled, breathing hard, her heart pounding from the unaccustomed exertion. For days she had been restrained, allowed up only when she needed to use the bucket. Now she felt light-headed and weak, and the shelter seemed to rock like a ship on the high seas.
    He moved closer, until he was right in front of her and she could smell the stink of damp wool. Up till now his face had been obscured by shadow. Now she could make out thin cheeks smeared with soot, a beardless jaw. Hungry, deep-set eyes. Maura stared at that gaunt face and came to a stunning realization: He was just a boy, sixteen at the oldest. But a boy with the size and strength to cut her down with one stroke of his knife.
    The dog moved close beside its master, and was rewarded with a pat on the head. Boy and dog both stared at her, contemplating the strange creature that they had captured on the road.
    “You have to let me go,” said Maura. “They’ll be looking for me.”
    “Not anymore.” The boy slid the knife into his belt and went back to the fire. It was dying, and already the chill had started to penetrate their shelter. He threw on another log, and the flames danced to life in the ring of stones. As the fire brightened, she could make out more details of the hovel in