Ice Cold: A Rizzoli & Isles Novel

again, as dry and powdery as talc. “And she’s not ready to give up this body. Not today.”
    H E WAS sixteen years old, born and raised in Wyoming, and his name was Julian Henry Perkins. But only grown-ups—his teachers, his foster parents, and his caseworker—ever called him that. At school, on a good day, his classmates called him Julie-Ann. On a bad day, they called him Fuckface Annie. He hated his name, but it was what his mom had chosen for him after she’d seen some movie with a hero named Julian. That was just like his mom, always doing something loopy like calling her son a name no one else had. Or dumping Julian and his sister with their grandfather while she ran off with a drummer. Or, ten years later, suddenly showing up to reclaim herkids after she’d discovered the true meaning of life, with a prophet named Jeremiah Goode.
    The boy told all this to Maura as they slowly made their way down the slope, the dog panting after them. A day had passed since they’d watched the fires burning in Kingdom Come; only now did the boy feel it was safe for them to descend into the valley. On her boots, he had strapped a pair of makeshift snowshoes, which he’d crafted using tools scavenged from conveniently unlocked houses in the town of Pinedale. She thought of pointing out to him that this was theft, not scavenging, but she did not think he’d appreciate the difference.
    “So what do you want to be called, since you don’t like the name Julian?” Maura asked as they tramped toward Kingdom Come.
    “I don’t care.”
    “Most people care what they’re called.”
    “I don’t see why people need names at all.”
    “Is that why you keep calling me
ma’am?”
    “Animals don’t use names and they get along fine. Better than most people.”
    “But I can’t keep saying
hey you.”
    They walked on for a while, snowshoes creaking, the boy leading the way. He cut a ragged figure, moving across that white landscape, the dog huffing at his heels. And here she was, willingly following those two wild and filthy creatures. Maybe it was Stockholm syndrome; for whatever reason, she’d given up any thoughts of fleeing from the boy. She relied on him for food and shelter, and except for the initial blow on the head that first day, when he’d been frantic to keep her quiet, he had not hurt her. In fact, he’d made no move to even touch her. So she had settled into the wary role of part prisoner, part guest, and in that role she followed him into the valley.
    “Rat,” he suddenly said over his shoulder.
    “What?”
    “That’s what my sister, Carrie, calls me.”
    “That’s not a very nice name.”
    “It’s okay. It’s from that movie, about the rat who cooks.”
    “You mean
Ratatouille?”
    “Yeah. Our grandpa took us to see it. I liked that movie.”
    “I did, too,” said Maura.
    “Anyway, she started calling me Rat, because sometimes I’d cook her breakfast in the morning. But she’s the only one ever calls me that. It’s my secret name.”
    “So I guess I’m not allowed to use it.”
    He walked on for a moment, snowshoes swishing down the slope. After a long silence, he stopped and looked back at her, as if, after much thought, he’d finally come to a decision. “I guess you can, too,” he said, then continued walking. “But you can’t tell anyone.”
    A boy named Rat and a dog named Bear. Right
.
    She was starting to get into the rhythm of walking on snowshoes, moving more easily, but still struggling to keep up with the boy and dog.
    “So your mom and sister were living here, in the valley. What about your father?” she asked.
    “He’s dead.”
    “Oh. I’m sorry.”
    “Died when I was four.”
    “And where’s your grandpa?”
    “He died last year.”
    “I’m sorry,” she repeated automatically.
    He stopped and looked back. “You don’t need to keep saying that.”
    But I am sorry, she thought, looking at his lonely figure standing against the vast background of white. I’m sorry that the men who loved you are gone. I’m sorry that your mother seems to drop in and out of your life whenever it suits her. I’m sorry that the only one you seem able to count on, the only one who stands by you, has four legs and a tail.
    They descended deeper into the valley, entering the zone of destruction.Coming down the ridge, they had caught whiffs of the stench from the burned buildings. With every step they took, the damage appeared more horrifying. Every house had been reduced to