Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

them straight from Boston to Jackson Hole, sparing them the ordeal of scrambling for flight reservations, waiting in security lines, and filing the paperwork to pack their weapons. Yes, money did make things easier. But it doesn’t make you happier, she thought, looking down at Sansone, who appeared as somber as a mourner as he stood beside the wrecked Suburban.
    The searchers were now moving around the vehicle in ever-widening circles, clearly not picking up any scent. When at last Martineau and Fahey started hiking back up the trail, carrying the satchel with Maura’s belongings, Jane knew they’d given up.
    “They didn’t pick up anything?” Gabriel asked as the two men emerged onto the road, both breathing hard.
    “Not a whiff.” Martineau tossed the satchel into his vehicle and slammed the door.
    “You think too much time has gone by?” asked Jane. “Maybe her scent’s dissipated.”
    “One of those dogs is trained to find cadavers, and he’s not signaling anything, either. The handler thinks the real problem is the fire. The smell of gasoline and smoke is overwhelming their noses. And then there’s the heavy snowfall.” He looked down at the search team, which was starting to head up toward them. “If she’s down there, I don’t think we’re going to find her until spring.”
    “You’re giving up?” said Jane.
    “What else can we do? The dogs aren’t finding anything.”
    “So we just leave her body down there? Where scavengers can get it?”
    Fahey reacted to his dismay with a tired sigh. “Where do you suggest we start digging, ma’am? Point out the spot, and we’ll do it. But you have to accept the fact this is now a recovery, not a rescue. Even if she survived the crash, she wouldn’t have survived the exposure. Not after all this time.”
    Searchers clambered back onto the road, and Jane saw flushed faces, downcast expressions. The dogs seemed just as discouraged, tails no longer wagging.
    The last one up the trail was Sansone, and he looked the grimmest of all. “They didn’t give it enough time,” he said.
    “Even if the dogs did find her,” Fahey quietly pointed out, “it won’t change the outcome.”
    “But at least we’d know. We’d have a body to bury,” said Sansone.
    “I know it’s a hard thing to accept, that you don’t have closure. But out here, sir, that’s the way it sometimes is. Hunters have heart attacks. Hikers get lost. Small planes go down. Sometimes we don’t find the remains for months, even years. Mother Nature chooses when to give them up.” Fahey glanced up as snow began to fall 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