Cold Woods

  PRAISE FOR KAREN KATCHUR

  COLD WOODS

  “Intricately interweaving the past and present, Karen Katchur ramps up the tension and hits every mark with Cold Woods, the second installment in her compelling Northampton County series. Once again, Katchur has crafted an intense psychological thriller that pounds with heart-thrumming suspense and unexpected twists. With its intriguing characters and clever plot, Cold Woods will keep readers frantically flipping pages late into the night.”

  —Heather Gudenkauf, New York Times bestselling author of The Weight of Silence and Not a Sound

  “Karen Katchur nails it with Cold Woods, the second in the Northampton County series and a perfect follow-up to her bestselling hit, River Bodies. Katchur starts Cold Woods with a bang, then builds the action steadily, a gradual unfolding of truths and small-town secrets among three former best friends. Dark and chilling, creepy and emotionally complex—and enthralling all the way to the shocking end.”

  —Kimberly Belle, bestselling author of The Marriage Lie and Three Days Missing

  “Cold Woods kept me in its chilling grip from its eerie opening lines to its unexpected finish. I’m entranced by Karen Katchur’s direct, well-crafted prose, artful plotting, and characters that leap from the page. She perfectly captures the strange insularity of a small town, and unravels its secrets with an expert hand. Not to be missed!”

  —Marissa Stapley, bestselling author of Things to Do When It’s Raining

  RIVER BODIES

  “Karen Katchur’s River Bodies has it all: a horrific murder, mysteries resurrected from the past, a story line packed with tension, and vivid characters to bring it all to life. A riveting thriller that suspense readers will love.”

  —Mary Kubica, New York Times bestselling author of The Good Girl

  “With a striking sense of place and a foreboding feeling of unease throughout, I was glued to the story. With relationships so complicated and layered that they feel like your own and plot twists that will leave you gasping, River Bodies is an unforgettable read.”

  —Kate Moretti, New York Times bestselling author

  “Karen Katchur is a master at writing into the dark spaces of our intimate family relationships, and River Bodies is her most stunning work to date.”

  —Mindy Mejia, author of Everything You Want Me to Be

  “River Bodies weaves an engrossing mystery with richly developed characters for an enjoyable, fast-paced read.”

  —Laura McHugh, award-winning author of The Weight of Blood

  “Dark secrets of the past flow into the present in this emotionally resonant, deeply insightful tale of family bonds, betrayal, violence, and redemption. Part engrossing love story, part riveting murder mystery, River Bodies is a must read.”

  —A. J. Banner, USA Today bestselling author of The Twilight Wife

  “Karen Katchur weaves together a twisting braid in River Bodies, a multigenerational tale that dares us to examine not only the secrets we hide but the reasons we hid them in the first place.”

  —Jenny Milchman, USA Today bestselling author

  “River Bodies is a dark, fast-paced, and gripping suspense with characters you won’t forget. It’s filled with old family secrets designed to protect but that instead pull everyone apart. A must read!”

  —Hannah Mary McKinnon, author of The Neighbors

  OTHER TITLES BY KAREN KATCHUR

  River Bodies

  The Sisters of Blue Mountain

  The Secrets of Lake Road

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Karen Katchur

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542093033 (hardcover)

  ISBN-10: 1542093031 (hardcover)

  ISBN-13: 9781542093040 (paperback)

  ISBN-10: 154209304X (paperback)

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  First edition

  For my childhood friends Tracey and Mindy

  and for my mother, Johanna, for teaching me the importance of friendship

  CONTENTS

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PART ONE

  THE BODY

  CHAPTER ONE

  DECEMBER 1986

  She smelled him before she saw him.

  Two weeks in the cold may have slowed the decomposing process, but in the last three days the temperature had risen to an unseasonable fifty degrees. The sun had melted most of the existing snow. The warm air had baked his corpse.

  She covered her mouth and nose with her scarf. “We’re close.”

  The moon was high in the sky, illuminating the surrounding woods. Shadows from the trees distorted their view of the ground. They stopped twice, thinking they had spotted his body, only to have discovered large rocks instead.

  Ten more minutes passed as they circled the area where the stench was the strongest. She found him not far off the trail. “Here he is.”

  He was lying on his side. His red Phillies baseball cap had slid to the back of his head. The gash above his brow where the blood had oozed was black.

  She swallowed the warm saliva collecting in her mouth. Her partner lit a cigarette and stared off into the trees.

  “Put that butt in your pocket when you’re done. We’re not leaving any evidence behind.”

  “Yeah, okay,”
her partner said.

  She lifted her shovel, tapped the ground. “It’s hard, but once we dig a few inches, the soil should soften up.” The walkie-talkie strapped to her belt crackled. “Go ahead,” she said.

  “Find anything?” their lookout asked.

  “We found him. All clear on your end?”

  “All clear,” their lookout said.

  Her partner put the cigarette out and stuffed the butt in her coat pocket. Then she wiped tears from her eyes.

  “He had it coming.”

  Her partner nodded.

  “Let’s do this.”

  They started digging. The work was as hard as the ground. After thirty minutes, they had barely managed to clear the surface.

  “Move back,” she said. She swung the pickax with all her strength. Over and over she struck the ground, chipping away at the frozen, rocky terrain. Sweat stained her shirt inside the winter parka. She peeled off her coat, tossed it to the side.

  She returned to her work. With each swing, the muscles in her shoulders and back ached. She hit a stone, and a painful vibration shot up her arms. She cried out. Her partner swooped in and dug the stone out. The process was slow. The woods were silent except for the sound of the pickax striking the ground.

  She was breathing heavily, and after a large gulp of rancid air, she turned and threw up. When she finished and her stomach was empty, she swiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “We’ll have to bury that too,” she said and returned to digging. Her partner sobbed.

  An hour passed, and they’d managed to clear a few inches of ground.

  “There must be more than twelve inches of frost.” She wiped the perspiration from her brow, peered over her shoulder.

  “Keep digging,” her partner said and returned to shoveling.

  After that they didn’t talk. There was nothing to say.

  The walkie-talkie crackled again. “Go ahead,” she said.

  “Almost done?” their lookout asked.

  “Almost,” she said. “All clear?”

  “All clear, but I’m cold.”

  She shook her head in exasperation. She turned to her partner. “We need to pick up the pace.”

  After another hour of nonstop labor, she leaned on the pickax. The hole had to be at least four feet deep: two feet less than the typical grave. “Deep enough.”

  “I’m not touching him,” her partner said.

  “We’ll push him in with the shovels.”

  They stood alongside his body. She edged the metal blade under his shoulder. Her partner did the same under his hip. They lifted. His body ripped and peeled from the cold ground as though he were stuck with Velcro. The sound tore through the quiet woods.

  Her partner wailed.

  “Don’t stop,” she said, and with one last heave, his body rolled into the hole.

  She didn’t waste time and began throwing dirt on top of him. Faster and faster she pushed her sore muscles. Her partner continued to cry, but she kept working.

  Side by side, they tossed more and more dirt on him. When they were close to finishing, their fear kicked into high gear. They had come this far; they couldn’t get caught now. They looked over their shoulders, not once but continuously.

  The smell of rotting flesh slowly dissipated.

  She breathed a little easier as she packed the soil with the shovel. She tossed sticks and stones onto the mound in an attempt to blend the area with the surrounding landscape. When she was satisfied the mound melded with the rest of the woods, she covered her vomit with the little dirt that was left. Her partner sat on a large rock under a big oak tree not far from the grave and smoked another cigarette.

  Snow started to fall.

  She plucked the walkie-talkie from her belt. “All clear?” she asked.

  “All clear,” their lookout said.

  “We’re coming down.”

  PART TWO

  THE BONES

  CHAPTER TWO

  Detective Parker Reed leaned against a hundred-year-old oak tree. An old carving next to his shoulder read Kilroy was here. Someone had taken a pocketknife to the trunk, scarring the tree for life. The phrase, a folktale really, had been popular long before Parker had been born, turning up in places all over Europe and the United States since World War II. It had become somewhat of a fascination for soldiers at the time, a kind of meme. Whether it had anything to do with the case was anyone’s guess. But it gave the area they were searching an eeriness Parker would’ve preferred to do without.

  “That’s the datum.” Cheryl Leer pointed to the tree Parker rested on. She was the forensic anthropologist Lieutenant Sayres had called when they’d gotten word a human skull had been found deep in the Blue Mountains not far off the Appalachian Trail.

  “What’s a datum?” he asked and moved out of her way, careful where he stepped. There were enough rocks around to twist an ankle.

  “It’s the marker we’re going to use if we need to locate the scene later,” she said. “The subdatum is the stake we’re going to place close to the remains, using the tree with the carving as our guide. Joe,” she called to one of the guys on her team. “Come here. Watch where you step. Record the distance for me.” Her team began moving, laying down a kind of map with stakes, chaining pins, and string.

  “We’re going to make a grid over the site,” she continued to explain, brushing the dirt from her hands, and then she rubbed them together to keep them warm in the frigid December air. “It will serve as a reference when we start excavation and collection.” White clouds whirled from her lips. “Is this your first dig?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. On the few cases he’d worked since becoming a homicide investigator, the bodies had been fresh, or at least fresher. Although for the last two months, he’d been sitting at his desk pushing paper around, ever since Lieutenant Sayres had learned Parker had been involved with Becca, the key witness in his last case. Sayres had been punishing Parker for not removing himself from the investigation. It wasn’t until this morning that Parker had gotten the call to head up the mountain and that he was finally getting the partner he’d been promised. Geena Brassard was expected to join him. Where was she, anyway? She should’ve been here an hour ago.

  He pulled the collar of his jacket up in an attempt to fight off the cold. He didn’t much like the cold, didn’t like the way it left his fingers and toes numb, his ears raw, his skin dry and itchy. He often wondered why, after living in the area his entire life, he didn’t move away. He then had to remind himself it was only the winter months, three months out of the year, that he found miserable. The rest of the year offered up mostly beautiful weather if you loved the change of seasons, which he did.

  The temperature was expected to drop overnight, with windchills in the single digits. The frozen ground made it that much harder to dig. They had to get as much done today as possible. In another few hours dusk would roll in, and sometime thereafter, the woods would become so dark that you wouldn’t be able to see what was in front of your nose. He’d heard mention of spotlights being brought in on the back of ATVs. He might as well forget about any plans tonight, not that he’d had any. He was looking at either a long night on the mountain or another night alone in his cabin by the river.

  Cheryl’s team worked on the grid. He stood around feeling useless and in the way. There wasn’t anything he could think to do but wait. He couldn’t walk around, not wanting to contaminate the scene. Instead, he flipped through his notes. He’d talked to the kid, Jeremy, who had found the bones initially. Jeremy was a freelance photographer, young, early twenties. He worked for the local newspaper, which meant word of the discovery would make the evening news. Jeremy had been on the trail with his dog, Lincoln, taking photographs for some new mountain resort, when the dog had started digging, unearthing the skull. The kid had been shaken, but he’d been smart enough to know to stop the dog from digging further. He’d marked the spot in his memory by using the Kilroy was here carving as a landmark. And once Jeremy had come
down off the mountain—because you couldn’t always get a signal while you were on it—he’d called 911.

  “Excuse me,” one of the techs said and squeezed around Parker. She was young, fresh faced. She smiled at him, brushed up against him, and not for the first time.

  He nodded in a friendly way, but not too friendly. It wasn’t that the tech wasn’t pretty; nor was she the first female to flirt with him on the job. According to Sharmaine, who worked the front desk back at the station, Parker was a real looker. She’d pointed out on more than one occasion that women must love the scruff on his chin, the same scruff that was frowned upon by his superiors. It wasn’t his intention to piss off command; nor was it his goal to attract the ladies. Most days he just plain forgot to shave. He’d been so focused on his job the last few years that it didn’t leave him much time for anything or anyone else.

  Except for Becca, of course: the only girl for him, whether she knew it or not.

  He moved away from the pretty tech, putting his back against the large oak that was quickly becoming known to the team as the “Kilroy tree.” Karla, their forensic photographer, moved around the site snapping photos of the grid as it was constructed. The pictures would help other experts and potential jurors understand the scene if necessary.

  When the grid was completed, Cheryl’s team gathered around and discussed the best method to handle the excavation due to the hard ground. They talked about soil collection. Rakes, trowels, wire-mesh screens, and buckets lay on the ground at their feet. The team looked like a bunch of prospectors panning for gold.

  “How did you get so lucky to land this one?” Karla asked, holding her camera off to the side. She was close to his age, early thirties, and four months pregnant. Her jacket was pulled tight across her growing stomach. When he’d asked if she’d needed help climbing up the mountain, worried about her falling, she’d shrugged him off. So much for being chivalrous.

  “Good question,” Parker said, not really answering her, although he had an idea. It could’ve been as simple as being next in line as cases turned up, but he suspected he’d been given this one regardless of protocol. According to Lieutenant Sayres, Parker could “sit his ass on the freezing-cold mountain and think about his mistake.”