One day earlier...
Ruckersville, Virginia, 12:50 p.m.
Jess slowed her Audi and stared at the road sign. It was an old one, part of the lettering was worn off. G..en . . .f. Looked like Green Leaf to her. Potter said she’d only been here once but the old farmhouse was at the end of Green Leaf Road just off Route 610.
“Hope this is you, Mr. Pritchard.”
She would have been here an hour ago if not for a damned flat tire. After Delia Potter headed for the airport, Jess was stuck at the IHOP until Warrenton Tire & Auto could get someone over to remedy the situation. As she made the turn onto Green Leaf, she hoped there was a gravel road beneath this blanket of fluff. Fortunately, all the main roads had been cleared. But not the side roads like this one. She glanced up at the sky. The white stuff was still coming down. Was it getting heavier now? She hoped not.
The farther she drove down the narrow road the more the woods seemed to close in on it. Drifts of snow perched on every available ledge. The evergreen branches were loaded down with it reminding her that Christmas was only two days away. Lil had been begging her to come home for the holidays. Thanksgiving hadn’t happened and now she was pushing for Christmas. It had been a long time.
But holidays were just like any other day for Jess. She didn’t even bother with a tree. She was never home anyway. The few times a year when she saw her family they came to Virginia.
Lil never let too much time pass between visits and she didn’t understand why it had to be work first with Jess.
This case was a perfect example. It couldn’t wait. Even so guilt was her constant companion. Particularly when she had no choice but to disappoint her sister each time she asked. There simply was no other way. Christmas or not, the important thing right now was finding answers for the families of the victims in this case.
This lead might not pan out but there was only one way to find out. Jess dug out her cell and put through another call to Gant. She’d called twice already and he’d been in a meeting. Taylor had apparently been in the same meeting. She hadn’t wanted to leave a message for Gant until she had something he didn’t know already. Another glance at the sky warned that, at this point, she just needed someone to know where she was.
Gant’s voice rattled across the line, the sound going in and out. Jess checked the bars on her screen. “Dammit.” Only one. She braked to a stop, causing the car to skid a little. She held her breath until it stilled.
“Harris?”
“Sorry about that,” she said to Gant. “I had to stop, the reception is really, really bad.”
“Where... you?”
He was breaking up. Hopefully he could hear better on his end. “I’m following up on a lead Delia Potter gave me. A Dale Pritchard. He and Aniston were POWs together in Vietnam.”
Gant was shouting unintelligible words at her again.
“I’m at a farm on Green Leaf Road off Route 610 near Ruckersville. Green Leaf Road,” she repeated. “Off 610.”
“I don’t like this... ready... me.”
Frustration shortened her patience. He sends her to learn what no one else had and now he says he doesn’t like this. “I can’t hear you.” She repeated the address a third time and ended the call. There was nothing else to do. If Pritchard had a landline, she would call Gant from there. Hopefully he was expecting her. Potter had said she would try to reach him.
“Ready or not.” Jess resumed her journey.
The old farmhouse sat in a clearing at least a mile off the main road. An old pickup truck was parked next to the house. A barn was visible near the tree line. Not much else around but woods and snow.
“Fun. Fun.” She turned off the engine and reached into the passenger floorboard for her boots. She’d had the foresight to get them out of the trunk this morning.
When she climbed out of the car the snow almost reached the tops of her boots. She grimaced. Cold feet were bad enough. If the snow got into her boots, cold, wet feet would be way worse. Before closing her door she tucked her Glock into her coat pocket... just in case.
That was the thing about having spent eight years in the field, you learned to buy the right clothes. No shallow pockets. No thick, lined gloves either. The thinner, formfitting kind kept her hands warm enough and allowed for a good grip on her weapon.
She trudged the short distance to the porch steps. The snow crunching under her boots was the only sound. Spooky quiet. Three steps up and she was on the porch. The faintest whistling of wind through the trees whirred in the air.
Jess scanned the area again. The truck hadn’t moved since the big snow dump last night. Maybe he didn’t use that old truck. Could he even drive? Potter hadn’t mentioned anyone else living here. Although there was a visible set of ruts where it appeared a vehicle had driven past the house some time earlier today. She couldn’t accurately judge how long ago but snow was beginning to fill those tracks now.
Moving to the end of the porch, she checked the area around the barn. Nothing there either. Maybe someone had made a delivery. Or, for all she knew, Pritchard had a housekeeper or nurse. A relative may have come to take him home for the holidays.
She hoped she hadn’t come all this way to find an empty house.
Jess rapped on the door. Nothing. She banged a little harder.
Still nothing.
She reached into her pocket with her right hand and curled her fingers around her Glock. “Mr. Pritchard, you in there? I’m Special Agent Jess Harris from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Delia Potter sent me to check on you.” She reached for the doorknob with her left hand. “Mr. Pritchard?”
The knob turned easily. Not locked. Braced for trouble, she stepped to the side and gave the door a shove with one booted foot. No lights on inside. “Mr. Pritchard, are you okay in there?”
Total silence was all she got for her trouble.
“Mr. Pritchard, I need to speak with you, sir.” She felt on the wall by the door for a switch. Flipped it. Still no light. Either the power had gone out from the storm or the man hadn’t paid his bill. Then again, could be a blown bulb. She moved a few feet deeper into the house. Pritchard was an elderly, disabled man. He could be in need of medical care, giving her reasonable cause to enter the premises.
Damn. She shivered. It was as cold in here as it was outside. There was a fireplace with enough ash to suggest someone had been burning wood but not recently.
She blinked repeatedly to help her eyes adjust faster to the dim interior as she took another step toward what she estimated to be the kitchen. “Mr. Pritchard, please call out to me if you if you can hear me. Do you need medical attention?”
The house was relatively small. Paneled walls and low ceilings with wood floors. Newspapers were stacked in a neat pile on the sofa. A half empty glass of water sat on a table next to a well-used chair. The place was as silent as a tomb.
A soft sound jerked Jess to the left, toward the far side of the living room. She aimed her weapon in that direction.
“Hello?”
The sound came again. Help! Too indistinct to determine if it was male or female.
“Mr. Pritchard?” Moving quickly, she entered a long narrow hallway. Three doors. Two on the left, one on the right. Bedrooms and a bath most likely. Calling for backup would be the preferred protocol about now, but there was no time. If the old man needed medical attention she was going to have a hell of a time getting him out of the house. With no cell service and no sign of a landline as of yet, she might not have a choice.
Where the hell was that phone Potter claimed he had?
The faint cry for help came again. Seemed to be coming from door number two on her left. She edged closer. Her pulse rate revved up as adrenaline pumped through her body. The door was ajar.
Leading with her Glock, she pushed the door inward. Next to the bed a man sat slumped in his wheelchair. A dark green blanket covered most of his torso.
“Mr. Pritchard?” Jess moved toward him. It was even colder in here. She crouched down to get a look at his face. “Mr. Prit—”
His face was frozen in pain... eyes wide open... mouth gaping in mid-cry. Throat slashed. Blood had soaked into the green wool of the blanket and dried. He had been dead for a while. Days, maybe a week.
Jess swore. She might as well drive back out to the main road where reception was better and call—
Something went around her neck—rope—and she was jerked backward. She scrambled to get up... to get free. She twisted, tried to get her weapon around to shoot at whoever was choking her.
The rope tightened.
A weight settled on her back, pressed her face to the floor.
Jess bucked and twisted her body to throw off the weight. Didn’t work. She jabbed her elbow at her attacker. Couldn’t connect. The rope grew tighter and tighter. Her weapon discharged. The room was spinning... growing darker.
No air.