Although Burning Lake tended to cling to its holiday season for as long as it could after New Year’s Eve, the post-holiday blues had descended upon the town. A month packed with social events had given way to the empty calendar of January and February. This winter had been especially harsh and unrelenting, beginning with an ice storm in November. Even though it was March, there was still a long way to go.
It was seven thirty on a Tuesday morning, March 8. A small army of plows had been sent out after the storm had tapered off around six A.M., and most of the roads on the north side of town had been cleared. The sheer edges of the embankments revealed where the plows had dug into the lawns, exposing clumps of brown earth beneath the white drifts. Shivery cold inside her Honda Accord, Natalie turned the heat on full blast, then found the weather channel. The storm was rapidly heading northeast, according to the weatherman, but outside a light snow was still falling. Her tires hummed on the slippery asphalt as she drove toward the outskirts of town.
Everyone in Burning Lake knew who fifty-eight-year-old Veronica Manes was—a respected Wiccan priestess, head of one of the oldest covens in town. She lived in the historic Bell House at 8 Plymouth Street, and many years ago, she’d written several books under a pen name, Corvina Manse—a clever anagram of her own name. She was known to host quarterly moonlight rituals on her property. She was the best person to talk to if you wanted to understand modern-day witchcraft. She had shoulder-length gray hair and wore informal, mismatched clothes—turtlenecks, cardigans, stretch pants, New Balance sneakers. Her face was kind, with more than a hint of melancholy about it. She was a perfectly ordinary person who just so happened to be a witch.
Now she was dead. Hit by a train.
The last time Natalie had seen Veronica was about four months ago, during the investigation of the Violinist case. Veronica had briefly encountered the victim, Morgan Chambers, and provided the police with helpful information. Since then, Natalie had bumped into Veronica a few times around town—twice at the grocery store and once at the bank, where they’d exchanged pleasantries before going their separate ways.
Over the phone, Luke had skimped on the details and Natalie didn’t know the whole story. She didn’t know if this was an accident or a suicide, but it was certainly terrible news. Also, quite mysteriously, he’d hinted at foul play, which puzzled her. Was she pushed onto the tracks? Veronica struck Natalie as someone so intelligent, practical, generous, and tolerant, she couldn’t have made very many enemies in her life. Certainly, she was beloved by the Wiccan community. But as her father, Joey, used to say, Accuracy is more important than speed. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Natalie. Facts first. Speculation last.
The northern edge of town consisted mostly of woods—conservancy lands, state lands, privately owned property, and railroad easements. The tracks ran east to west, with a handful of passenger trains running routes several times a day. Most of the vehicular-train collision accidents that occurred along this route happened on Snowshoe Street or Bellflower Hollow, two places where the back roads crossed the tracks without any drop-arm gates or warning signs to deter drivers from thinking they could outrun a locomotive.
The last collision had occurred at the Snowshoe Street crossing two years ago when a woman’s Toyota Highlander got stuck on the tracks and was struck by a westbound passenger train. Fortunately, although the SUV was totaled, she came out of it totally unscathed. There had been other victims over the years who weren’t as lucky—car accidents at the crossings, or people on foot, who for whatever reason decided to walk along the tracks, believing that the train would give them plenty of warning. Over the past three decades, there had been a dozen collisions, but only five fatalities. An unfortunate few were suicides.
Natalie pulled over to the side of Copperhead Road, an isolated stretch of asphalt surrounded by dense woods on both sides. Other members of the police and fire departments were already there. Loose stones crunched under her tires as she parked behind a police cruiser, got out, and took a fire road toward the railroad tracks.
“Shit.” She’d forgotten her winter gloves at home. Natalie shivered and breathed on her fingers to keep them warm, then burrowed them into her coat pockets.
The gravel road stopped at the edge of a clearing. Since this dead-end street didn’t cross the tracks and continue northward, there were no warning signs posted here, no drop-arm gates or flashing lights, no bells or crossbuck symbols to warn drivers or pedestrians away from the tracks. The road simply ended in a ditch full of silvery winter weeds.
The railroad companies owned the land on which their tracks were laid, as well as a significant easement of a couple hundred feet on either side. She heard the crunch of footsteps approaching. Forty-five-year-old Detective Peter Murphy came out of the clearing toward her, talking on his phone. He acknowledged her with a stiff nod. They used to get along quite well, but last year his feelings seemed to have soured toward her, and now theirs was a contentious relationship. It all started when Murphy accidentally lost a crucial file from the Missing Nine case, almost a year ago, and Natalie let him know how much his carelessness pissed her off. Murph’s resentment and her bitterness had festered quietly ever since.
“Natalie,” he said coolly, his thick eyebrows knitting together as he pocketed his phone.
“Hello, Murph. What happened?”
“Luke didn’t tell you?”
She shook her head. “He said to get here pronto. No details.”
“Well, then, you’re in for quite a treat. Go have a look for yourself, if you’ve got the stomach for it.”
“I think I can handle it.”
He held her eye, then brushed past her saying, “Of course you can. See you later.”
Okay. Chalk that up to another awkward exchange.
Natalie trudged into the clearing where the train tracks cut through the woods and the utility lines ran parallel to the tracks. Here the snowpack was deep. The snow layers had built up since November, and the newer powdery snow lay on top, whereas the older snow was denser with a crunchy crust.
Natalie shivered as the wind rustled through the leafless trees, blowing loose scuffs of snow across the landscape. A cardinal darted over the treetops like a slash of crimson—so quick, and then it was gone. There was a faint smell of sulfur in the air from the train braking.
She followed the footprints of other law officers toward the tracks, then took a moment to survey the scene of the accident—an expanse of snow scattered with bundled-up figures talking in hushed voices. Natalie recognized several of her colleagues from the detective’s unit among the state police and rank-and-file officers—Detectives Lenny Labruzzo, Augie Vickers, and Brandon Buckner.
They were looking down at what appeared to be lumps of clothing scattered around the tracks, along with brilliant scarlet splashes in the snow. Her stomach felt watery. She stared at the scene until she nearly went snow-blind. Then she looked away and blinked, the afterimage lingering on her retinas.
Blood in the snow. Scarlet on a white background.
She heard a familiar voice behind her.
“Natalie,” Lieutenant Luke Pittman said.