Blood dripped down the side of the bed. Her mother’s arm dangled off the edge, her hand limp.
More bile rose in Nikki’s mouth. Her vision blurred again. Her face had gone numb, but her heart raced.
She had to be dreaming.
Then why did she smell copper and gunfire?
The hall light burned a spotlight on her mother. Nikki inched toward the bed, panic attacking her nervous system.
“Mom?”
Lifeless brown eyes stared back at her. A face frozen in anguish, blood on her nightgown pooling next to her body and dripping off the side.
Nikki grabbed her mother’s hand and put two fingers on her wrist. No pulse.
Nikki’s breath came in short rasps, the vodka still threatening to come back up. She remembered the bloody footsteps… the killer had walked through her mother’s blood.
And then she heard it. A familiar series of creaks. Someone was slowly walking upstairs. Someone who didn’t know which steps to avoid.
One
Present Day
Bitter, cold wind tore through Nikki’s heavy coat and snow crept into the tops of her boots as she waded through the drifts. She swore under her breath. The Arctic Circle was probably warmer than Minnesota right now.
Deer tracks covered the snow, making a path that led up to the barbed-wire fence several hundred yards to her right. Bright yellow “No trespassing” signs had been posted along the fence line. It was prime hunting ground, although only small game was currently in season. She envied the deer’s ability to jump the fence and shelter in the trees; instead she was fighting the wind in the flatness of the surrounding cornfields.
A man in a thick Washington County Sheriff’s coat zipped up to his nose joined her, his wool hat low on his forehead. “Agent Hunt?”
“Special Agent Nikki Hunt, FBI.” She shook his gloved hand, her frosty breath filling the air between them.
“Sergeant Kent Miller with the sheriff’s office. We haven’t touched the bodies. Knew you’d want to see them first.”
“You’re certain it’s the girls who disappeared two months ago?”
Bits of blowing snow freckled over Miller’s dark skin. “Yes. They’re well preserved, frozen solid, just like the others. But no red ribbons. That’s why I was on the fence about calling you, but Sheriff Hardin insisted on notifying the FBI.”
The others, meaning the five women Frost had killed over the past half-decade. Frost was the first serial killer Nikki had chased, and the only one she hadn’t caught. Frost stuck to the same routine every year: he took a woman in the late fall, kept her alive for an undetermined amount of time, and then froze her body immediately after he’d killed her. A red ribbon tied the victim’s hair back, and they were always wiped down with bleach, leaving little transfer evidence. Frost bounced between northern Minnesota, Wisconsin and Michigan, often taking a victim from one state and dumping her in another. He always left the frozen body in the snow at the peak of winter, in an area it would easily be noticed. A city park, an empty lot across from a high school, an unplowed parking lot—these were his places of choice. An isolated cornfield in the back of a large acreage was the last place she’d expect to find one of his victims. Nikki was certain the public’s reaction was part of Frost’s addiction. So why would he leave these bodies out here where it could be months before they were found?
“The Frost Killer has never left two victims,” Nikki said.
“Sheriff thinks he might be bored with one victim,” Miller said, a slight edge to his voice. “You’re the expert, though.”
“This is his favorite time of year.” Nikki followed Miller’s long strides into the cornfield. She’d always found them creepy. Her friends earned money in the summer from detasseling, but Nikki refused to set foot in them. Too claustrophobic. “Any idea when they were dumped?”
“Not with any certainty. We didn’t have serious snow accumulation until mid-December. I double-checked, and we’ve had sixteen inches since then. We got about five inches of snow the day before yesterday, but the wind’s causing it to blow and drift.”
Thirty mph-plus winds, Nikki thought. “Who owns the field?”
“Farmer up the road,” Miller said. “It’s a back field, used mostly for sweetcorn.”
“He probably doesn’t come here much at all during the winter.” Nikki wondered how many people knew this.
“Nope,” Miller replied. “One of his dogs got loose and his son chased it down the lane. He’s the one who found the bodies.”
Poor kid. “Did the dog come into contact with the bodies?”
“No, thankfully. They’re just up here.”
