Blindsided

  BLINDSIDED

  Kate Watterson

  ALSO AVAILABLE BY KATE WATTERSON

  Ellie MacIntosh Mysteries

  Severed

  Crushed

  Vanished

  Fractured

  Buried

  Bleed

  Charred

  Thaw

  Frozen

  Danny Haase Mysteries (written as Katherine Smith)

  The Opposite House

  The Summer Bones

  Blood Is Quicker Than Water

  Summer Treason

  To Peter and Deb Nordgren

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  With heartfelt thanks to both Barbara Poelle and Jenny Chen for making this book come to life.

  PROLOGUE

  It was late morning when Cadence Lawrence walked into the full waiting room, but for once, she wasn’t the busy doctor running behind.

  As she looked around for an empty chair, she saw him in a blinding moment of recognition, like an unwanted apparition just sitting there in the middle of an ordinary setting. He’d aged a little since their last encounter, but the years had maybe improved those defined features and his hair was the same thick chestnut brown, his shoulders just as wide in an expensive suit coat as they had been when he was the star running back of the football team. As if he sensed she’d stopped cold and was staring at him, he looked up from the magazine he’d been reading and also recognized her. It was there in his pale-blue eyes and the sudden tightening of his mouth, and they might as well have been in the room alone for that moment.

  Hatred. It shimmered between them, ruined her already harried morning, and she thought, No! I hoped I’d just never see you again.

  Maybe he’d thought the same thing, since he just went back to reading his magazine.

  Or maybe he was thinking something else entirely.

  1

  The worst date ever. Boredom had set in during the first five minutes after they were seated in the restaurant, but then again, she was definitely distracted.

  Thea Benedict walked through her front door and shut it in relief behind her. She kicked off her shoes, sank down on the couch, and relaxed for the first time all evening.

  No, relaxed wasn’t accurate.

  Dirk Lyons.

  That name was very familiar. She didn’t need to punch up her computer to check the facts. She knew them cold. Birthdate July 13, 1985. From a small Indiana town she’d never heard of, top of his high school class, went to college on a football scholarship … but his childhood certainly wasn’t perfect. Father deserted the family and apparently never looked back. Even with her resources, his father couldn’t be found.

  That she’d been assigned this case was irony at its finest, and now she actually knew where he was. A meeting with Dr. Lawrence was in order. Without her, Thea would still be looking for a shadow.

  The report had triggered a series of email exchanges with law enforcement both local and federal, and the results had ended up with her office.

  Lyons was wanted in Texas for suspected murder, but she hadn’t known about the Indiana case. It was like looking through ice but knowing there was water rippling underneath. Opaque but liquid.

  Was he capable of it?

  She knew him, and she certainly thought so.

  A phone call wasn’t going to do for this. Given the circumstances, she thought a face-to-face was the only way to handle the situation.

  She’d be paying a visit to Indiana.

  The first fat, fluffy white flakes that drifted downward looked so unthreatening. True, the radio had insisted dismally all afternoon that a big storm was intent on wandering into Canada via the upper Midwest, but they were so often wrong it had seemed worth taking the chance to make a few more miles.

  Every mile, every yard, every inch, and she felt just a little safer.

  However, Cadence Lawrence had to admit that taking this winding little county highway might have been a great mistake. Yes, it was infinitely more relaxing than battling freeway traffic and the nail-biting antics of other drivers. Also much more private—and more unlikely a route. With the bristling pine forest around her, she got the occasional glimpse of a snow-coated pristine northern lake, so it was also much prettier—but still a mistake. She had actually started to enjoy herself because of the scenery until the snow began in earnest, whipping sideways under a wind that came out of nowhere, swirling tall columns of white across the narrow road in bursts so thick that sometimes—for long, heart-stopping moments—she couldn’t see a thing.

  Not ideal.

  A mere two hours after the first lovely little white flake landed on her windshield, conditions rapidly moved from dangerous to appalling.

  Slowing to a crawl at ten miles per hour helped a little. Crouched over the wheel, eyes straining, with one hand Cadence groped for her map because her GPS wasn’t working. Muttering out loud, she said crossly, “What was the name of that damned town and how far can it be?”

  The crinkle of paper told her she’d found what she wanted, and she took a second to pull it up in front of her. TOMAHAWK, she saw before quickly lowering the map. With a big enough black dot to hopefully have a motel.

  If she could even get there. The road seemed to disappear right in front of her, only the solid image of the hovering trees defining where she needed to go. Already she was hitting drifts that frighteningly affected her control of the car, and the wind echoed above the sound of the rock station she’d found, howling eerily through the treetops. She couldn’t even tell if the radio was cutting in or out, but she suspected it was.

  But disaster came from neither the elements nor the ever-darkening vastness of the forest.

  The red light that flashed on the dash was her first inkling the car had died. It had stalled several times already since she’d left Indianapolis but always started again easily, and she’d not even entertained the notion of stopping yet to have someone look at it.

  Without power steering, she slid gently to a rocking stop, helped by a three-foot drift. Snow pelted the windshield and her wipers seemed to just move it around, not actually clear it away. Her lights blazed in vague illumination behind that white wall, the skies having grown so dark it was hard to believe it was only late afternoon. Cadence’s hands shook as she groped for the keys in the ignition.

  The engine flared to life and then abruptly went silent. Battery still working, but the engine not so much.

  This, she thought frantically, can’t be happening. No one, especially someone who had experienced such an awful past few months, could have such bad luck. Car trouble on a remote road during a full-blown snowstorm? God must truly hate her.

  If there was a God. She’d always thought so, but lately she was beginning to wonder.

  She tried again. This time there was no answering spark, no comforting noise. This time the key merely clicked silently. She frantically checked her cell phone and it showed no bars.

  “Damn.” Her oath was choked with dismay and a sort of numbing fear. She hadn’t passed a car in many miles, and no one in their right mind would be out and about anyway. Maybe a snowplow would come along … but then again, the road crews would have their hands full just keeping the main highways clear in weather like this. Even in Indiana the secondary roads got fairly treacherous during winter storms.

  Some of them became impassable. This one certainly was becoming that way fast.

  Cadence left the lights on, as it seemed the logical thing to do in case there was a car or a snowplow. She didn’t want someone to plow into her, and since she couldn’t see anything, they couldn’t be doing much better. Waiting an agonizing five minutes, she tried to start the car again. No luck.

  Expensive piece of shit, she thought cynically, fighting not to panic. Minutes passed. Sh
e tried turning the key once more. That useless, useless key.

  Already, alarmingly fast, she was beginning to get cold. Gazing blankly out the window, she saw nothing but white: lashing, retreating, dancing in waves against the glass. She waited, shivering, the full irony of the situation weighing as heavy as the deep silence of the frozen woods surrounding her.

  And waited. It was hard to just sit there, but she had no idea what else to do. Walking was out of the question. She wasn’t even sure where she was even if she could reach emergency services.

  She’d fled Indianapolis because she’d become convinced it might be the only way to save her life.

  Now, she might very well die anyway.

  At least this death would be peaceful, she reminded herself, and leaned her head back against the seat, closing her eyes. Her coat was lightweight wool, the one she wore to the office, a dress coat unsuited for bitter temperatures. Even with her hands deep in the pockets, her fingers were cool and aching. Before long she would be able to see her breath, even inside the car.

  Time passed. Eventually she could see her breath. Not a promising sign. It didn’t help that she was exhausted, both emotionally and mentally.

  The knock came without warning, close, just inches from her left ear, and she jumped violently. Eyes flying open, Cadence twisted and stared out her driver’s side window. A face, obscured by the flying snow, was there as someone peered inside.

  “Are you okay?” The shout was muffled by the wind.

  A face? Another human being. Someone who had to have transportation to have gotten there?

  Rescue. It registered only dimly. It took a second before she summoned up enough composure to fumble for the button on the side of the door. Her window lowered so slowly that she knew her battery must be going dead. A blast of cold air and snow hit her right in the face, and she gasped. “I’m fine, but my car is stalled.”

  The figure outside her window straightened. A tall man, she decided. She could hear the smooth idle of an engine even through the sighing wind. The words were nearly snatched away, but she thought he said, “You’d better get out and come with me.”

  Get into the car of a perfect stranger?

  No way.

  Cadence shook her head and inhaled another blast of snow. There was a small pile already on the seat next to her just from the brief time her window had been open. She called out, “Thanks, but no. Can you do me a favor and call a tow truck? Maybe let them know I’m here?”

  For a second he disappeared, swallowed by a column of white that seemed to envelope his tall figure. He shouted into the wind, “Lady, no one … here … for days. I bet … close the roads … snow emergency.”

  “I …”

  The man bent suddenly and thrust his head inside the car through the open window. She flinched back, but not before she got the impression of dark hair coated with white flakes, dark eyes, and a grim mouth. He said clearly, “I am willing to give you a ride, but if we wait about one more minute, neither of us is going anywhere. Now, come on or forget it. It’s a free country and if you want to freeze to death, hey, I can’t really stop you.”

  * * *

  Mick McCutcheon eased the truck into gear and felt the tires spin uselessly for a few seconds before the four-wheel drive kicked in and they lurched forward into the blinding wall of snow.

  It was most certainly the worst storm in at least three years, one of those deadly entities that swept in and started to dump snow so fast you couldn’t get anywhere, do anything, and the whole notion of the power of nature came slamming into focus.

  The woman sitting next to him shivered. He could hear her shallow breathing and actually feel the tremors as she shook uncontrollably. He said, “If you want to turn up the heat, that’s fine with me. I’d do it for you, but if I take my eyes off what used to be this road, I’m pretty sure we’ll end up somewhere in Otter Lake. It’s that top button. Push it over to the red.”

  “Thanks.” It was a weak mutter.

  Seconds later the fan went up with a gush of warm air that fanned his face. The snow clinging to his hair began to melt, running down his neck under the collar of his coat. There wasn’t much doubt that the young woman sitting next to him had been apprehensive about getting into the car with him, and since he wasn’t used to being considered a possible ax murderer or serial rapist, he wasn’t just sure what to say. He settled for a conversational question. “How long had you been there?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe an hour or more.” Her voice was soft, the accent subtle and almost southern. “I couldn’t believe it when my car just died.”

  “If it wasn’t for your lights, I would have driven right by.”

  “Thank heavens then you weren’t about five minutes later, Mr.…?”

  “McCutcheon,” he supplied readily.

  “Thank you.” It was almost a stifled response. “At any rate, my battery was going dead. I couldn’t even roll up my window all the way. I hope the snow won’t completely ruin the interior of my car.”

  “I’m sure any damage suffered would be preferable to slowly turning into a block of ice,” he spoke dryly, trying to sound nonchalant as he strained to see the turnoff for Loon Road. If he missed it—and in this nasty soup it was just possible—they would be in some trouble. Using his intuition, he was sure it was just ahead, but the whiteout conditions and his reduced speed made everything difficult to judge.

  No answer.

  No thanks, either, for his timely rescue.

  Mick chanced one swift glance over. The woman huddled in her long coat, collar up, her small form radiating tension in palpable waves. Not much was visible except the top of her head. He jerked his gaze back to the road, or whatever he could see of it. “I need you to help me out, if you would.”

  That roused her a little, and she stirred. “How?”

  “We’re looking for a blue spruce. Your side of the road. Right on the corner of an intersection. There’s a sign, but we won’t see it, not in this crap. The tree is big, and much taller than the pines around it.”

  The girl leaned forward, peering out the windshield. “I’ll try, but I can’t see anything. Should it be getting dark so early?”

  He couldn’t see anything either, but he hardly wanted to say so. He murmured, “It’s the storm. Speaking of which, what were you doing on the road anyway? They’ve been broadcasting dire predictions for most of the morning.”

  She didn’t answer his question. Instead, she asked coolly, “If you knew that, what are you doing on this road, Mr. McCutcheon?”

  “I was hoping they would be wrong.” It was a truthful answer.

  She laughed, a light sound, almost startling with the howling wind and slashing snow. “So was I.”

  “Yeah, so we’re both stupid,” he said, half under his breath. He was beginning to sweat despite the dropping temperatures outside; whether it was the blasting heater or the fact that the road he’d traveled many times looked like something out of a fantastic fairy tale, he wasn’t sure. Deep drifts sent the truck spinning sideways almost every few feet, and though he’d managed so far to plow through each one of them, his hope that the trend would continue was starting to dwindle.

  Damn it, where is the road?

  “There!” The woman pointed suddenly out her window. “A big tree. I’m pretty sure a spruce … it’s hard to tell. Everything is coated in snow, but it is the right shape.”

  Timing wise, he had no idea if they had gone the right distance. However, it did look like there might be a gap that could be a road. Twisting the wheel, he managed part of the turn before they lurched to a halt, the truck nose-to-nose with some snow-laden pines.

  Backing up got interesting.

  He could go a few feet, turn the wheel, and move forward, making some progress each time. The only good news was that he was sure now it was Loon Road, and that was reassuring. His companion said nothing during the whole neck-jerking business, just sitting with her coat held around her like a protective blanket.
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  It was a mile to his cabin. One blasted mile. Walking the distance in what was probably at least knee-deep snow didn’t hold much appeal. Wrenching the wheel around with all his strength, he gunned the engine and finally managed a fishtail entrance to the narrow road that led to his lane.

  Finally, he got a little lucky. On this road, the wind wasn’t depositing great heaps of sticky white powder in his path. Actually, as the trees thickened even more and the wind blasted straight north, he could see a little better. His mailbox coming into view was a fabulous sight.

  The lane on his property was long—deliberately long, deliberately private—and curved downward and then up a steep hill. Ninety-nine percent of the year he loved it that way, with the cabin tucked back where no one could see it except from the lake, the winding drive bordered by tall, straight white pines and the occasional graceful birch. This particular night, however, it was like trying to make his way through a soggy marsh blindfolded.

  The truck stalled out somewhere at the bottom. A formidable drift had formed already, blocking the slope upward, the wind direction and barrier of the trees making a perfect dumping ground for nature’s abundant generosity. He usually had trouble with drifting in that spot, but rarely so fast and so much.

  All this time, since spotting the spruce, his companion hadn’t said as much as a word. He couldn’t tell if she was scared or merely standoffish. Somewhat wearily, he pulled out the keys and dropped them in his pocket. “We’ll have to make a go of it on foot now.”

  It was almost fully dark now. The woman turned, and her face was a pale gleam. “On foot? To where?”

  “My house,” he replied evenly, and pointed at the windshield. “Right over that hill.”

  “Your … house?” It was an unhappy question. He caught the sideways flash of her eyes in an oval of a face. “How far is the closest town?”

  “About twenty miles too far away. Look, lady, you saw that road.”

  “Yes, but …” Her voice trailed off on a breath.

  Females being conditioned from birth to be wary of unknown males, he really couldn’t blame her for being less than enthusiastic about the idea. On the other hand, the way he looked at it, he’d stopped and done something decent for another human being. If she didn’t like it, well, hell, that was her problem. Tersely, he said, “Follow me.”