Read the book: «Cold Case Secrets»

ONE

The thrumming of the helicopter rotors were like a steady drum beat pounding through Jacob Henry’s mind as the Royal Canadian Mounted Police detective scanned the monitor for any sign of life in the dense Ontario forest below. Outside the cockpit window, the summer sun was just beginning its descent behind thick and oppressive clouds. Silvery outlines of opal raindrops traced streaks down the windshield. Tense words between the young Search and Rescue pilot sitting beside him and the testy East Coast detective in the back seat filled his headset.

“I’m just saying that when the wind picks up and the rain hits for real, we’re going to be forced to turn back,” the pilot, Kevin Faust, said. “I don’t want to crash.”

“And I’m just saying when you’ve flown as many flights as I have, you know what you can get away with,” Detective Warren Scott shot back.

“As a hobby pilot,” Kevin said. “Not a professional with Search and Rescue.”

Jacob focused on the black-and-white screen ahead of him, searching for the bright glare of a human heat signature.

Wherever the escaped convicts are, Lord, and whoever ultimately finds them, please may those killers be recaptured tonight.

Authorities were scrambling across Ontario to find three convicted killers who’d overpowered their guards and forced the prison van transporting them to crash on the Trans-Canada Highway almost twenty miles north of the maze of trees and towering rocks that made up Algonquin Provincial Park. While local police searched nearby towns and buildings, and provincial police checked the roads, Jacob and Warren had volunteered for the aerial search of the almost three-thousand-square mile provincial park. Home to over two thousand lakes and seven-hundred-and-fifty miles of river, it was a haven for the kind of off-the-grid campers who enjoyed hiking and canoeing for days into the middle of nowhere.

They might as well have been searching for a quarter in a cornfield.

“They’re probably not even out here,” Kevin argued, speaking into his headset microphone to be heard over the sound of the rotors. “If I’d just escaped a concrete box, the last place I’d be hiding out is somewhere with no running water or electricity.”

Maybe not. But moments ago, there’d been a blip, a heat signature, that had lit up the screen for a fleeting moment like a beacon. They just had to find it again.

Jacob focused on the infrared monitor. “Just give me five.”

“You can have a whole twenty,” Kevin said, “if the rain doesn’t get worse before then. But in twenty minutes I’m turning around, one way or another, because otherwise we’re running out of fuel.”

“Heard that.” Jacob’s eyes didn’t flicker from the screen.

Lord, help me see what I need to see.

Nothing but his own pale face reflected back at him, reminding him of an entire summer spent indoors, reading evidence on screens. The light brown scruff that brushed his jaw was more from lack of shaving than intention and tinged with a bit more white than he liked admitting.

“I just don’t want to head back with nothing,” Warren said, then muttered, almost as if to himself, “I gave up a date for this.”

Jacob cut his eyes in the detective’s direction. He’d vaguely known Warren from their large regional high school, before the other man had moved out east for college, so he knew he was also getting close to forty. Warren had only transferred back to Ontario in the spring and already he was dating? How did people even date now? Where did they even meet? Jacob couldn’t remember the last time he himself had so much as gone out with anyone for coffee. At two years away from the big four-oh himself, Jacob had been in the business of stopping killers long enough to know that saving other people’s lives and having a life of your own didn’t mesh. Despite the fact that Jacob’s three younger brothers had recently all decided to prove him wrong.

“I gave up bowling with my league,” Kevin offered, with a grin that implied the twentysomething was trying to lighten the mood in their hovering box. “Canadian-style. Five pin.”

Well, guys, I’ve risked missing something way more important than that.

The words crossed his mind, but he had enough self-control not to say them out loud. He didn’t know either man well enough to confide in them and some things just cut too deep to say without thinking. It had been just over twenty-four years since his little sister, Faith, had been snatched off the side of a rural road at the age of twelve and died fighting off her attacker. Jacob had been fourteen, the eldest child and the one who was supposed to look out for his siblings. And while, over the years, his brothers had each found their own ways to make peace with the memory of their sister, for Jacob, Faith’s face was always there, like a picture he’d taped to the corner of his mind’s eye, reminding him of the one killer he had yet to catch. Then recently a fellow detective under very deep cover, named Liam Bearsmith, had reached out to say he’d found a fresh lead in Faith’s case and was willing to risk both his cover and his life to pass that information onto Jacob. They were supposed to meet at a highway coffee shop at midnight, after Jacob went to his brother Trent’s bachelor party.

And I’m here with you two scanning trees. But he caught his griping before it could grow and instead channeled it into prayer. Lord, please resolve this soon. May the three convicts be caught, help me get back to base in time to meet up with Liam and help me get the information I need to put my sister’s killer away for good.

“It takes days to walk or canoe across the park,” Warren said. “I know they shut the park down, but it’s possible there could still be campers out there who have no idea there are convicts on the loose. Let alone a serial predator like Barry Cutter who murdered five women, including two ex-girlfriends. Or Victor Driver who went around starting bar fights that put people into the hospital before beating his ex’s new husband to death and her brother into a coma. Or Hal Turner.”

Kevin shuttered. Jacob noted Warren didn’t bother to give Hal Turner’s crime résumé. There was no need. The dirty cop turned cop killer was notorious in law enforcement for having killed both his partner and an informant. He’d then tried to burn down a building to destroy the evidence of his thriving drug business and claimed he’d been set up by rogue cops.

Even though Jacob had been a teenager at the time, he’d known even then that God was calling him to a life in law enforcement. Here Turner had achieved everything professionally that Jacob was both hoping and striving for, only to then turn around and betray his brothers and sisters in blue, damage their reputation and give dozens of criminals grounds for appeal.

“I get it, we’re hunting bad guys,” Kevin said. “But that doesn’t change the weather or how much fuel we’ve got.”

A small building passed through the frame. It was a ranger cabin by the looks of it. There were a handful of small and very rustic cabins dotted around the expansive park that had been build back in the 1930s to serve some long-abandoned purpose like storage or lookout. Bare bones, with no electricity or running water, they still wouldn’t make for a half-bad hideout, if a person were able to find one.

A bright patch blinked onto the screen near the building. Jacob sat up straight, as he felt the sudden jolt of shock, surprise and relief combined. “We have a heat signature!”

“Please tell me it’s not another bear—” Warren started.

“No, it’s a person,” Jacob said. He heard Kevin whistle, but his eyes stayed locked on the screen. The figure was definitely human and female by the looks of it, willowy and slender with long hair and just the hint of curves visible through her jeans and survival jacket. “A woman.”

“Out there alone?” Kevin asked. Jacob glanced at him just long enough to see the flicker of worry cross his face. “In the middle of nowhere? Why didn’t we see her earlier?”

Jacob watched as she crept along a tall rock face that ran like a jagged uneven wall between thick trees on one side and a raging river on the other.

“Camera range isn’t that broad,” Jacob said. “She could’ve been in a cave, or there are some pretty big rock outcroppings that could’ve hidden her heat signature.”

Kevin’s finger jabbed at Jacob’s screen as a second larger figure stepped into the frame. “She’s not alone.”

Yeah, and judging by the way she was creeping along the rock face, that wasn’t a good thing. The second heat signature was large, heavyset and barging through the trees. The outline of his jacket did little to hide the telltale shape of a baggy prison jumpsuit or the handgun in his grasp.

“We’ve got to get down there!” Jacob said.

“There’s nowhere to land!” Kevin’s voice rose.

“It’s one of them!” Jacob said. “It’s a lifer. He’s going to kill her!”

“I know! I just can’t land!”

They watched, helpless, as the man chased after her, tackled her and brought her to the ground. Something lurched in Jacob’s core as if he were somehow viscerally able to hear her terrified screams. She thrashed and fought back hard. And Jacob realized, for the first time in his life, he was about to watch a woman’s murder. He yanked his seat belt off, pushed himself out of his seat and climbed into the back of the helicopter. “Warren, get into the front and take over for me. I’m going to rappel down.”

“From this height?” Warren asked. “In the rain? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Yes, yes and hopefully not. Jacob slid his arms through a safety harness and didn’t answer. He glanced back at the screen and his heart soared momentarily to see the figures had broken apart. Lord, just help her stay alive until I can get there.

“I’m going to need you to lower me down,” Jacob said. He double-checked his walkie-talkie, phone and his service gun were all on his belt. “Rappel rope is fine. Though I’m suggesting you use the rescue ladder or basket to pull us back up. For now, just get me as close as you can, stay in my ear and point me in the right direction.”

“It should be me,” Warren started. “You’re the one on infrared.”

Maybe, but Jacob was also the one who’d gotten his harness on first.

“There’s still a storm coming—” Kevin’s face was awash with fear “—and I’m still really low on fuel.”

Right. That twenty minutes was probably closer to fifteen by now.

“We’ll figure it out!” Jacob double-checked his clasps and opened the door. Wind and rain lashed at him. A deep breath of confidence filled his lungs. Nobody was ever going to die at a criminal’s hands as long as he had something to say about it. He cast one final glance at the outline of the woman below, now pelting through the trees with her attacker close on her heels.

Stay strong. Don’t give up. I’m coming for you.

* * *

The blow from behind came so hard and suddenly that Grace Finch felt the air knocked from her lungs even before she hit the ground. For a moment, her body’s own natural instinct to freeze threatened to overwhelm her. Then she reared, kicking up hard with both legs and felt herself break free. She rolled and tried to get her feet beneath her before a swift punch to the temple knocked her back against the ground.

The blunt and scarred face of Barry Cutter glared down at her, and Grace felt his entire rap sheet flash through her mind, just as clearly as if she’d been sitting at her crime reporter desk at Torchlight News, reading his bio in her news files. Bartholomew “Barry” Cutter, age fifty-four, convicted to fifty years in prison for the brutal murders of five women.

Help me! Someone! Anyone! Please!

A large hand with thick fingers grabbed her by the throat and pushed her down. The semi-automatic SIG he waved between her eyes looked police-issued. And suddenly she felt the journalist inside her wanting to ask him how he’d gotten there, what he was doing out of prison and if it had anything to do with the Search and Rescue helicopter she’d seen flying overhead. There was a major news story here, if she got out of here alive to tell it. She swallowed a breath and reminded herself that if Cutter wanted her dead, he’d have killed her by now. Then slowly she began to slide her right hand toward the stun gun in her jacket pocket.

“Where’s your car?” Cutter snapped. She felt her mind filtering out the threats and curses that peppered his voice, listening only for facts. “Take me to your car. Now! You’re driving me out of here!”

Didn’t he know where they were? Night was falling, and she’d spent the better part of the day getting this deep into the woods. Her car was at the entrance to the park, at least six hours of canoeing and portaging away. For that matter, how had he even gotten here?

As for her, she’d been coerced here, lured here, out into the middle of nowhere by another convicted killer, Hal Turner, on the promise of finding information that would clear him of his crimes, prove he’d been set up by some shadowy cabal of senior cops and free Grace of the specter of blackmail he’d been holding over her life. Ever since she had risen as a star crime reporter, Turner had been blackmailing her and threatening to destroy her life and career by telling the world a truth she’d spent her entire life concealing.

That Grace Finch was really Hal Turner’s biological daughter.

That the country’s most prolific and award-winning crime reporter was really the child of the so-called dirty cop turned cop killer.

In her business, reputation was everything. Her biological father was one of the most hated convicted killers in the country, especially as far as those in law enforcement were concerned. What if sources refused to talk to her because of who her father was? What if someone with a grudge against Turner decided to come after her? After all, he’d not only betrayed his badge and worked with organized crime, he’d then besmirched all of law enforcement with wild stories of a deep-seated conspiracy of criminal cops. No evidence had ever been found to back up his claims. What if she was fired from her job at Torchlight News and blackballed from the industry for keeping the truth about her identity secret? Even if Turner was somehow right—he had been set up by someone, and this evidence he’d sent Grace to find would prove it—how would anyone in her life ever trust her again for keeping her identity secret so long?

Let alone forgive her.

No, she’d worked too long and hard to build a life on her own terms to let it all be taken from her now.

Not to mention her incredibly strong mother, and Mom’s kindhearted husband, Frank, who’d raised Grace as his own, both deserved better than to have their lives dragged through the mud.

So she’d hiked and paddled into the woods in search of a secluded cabin where he’d claimed to have left evidence proving his innocence. It was a simple transaction. She’d publish the evidence, his lawyer and the courts would do their thing, Hal Turner would keep his mouth shut about the daughter no one knew he had and he’d disappear from her life for good.

But she hadn’t found the cabin. Instead, a killer had found her.

She’d been desperate. She’d been foolish. And now she was going to die.

Cutter leaned closer, shifting some of his weight off her body. The stench of him filled her nostrils. “Don’t fight. Don’t scream. We’re just going to get in your car and take a nice ride to the American border and then I’m going to let you go.”

No, he wouldn’t; he’d hurt her and he’d kill her, that much she knew with every fiber of her being. And she’d die fighting before she agreed to take him anywhere.

The helicopter’s spotlight flashed above them, dragging her attention to the sky. A figure, tall and broad-shouldered, now dangled from underneath it, suspended from a rope like something out of an action movie. She blinked. Cutter looked up and swore.

It was an unexpected distraction, but she’d take it. Her right hand dove into her jacket pocket, yanked out the stun gun, flicked it on and pressed it hard into his side. Cutter bellowed in pain. The gun fell from his hand. She kicked up, threw him off her and scooped up the gun. Then she stumbled to her feet and ran, pushing and pelting through the branches until she’d lost him in the trees.

The helicopter light swung above her again like a searchlight, filtering through the leaves and illuminating the rock face ahead of her, and that’s when she saw the gap. It was narrow, like a slanted alley only about three feet wide. She ran for the gap in the rocks, slid her body inside and pressed herself against the wall. She heard the sound of branches breaking and a voice swearing as Cutter ran by her hiding spot. It was only then she realized her hands were shaking. Hot tears filled her eyes.

God, if You’re even still listening to me, thank you so much that I’m still alive! Now, what do I do?

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d prayed. But somehow the fear pounding through her had poured out into the need to cry out to the God she’d long stopped talking to for help. She put her stun gun back into her jacket pocket, but kept the gun she’d taken off Cutter clutched tightly in her hand. Could she really shoot and kill a man if it came to it? If his face appeared at the entrance of her hiding place, did she really have what it took to look him in the eyes and pull the trigger?

How much was she really her biological father’s daughter?

No, no, she wouldn’t let herself think that way. Her father had killed for his own selfish ends, not in self-defense. She was nothing like him. She never had been and never would be.

Her head leaned back against the rock and her eyes closed as she listened to the sounds of the helicopter in the distance, wind brushing the trees, light rain hitting the rocks around her and a river rushing somewhere nearby. Maybe if she could get up to higher ground, she could find a way to signal the helicopter. Maybe she could even spot the cabin, run there and retrieve whatever Turner had left for her. But for now, she was on her own, with a phone that hadn’t been able to get a signal in hours and a killer looking for her.

“Grace Miranda Finch!”

Her heart froze mid-beat as suddenly Cutter bellowed her name.

“Senior crime reporter!” His voice grew louder. Twigs snapped and branches cracked. It sounded like he was coming back through the woods, looking for her. “Torchlight News, Queen Street, Toronto. Born April third. Age thirty-six.”

No! She grabbed her side as if suddenly realizing she was missing an organ. He had her wallet! She hadn’t even realized it had fallen from her pocket.

But now he had her life, her address, her identity, he had—

“Hal Turner,” Cutter read like a man announcing a public execution, “was convicted today to two consecutive life sentences...”

He had the news clipping she’d cut from the paper at the age of fifteen about her father’s conviction and had kept folded small in her wallet ever since as a reminder to never stop working harder, aiming higher and pushing herself to be the best possible person she could be.

“...along with two counts of first-degree murder, drug trafficking, bribery, corruption, breach of public trust...”

Grace tuned Cutter out. She’d obsessively read every article about Turner when he’d first been arrested, hoping with all her heart that no one would ever uncover that the dirty cop had secretly fathered a daughter he barely saw and hardly knew with a twenty-two-year-old emergency room nurse he’d met at a crime scene and never deigned to give either his heart or home to. Turner had bailed long before Grace was born. She’d always had her mother’s last name, not his, and while he’d sporadically wanted to see her growing up, had insisted his name not be listed on her birth certificate. She’d never looked like him, not in ways that anybody had noticed, with the slender build and long black hair of her beautiful Afro-Caribbean Canadian mother instead of looking anything like her overweight German Canadian father, whose pale skin was frequently flushed red with anger. No one had ever seemed to suspect she was mixed race, especially after her mom and Frank, a fellow nurse and widower, had drawn close during the pregnancy and married when Grace was two. Gossipmongers speculated that Grace must have always been Frank’s, but her mom had consistently risen above others’ idle gossip.

But Grace had obsessively followed every moment of the trial. She watched television for hours, flipping through news channels to find his face and then hid in the computer lab when she got into journalism school, scanning the wires for his name. What had she even been looking for? Clues to what would lead a man who’d sworn an oath to protect his community to instead cut deals with drug dealers? Whether there was any credence to the story his lawyer had spun—that his partner had been the real criminal, the deaths had really been a murder suicide and that her father had set the fire in a noble attempt to protect his former partner’s name?