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  This book is dedicated to my sisters, Debbie and Kim.

  Love you always.

  The Lord trieth the righteous: but the wicked and him that loveth violence his soul hateth.

  —PSALMS 11:5

  PROLOGUE

  Milan Swanz figured he’d chosen the wrong night to get drunk and walk home. He’d spent the evening at the bar, guzzling drafts and alternating with the occasional shot of Wild Turkey. His drinking buddy had abandoned ship at some point, leaving him without a ride. At the time, Milan hadn’t cared. He had his eye on the redhead in the tight jeans and low-cut sweater. The one that had climbed onto the pool table to make a tricky jump shot that won her the game. Unfortunately for Milan, the redhead had disappeared shortly after his ride and now here he was, horny and shit-faced and wading through ankle-deep snow with another mile and a half to go.

  “Uppity bitch,” he muttered as his boots crunched along the gravel shoulder of Dogleg Road.

  It was so dark on this lonely stretch that he could barely see the hit-or-miss asphalt beneath his feet. Frickin’ Ohio winters. It had been a comfortable fifty degrees when he’d walked into the bar at six P.M. In the hours since, the temperature had dropped, two inches of snow had fallen, and now he was officially freezing his ass off.

  He’d just passed the bridge over Little Paint Creek when headlights flickered against the bare-branched treetops ahead. He turned to look behind him, and sure enough a vehicle was approaching. Milan sidestepped onto the shoulder. The hiss of the tires against pavement sounded and then a car rolled to a stop next to him. The passenger-side window slid down.

  “Heck of a night to be out walking,” came a friendly voice from the driver’s seat.

  Stopping, Milan bent and looked into the interior, felt a puff of heated air waft over his face. “You ain’t lying.”

  “Where you headed?”

  “Home.” Hopeful he’d landed a ride, Milan motioned in the direction of his house. “A mile and a half down the road.”

  “I’m going that way. Want a lift?”

  “Man, that’d be great.”

  The door locks snicked as they disengaged. “Hop in.”

  Brushing snow from his shoulders, Milan reached for the door handle and slid inside. A sigh eased out of him at the soft embrace of heat, the smell of warm leather. “Thanks, man.”

  “No problem.” The driver glanced in the side-view mirror and pulled back onto the road. “Hate to see anyone out in this kind of weather.”

  “Had a ride but he left me.”

  “Happens.”

  A pleasant song Milan couldn’t name purred from the sound system. He leaned back in the plush seat, soaking in the warmth, a sense of relaxation washing over him. One of these days, he was going to own a vehicle like this. One of these days, he was going to catch a break and—

  A shuffle from the back seat startled him. A blur of movement inches from his face. The next thing he knew something slapped against his throat and was yanked tight against his Adam’s apple.

  “Hey!” The word burst from his mouth in a garbled chirp as his voice box was crushed.

  Instinctively, he raised both hands, tried to jam his fingers beneath the strap. But it was impossibly tight. Cutting off his air and the blood to his head. His fingers dug into his flesh, fingernails scratching his skin, but he couldn’t get them beneath it.

  A rise of panic overtook him. His body bucked, hips coming up. He kicked out his feet, pushed against the seatback. Raised a knee, rammed his foot into the dash. Plastic shattered.

  The strap was yanked tighter. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Arching his back, he twisted left and then right. He lashed out with his feet. Tried to get his leg up to break the windshield. Not enough room to maneuver. He slung out his left arm, tried to punch the driver. His forearm struck the steering wheel.

  Mindless panic descended. He plunged his fingers into the flesh at his throat. His right leg came up. He kicked at the glove box. Once. Twice. Heard the vinyl split. His mouth opened, but the scream was quashed. Tongue sticking out between his teeth. No air. No air.

  The lights flickered and dimmed. The music faded to babel. His hands fell to his lap. His bladder released. By the time the warmth spread across his crotch, he could no longer feel.

  * * *

  Milan Swanz woke to darkness, cold, and a headbanger of a headache. An icy breeze cut through his coat and jeans. Confusion swirled in his brain. He was outside, shivering his ass off. He remembered the car picking him up. A strap looped over his head, someone in the back seat trying to strangle him …

  He opened his eyes and looked around. A wall of trees surrounded him. Gray night sky above skeletal branches. Snow falling like ash. No one in sight. He tried to get his bearings, but recognized nothing.

  Where was he?

  What the hell was going on?

  He was upright, but not quite standing on his own power. An alarm inside him shrilled when he realized his wrists were bound behind his back. Something solid and rough against his spine, supporting him. He tried to loosen the binds, but his wrists were tightly bound with what felt like wire or stiff cord. He looked down, saw that he was standing on a stack of wood pallets. Someone had also piled what looked like firewood and kindling at his feet.

  “What the fuck?” His voice echoed among the trees. The only reply was the tinkle of snow and the hard drum of fear in his chest.

  “Hello?” he shouted. “Who’s there?”

  Footfalls sounded. He squinted into the darkness. Saw the shadowy figure walking toward him, a few yards away. The guy in the car, he realized.

  “Dude, I don’t know what the fuck you’re up to, but you’d better get over here and cut me loose.”

  The man reached him, his demeanor unhurried and resolute. His expression unperturbed. For the first time, Milan noticed the container in his hand, and a quiver of uneasiness roiled in his gut.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Milan snarled.

  No response.

  “Cut me loose!” he shouted.

  A second figure emerged from the shadows. Male. Long winter coat. Hat. Gloves. Similar container in hand. This time, Milan recognized it. Diesel fuel. Despite the chill, sweat broke out on his back.

  “Let me go, man.” He’d intended the words as a command, but they came out like the squeak of a child. “Come on, dude.”

  Without acknowledging him, the figure closest to him uncapped the container and began to pour onto the pallets. The stench of diesel fuel rose in a plume. An instant of disbelief descended and then terror lit up every nerve ending in his body. Adrenaline pumped like nitro through his veins. Milan struggled against his binds, jerked his arms hard, felt the wire cut into the flesh at his wrists. He twisted and bucked against whatever he was tied to. He tried to lash out with his feet, but his ankles were tethered.

  Dear God in heaven, what was going on?

  “What the hell are you doing?” he screamed.

  Neither of the men looked at him. They worked in tandem. Thorough. Expressions calm and inscrutable. A methodical team set on completing their task.

  The smell of diesel fuel mingled with the cold and filled Milan’s nostrils. Terror overwhelmed him. Bile filled his mouth. Afraid he might be sick, he spit.

  “Are you nuts!” he screamed. “You can’t do this! Let me go!”

  Milan strained against the binds, arching his back, twisting his head from side to side. He tried to yank his arms from the constraints, rocked his body left and right, grunting with the effort, putting his weight into it. Again, he tried to kick out his legs. If he could shove some of the wood away, he might have a chance.…

  “Help me! Help! Someone!” His voice was the howl of a dog. Unrecognizable. Filled with the sound of terror.

  Finished with their task, the men stopped working. They backed away, set down the containers. Unspeaking, they bowed their heads.

  “Crazy fuckers!” Milan screamed. “Why are you doing this?”

  The odor of diesel fuel hung heavy in the air. Milan looked down at the pallets, the kindling and wood piled around his feet. Fuel soaking into it. He knew what they were going to do. And for the first time in years, he prayed for God to help him.

  “Please!” he shouted. “Someone! Help me! Help!”

  One of the men started toward him. Milan spotted the lighter in his hand. “Wait! Wait! Don’t!”

  A rush of panic at the click-scratch of the flint. Terror crawled over him as he took in the tiny flame. A thousand pins pricked his spine.

  “Are you fucking nuts?” he screamed. “Don’t! Don’t!”

  The man tossed the lighter. A faint clink as it struck the pallets. Shock and horror washed ove
r him as it rolled and disappeared into the kindling. An instant of hope that it wasn’t going to ignite. An orange flicker. And then a whoosh! as the flames leapt.

  “Dear God! God! No!”

  Heat swept against his shins and rolled up his thighs. The smells of burning wood and fabric. The pain came like a branding iron against the front of his legs. Heat climbed up, seared his crotch and belly.

  He smelled singed hair, felt fire against his face. In his mouth. His eyes. The horror of knowing what came next. Blind panic exploded inside him. He screamed, sucked in sparks. Lungs on fire. Spit boiling in his mouth. Too much pain to process.

  His bowels released.

  He howled in agony.

  And the flames burned away the night.

  CHAPTER 1

  Officer Chuck “Skid” Skidmore was no stranger to mistakes. He’d made a few in his time. More than a few if he wanted to be honest about it. Some had cost him. From others he’d emerged unscathed, but walked away a wiser man. Most of his mistakes were of the innocent variety. A lapse of judgment. Poor planning. Or maybe he simply hadn’t tried hard enough to do the right thing.

  Tonight, as he stood on the span of the covered bridge and watched fellow police officer Mona Kurtz pull up behind his cruiser, he figured the one he was about to make was as far removed from innocence as he could imagine. For the life of him he didn’t have the self-discipline to stop.

  It was half past two A.M. and snowing like the dickens. He’d been on duty since midnight and hadn’t taken a single call. Boredom and lust were a bad combination for a man who’d been obsessing over a woman—a coworker—for almost six months now.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” Mona said as she slammed her car door and started toward him.

  “I was just thinking the same thing.” He held his ground, leaning against his cruiser, arms crossed, and for an instant he simply enjoyed the sight of her. Long legs. Hair a little wild. Her coat was open; she was still wearing her police uniform and he could just make out the outline of her figure.

  “You off?” he asked.

  “Free as a bird.”

  Without invitation or hesitation, she went to him, fell against him. The contact was like a bomb going off in his chest. His arms encircled her. She smelled of coconut and mint. He breathed in deep and it only made him want more. He didn’t intend to kiss her, but the next thing he knew his mouth was on hers.

  Then she was flush against him. Her arms flung around his neck. Breasts against his chest. Pelvis grinding into his.

  “You know this is not smart, right?” he murmured.

  “Totally aware,” she panted.

  He started to say something about their careers and good judgment, but she took his mouth again. Heart raging, he spun her around, pressed her against the car door. Hands beneath her shirt, fingers seeking the closure of her bra. Blood rushing from his head to just south of his belt.

  “Back seat,” he ground out, reaching for the door handle.

  “Hurry.”

  He fumbled the handle, got his fingers under it, opened the door. He was so focused on getting her into the back seat, he almost didn’t hear the scream.

  Mona went still in his arms, turned her head to break the kiss. “Did you hear that?”

  “Yeah.” Skid straightened, gave himself a hard mental shake. “Sounded like a scream.”

  Not just a scream, he thought, but the kind of sound that made the hair on your neck stand on end.

  “Who’s screaming their head off in the woods at this time of night?” she whispered.

  He eased away from her and looked around, his cop’s instincts slowly returning. Only then did he catch the smell of smoke. “Something burning.”

  Mona looked around as if to get her bearings. “I smell it.”

  “We need to check.”

  “Yep.”

  Tugging the mini Maglite from his belt, Skid set the beam on the woods. Sure enough, fingers of white smoke hovered among the trees.

  “Wind’s out of the north,” he murmured.

  “Skid, there’s no farm in that direction,” she said.

  “Too damn cold for anyone to be camping.” Tilting his head, he spoke into his lapel. “Ten-seven-three,” he said, letting his dispatcher know there was smoke in the area.

  Margaret’s voice cracked over his radio. “What’s the twenty on that?”

  “Dogleg Road,” he said. “By the bridge over Little Paint Creek.”

  “Do you want me to get the fire department out there?”

  “Let me take a quick look-see before we get anyone out of bed.”

  “Roger that.”

  They crossed the road, traversed the ditch, and climbed over a beat-up wire fence. Darkness closed over them as they entered the woods. The smoke was thicker there. Woodsmoke laced with something vaguely unpleasant. Skid listened as they wound through fifty yards of new-growth forest, pockets of raspberry bramble and winter-dead weeds, but the only sound came from their boots crunching on leaves left over from fall.

  “Fire.” Mona pointed. “Two o’clock. Through those trees.”

  “I see it,” he said. “Eyes open.”

  “Yep.”

  They broke into a jog. Staying as quiet as possible, not quite succeeding at being totally silent. All the while, Skid kept his hand over his sidearm.

  “Painters Mill Police Department!” he called out as they neared. “Identify yourself!”

  No response.

  He heard the crack and pop of the fire moments before they entered the clearing. It looked like some type of bonfire. Wood piled high and burning profusely. Flames leaping fifteen feet into the air. Not a soul in sight.

  “Police department!” Twenty feet away, Mona entered the clearing. “Show yourself! Now!”

  The only response came from the crackling of the fire.

  “Looks like whoever was here flew the coop,” Mona muttered.

  Skid took in the details of the scene, felt a slow rise of uneasiness. He’d assumed they’d stumbled upon an impromptu party of some type. Young people sitting around a bonfire, drinking beer or smoking dope and freezing their butts off. But there was something off about the scene. No beer bottles. No trash. No place to sit. Not too many footprints.

  “What the hell is this?” he muttered.

  “Skid.”

  Something in Mona’s voice caught his attention. She stood a few feet from the fire. Hand up to shield her face from the heat. Her head cocked in confusion.

  “What is that?” she whispered.

  A post jutted from the center of the blaze. Eight or nine feet tall and thick as a telephone pole. Something hanging on it. A shape that was oddly human.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said.

  “Is that…”

  “Go get your fire extinguisher,” he said. “Hurry! I’m going to see if I can get him out of there.”

  Spinning, Mona sprinted toward their vehicles.

  Skid started toward the fire, but the heat drove him back. Unable to take his eyes off the humanlike thing secured to the post, he hit his lapel mike. He knew his ten codes just fine, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out which to use for this. “I got a fire out here! A burn victim. Ten-fifty-two,” he said, using the code for an ambulance.

  “Roger that.” A concerned pause and then, “Are you in a structure?”

  “Negative. Just … the woods. Call the chief, Margaret,” he said. “I think we got a homicide here.”

  CHAPTER 2

  The rattle of my cell phone pulls me from a dead sleep. Rolling, I slap my hand down on it, bring it to my face and squint at the display. DISPATCH. 2:47 A.M. I answer with a curt utterance of my name.

  “Burkholder.”

  “Sorry to wake you, Chief,” comes my graveyard-shift dispatcher’s voice. “I just took a call from Skid. Says he’s got a fire and body out on Dogleg Road.”

  A quick punch of dread sends me bolt upright. My feet hit the floor. “A structure?” I ask, rising and going to the closet for my clothes. “House? Barn?”

  “He’s in the woods,” she tells me. “Out by the covered bridge.”

  My befuddled brain tries to make sense of it as I yank a uniform shirt off a hanger. “A vehicle accident?”