Page 22 of Thaw of Spring (Knife’s Edge, Alaska #2)

B lood dripped down Ace’s temple, warm until the rain hit it. Then his skin went cold. Everything went cold. He leaned against the door of May’s office building, head tipped back, eyes on the black sky above. The streetlight buzzed over him. A flickering, busted hum. Fit the mood.

He deserved the pain. Christian had done him a favor. One sharp fist to the jaw, another to the temple, and suddenly things made sense. Yeah, he’d gotten drunk again. The booze cut the edge off his thoughts. He liked that part, but he didn’t like that he’d let down his brother.

Now he was bleeding. Alone, and waiting for the only person in this town who could take him out of his own head without the booze.

May.

He called her before he could think too hard about it. Told her he was bleeding. Didn’t bother to explain. Then he stood still and waited for her headlights to cut through the dark. When they did, he straightened. Not enough to look good. Just enough to stay upright.

She flew out of her truck, keys already in hand. Her glasses slipped down her nose since she probably had taken her contacts out for the night. “Jesus, Ace.”

“You took your time,” he muttered. Damn, he loved her in glasses.

“I didn’t.” She got the door open fast, hands shaking. Not a good sign. Not from her. “Inside. Now. I’m going to start charging you extra for the after-hours injuries.”

He followed her in, boots dragging mud, blood still trickling down his face. He didn’t limp. Didn’t let himself.

She locked the door behind them and flicked on the lights. He ignored the brightness and then walked toward the table without needing to be told.

“Sit.”

He sat.

She moved fast, grabbing gloves, antiseptic, gauze. Her hair was wet as if she’d just come from the shower. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“Fell.”

She gave him a look that said she wasn’t in the mood.

“All right. I ran into Christian’s fist,” he said, voice flat. “A couple times.”

She paused. Not long. Just long enough to let him know she considered his words. Then, like usual, she didn’t judge or ask too many questions. Yet another thing he liked about her. Then she pressed gauze to his temple, maybe a little too hard. He welcomed the pain.

Something fell off the roof outside, no doubt a tree branch from the storm. She jolted, her head turning quickly, and then she returned to her job. Red climbed into her pretty face.

“You’re jumpy tonight,” he said, watching her.

“I’m not.”

He kept perfectly still. “You just flinched from a simple sound outside.”

She kept placing adhesive strips on the cut on his jaw like she hadn’t heard him.

“Did something happen tonight?”

“I’m fine.”

He narrowed his gaze, watching her move. She was wound tight. Not angry. Not tired. Something else. “You want help?” he asked, quieter this time. “You look like you need it.”

“I’m the doctor,” she said through clenched teeth. “You’re the one bleeding.”

He raised both hands, palms up. Bruised knuckles, fresh cuts, skin split at the base of the thumb. “I’m good for more than you think. Do you need my help?”

She sighed. “Seriously? What is it with you Osprey brothers taking over and wanting to help? If Christian helps Amka any longer, it’s going to be right into his bed.”

Ace coughed. “Huh?”

She rolled her spectacular blue eyes. With that blonde hair, she looked more like a sexy cheerleader than an accomplished doctor. Her gaze hit his hands. “Don’t worry about it right now. Your knuckles are bruised. Do you want ice?”

“No.”

She cleaned a different gash without another word.

He watched her. Every step. Every breath. She was listening for something. Every time the building creaked, she flinched just slightly. She didn’t know she was doing it.

Someone or something had her spooked.

And here he was—wounded, useless, and sitting in her light like a stray dog who knew the vet wouldn’t turn him away. He liked the pain and not just because he deserved it. Because pain got her in the room with him. That made him the worst kind of a selfish bastard.

She moved to another cut near his ear. Her hand brushed his jaw. He knew she could feel the bruise there. “You should’ve iced this,” she said.

“I wasn’t aiming to fix anything. Just didn’t want to stitch my own face.”

“You don’t need stitches. These strips will do the trick.” Her breath was shallow. Her eyes kept flicking to the window.

He couldn’t take it anymore. “May.”

“What?”

“You scared of something?”

She didn’t answer right away and just tied off the thread, cut it, and dropped the needle into the tray like she was trying to hurt the metal. “That’s the thing,” she said finally. “I don’t get to be scared. I have to fix people. Patch them up. Get them back out there.”

He let that sit a second. “Even so, I’m happy to help.”

Her eyes, when she met his, were a carnelian blue in the soft light. “You can’t even help yourself, Ace Osprey.”

Ouch. But that didn’t mean she was wrong. “Maybe I’ve just been waiting for the right motivation, Doc.”

The flash of alarm in her expression settled through him and landed hard. Yeah. That.

Mud clung to Christian’s boots like it had teeth. Each step squelched, slow and loud in the soaked undergrowth. Rain came down steady now in a relentless drizzle. Needle-fine and cold enough to sting where it touched skin.

Dutch stood ahead with his arms crossed, jaw tight, hat dripping.

The beam from his flashlight cut a white path through the dark.

Just off the trail, two kids stood by their four-wheelers—Ty Weaver and Kyle Denton.

Juniors from the high school. Christian had seen them around school events, mostly grinning like idiots. Tonight, they weren’t smiling.

Ty’s face was blotchy and pale. Kyle wouldn’t take his eyes off the tree line.

“They touch anything?” Christian asked.

“No,” Dutch said. “They had the sense to call right away and sat tight until I got here. But they’re spooked.”

Christian scanned the area. “Can’t blame them.” He stepped into the clearing. “Why did they call you and not Brock?”

Dutch rolled his neck, looking down the river. “Kyle wants to be an AWT, so we get together whenever I’m in town to play chess. He has my number on his phone, so he called me. I guess we can call in Brock if you want.”

Why wake him up? Christian angled his head to see better. The body was sprawled wrong, like it had fallen from a height or been dropped. Limbs twisted. One hand buried in the mud like it had tried to dig its way down. The man’s shirt was torn open.

Christian crouched. Dutch’s flashlight beam caught the face, and Christian went still. The eyes were gone. Not just closed. Not swollen. Gone. Hollow sockets stared back at him, dark and ragged at the edges. “Jesus,” he muttered.

Dutch stepped up beside him, mouth a hard line. “Told you.”

Blood streaked across the man's face, dried now except where the rain had diluted it into something slick and ruddy. His mouth was open like he’d been screaming. Christian didn’t want to imagine what it sounded like. He stood and backed off a few paces. “No animal did that.”

“No.” Dutch said quietly. “We’d see prints. Scat. Tracks going in or out. This was a human.”

“Someone who took their time,” Christian said. He turned toward the boys. “Ty. Kyle. Either of you recognize the victim?”

Both shook their heads fast. Ty looked like he might puke.

“He just…he was just there,” Kyle said. “We thought it was a tarp at first. I went closer. Then I saw his shirt. And…his face.”

Ty wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Why would somebody take his eyes?”

“I don’t know.” Christian turned back toward the body. The trees pressed in on all sides—thick, dripping, watching. Somewhere out there, someone had done this with their own hands. Not from a distance. Up close. Personal.

“You get a name?” Dutch asked.

Christian pulled the wallet from the guy’s pocket, careful not to smear the blood soaked through the jeans. “Arizona license. Eli Warner.” They finally had a name for one of the victims.

Dutch leaned in. “We have an identification? I would’ve bet against it. This is something, Christian. The guy must’ve been a tourist?”

“Maybe.” Christian stood again. “Not anymore.” He stood over the body, his flashlight sweeping in a slow arc across the soaked ground. Everything was mud, pine needles, and blood. The river churned behind them, loud enough to make it hard to think.

Then he saw it.

Off to the left, a shallow depression in the moss. Another just beyond it that was barely visible under the sheen of rain. But the spacing was right. The angle was right. He took a step, crouched beside it. Let the light fall at just the right angle. “Dutch,” he said.

Dutch walked over, peering down. “That a print?”

“Yeah. Boot tread. Deep enough for weight, but not the victim’s. He didn’t get back up.” Christian followed the line with his light. “There’s more. It moves off into the trees.”

Dutch stood silent for a second, watching him. “You up to tracking him?”

“Absolutely.” Christian followed another sign, which was a broken sapling branch at thigh height that smelled fresh. Then a heel scuff in the mud, slipping right. “He came this way in a hurry, favoring the right side. Might be hurt.”

Dutch exhaled, steady. “I can’t leave the body or the kids. Don’t like sending you alone.”

Christian looked up. “Part of the reason I’m taking this job is that I can do it alone. Plus, if I wait, the rain will wash the trail out. This may be the only shot I’ve got.”

“I’ll take the body to Doc May’s so she can start the prelim, and I’ll make sure the kids get home.” Dutch stared into the dark. “You radio if something turns. If you catch the guy, try not to kill him. We like to take them alive and to trial.”

Christian nodded once. “I understand the assignment.”

Dutch looked at him for a moment, then turned back toward the clearing.

Christian didn’t wait. He pushed into the trees, boots heavy, light cutting through branches and wet shadow. The uneven but clear trail kept him moving. Someone had run this way.

The woods swallowed him, welcoming him home.

He moved slow and low, gaze scanning the ground, flashlight aimed at his feet, not ahead.

The trail was a repetition of off-center prints, displaced moss, and branches bent the wrong direction.

Enough to follow if a hunter knew what to look for. Not enough for someone less stubborn.

Whoever it was had moved fast and messy. No sign of doubling back. No care to cover the trail. They weren’t afraid of being followed, or they didn’t think anyone would bother.

Christian wasn’t sure which worried him more.

The rain had eased to a steady drizzle, which helped. The scent of wet spruce and churned mud filled the air. The trees were packed tighter now, older, the kind of woods that didn’t see casual foot traffic.

He saw a print, which was clear this time. Deep heel, tread slipping right again. The runner was still favoring that side.

Christian’s boots caught in a patch of thick muck. He paused, listened.

Nothing but wind in the trees.

No birds. No night calls. Just silence.

He moved on. The trail climbed a narrow ridge. At the top, the trees thinned, giving way to a run-off ditch and an old fence line. Beyond that, down the slope, he saw the dull glow of streetlights.

He stopped upon reaching the Willows. The duplexes and rundown units sat below, hunched in the dark like a row of bruises. Paint peeling, a few windows boarded over, and puddles reflecting the weak light like oil. It smelled like trash, mildew, and rot.

He crouched and swept his flashlight off. Watched. A few porch lights were on. One TV flickered blue through a broken blind. The rest of the units looked dead asleep.

But the prints led here. No question.

He traced the last few signs and found mud scraped along the gravel, and a dirty handprint smeared low on a utility pole, like the runner had stopped to catch their breath or stay upright.

And then nothing. The trail died at the edge of the lot.

Christian’s gaze drifted toward the far unit. Jarod Teller’s.

It was dark.

No porch light. No movement. Curtains pulled.

But Amka had been there. Just hours ago.

So had May.

The crawl in his gut got worse. He didn’t like this part of town on the best night, and this wasn’t one of those. The place felt wrong. Like something had been here recently and hadn’t fully left.

He backed into the trees, sat on his heels, and waited.

Watched until dawn arrived, and still, nobody moved.

As the sun began to light the wet trees around him, he texted Brock to give Amka a ride to work, even though that meant revealing his little secret cabin.

There would be questions, no doubt. He also texted Ace to watch the bar for the day.

Yeah, they’d fought the night before, but something had flickered in Ace’s eyes. He wouldn’t screw up again.

Finally, Dutch joined Christian, pulling to a stop quietly down the road. They met near the first unit.

Dutch took a deep breath. “We’ll go one by one to interview folks, and let me flash my badge. Just look scary.”

That would be no problem. Just how close had Amka been to a murderer last night? Fire blasted through Christian, and he locked that shit down. Hard.

For now.