By J. A. Jance
Seattle investigator J. P. Beaumont is operating a chain of murders during which six younger ladies were wrapped in tarps, doused with gas, and set on fireplace. Their charred is still were scattered round quite a few unload websites, making a grisly trend of demise throughout western Washington.
At an identical time, hundreds of thousands of miles away within the Arizona desolate tract, Cochise County sheriff Joanna Brady is calling right into a murder during which the aged caretaker of an ATV park was once run over and left to die. all of the guy has left at the back of is his puppy, who's the unbelievable witness to a few form of turf warfare--or in all likelihood whatever extra sinister.
Then a step forward in Beaumont's case leads him on to the Southwest and into Brady's jurisdiction. whilst the 2 met on a joint research years previous, sparks flew. lower than diversified conditions, either one of them admit, much more may have happened.
But the following, because the threads in their doubtless separate situations wind jointly, Beaumont and Brady needs to set aside echoes in their shared previous as they're once more drawn into an orbit of deception. other than this time it's not only their very own lives which are at risk yet these of the folk closest to them in addition.
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Extra resources for Fire and Ice (Joanna Brady, Book 14)
I do not understand why I have been given a prognostic gift vivid enough to make me feel morally obliged to prevent a foreseen evil—but not clear enough to allow me to act at once with force and conviction. Because of the disturbing supernatural aspects of my life and because the weight of my unusual responsibilities outweighs my power to fulﬁll them, I risk being crushed by stress. Consequently, I have kept the nonsupernatural part of my life simple. As few possessions as possible. No obligations like a mortgage or a car payment to worry about.
Perhaps it contained maintenance supplies. Or interred in the chest might have been the shrunken remains of the pier master’s poor wife, Lorraine, who perhaps had been murdered twenty years ago when she complained once too often about a lingering creosote smell in his work clothes. My eager imagination might have worked up a hair-raising image of Lorraine’s shriveled cadaver, pickled in creosote, if I had been able to believe there was actually such a position as a pier master. I don’t know where the name Lorraine came from.
The fairy light teased ﬁtfully across the shape before me, but then revealed a rat sitting precisely where the two beams joined. I am not afraid of rats. Neither am I so tolerant that I would welcome a swarm of them into my home in a spirit of interspecies brotherhood. The rat was paralyzed by the sight of me looming over it. If I advanced another step, it had three routes by which it could ﬂee to safety. In moments of stress, my imagination can be as ornate as a carousel of grotesque beasts, standing on end like a Ferris wheel, spinning like a coin, casting off kaleidoscopic visions of ludicrous fates and droll deaths.