A Wicked Snow

public relations. Damned lawyers.”

Sheriff Brian Kiplinger had a point. An adjacent county nearly went bankrupt in the late 1990s when a woman reported that her sister was being abused by her husband. When law enforcement had arrived three days later, the woman was paralyzed from a beating that happened two days after the sister phoned in her concerns.

“All right,” Emily said. “I’m going.”

“Casey’s already on his way.”

Emily exhaled. She told herself that she’d be back home in bed within a couple of hours. She grabbed one of Jenna’s Red Bulls from the fridge, thinking that the energy drink’s sugar and caffeine could fuel her for the drive out to the Martin ranch on Canyon Ridge, about fifteen miles out of town. Once there, she knew adrenaline would kick in. So would Casey Howard’s bottomless reserve of energy. Casey was only twenty-five, a sheriff’s deputy with a four-year degree in criminology from Washington State University. He was single. Bright. Always up for anything. Youth and enthusiasm counted during the grindingly long hours after the storm.

She glanced at the red Cyclops of the answering machine light but ultimately ignored it. Whoever had called could wait. She blew a kiss at Jenna who was now in front of the TV watching some bad-taste dating show. Emily was too tired and too preoccupied to say anything about it. She grabbed her purse and went for the door. The car radio was playing a B.B. King song, which was like comfort food for her soul. She loved that Mississippi Delta sound; B.B. was her favorite.

This, too, shall pass, came to mind as she drove.

The sky had blackened like a cast-iron pan, pinning her headlights to the roadway. A tumbleweed, a hold- out from the previous season, skittered in front of the car. The wind that had converged on Cherrystone and obliterated everything in its wake now was gentle but present. Dust and litter swirled over the roadway as she drove into the darkness of a spring night. Lights off the highway revealed the neat ranch homes amid fields of hops and peppermint, the two most important cash crops of the region. Emily felt the buzz of the caffeine as she took a sharp left off the highway.

The mailbox announced who lived there: Martin. She’d been out there before, of course. Despite her big-city credentials, she’d probably been to every place in the entire county before she got her detective’s shield and still had to patrol. Growing up in Cherrystone had also brought even more familiarity, though much of the place had changed. She vividly remembered the Martin place as a typical turn-of-the-century two-story, with faded red shutters, and gingerbread along a porch rail that ran the length of the front of the house. The roofline featured a cupola covered with verdigris copper sheathing, topped with an elegant running-horse weathervane. The house sat snugly in a verdant grade etched by meandering year round Three Boys Creek.

Emily pointed the Accord down the gravel driveway toward the house. Dust kicked up and the sound of the coarse rock crunched under her wheels. She was surprised by the contrail of dust following her car. It billowed behind her, white against the night sky. She didn’t think she was going fast and she didn’t think that any dust could remain in the county, which was scoured by the tornado. She negotiated the last curve and saw Casey’s county cruiser, a Ford Taurus made somewhat more legit by its black-and-white “retro police car” livery. It had been parked with its lights stabbing into an empty darkness. The blue light spun in the night.

“What in the world?”

Emily Kenyon could barely believe her eyes—the Martin house was gone.