CHAPTER 13.

The bedside phone blasted at 4:15.

Carter, dragged from sleep, reached over and knocked the hand-held from its base. "d.a.m.n," he muttered as he grabbed the receiver and jammed it to his ear. Whoever was on the other end didn't have good news. Not at four in the morning. "Carter."

"Hey, Sheriff, it's Palmer with Dispatch."

"What's up, Dorie?" Carter said as he ran his free hand over his face and tried to wake up.

"Just got a call from Lester Hatch.e.l.l, and I thought you'd want to know about it. Sonja didn't show up after her shift. He just called in. Really upset. Her car isn't at the diner; he already checked. He also drove her usual route and didn't find her anywhere. I sent Hixx out to the diner to check, but it's not like her."

"Any accidents reported on surrounding roads?" Carter was suddenly wide awake. Lester Hatch.e.l.l was a friend of his.

"Yeah. One since midnight. Single-car, one driver, a male taken to a hospital. The accident was ten miles north of Falls Crossing."

"h.e.l.l." He threw off the covers, his bare feet hitting the cold wood floor.

"I thought you'd want to know."

"I do, Dorie. Thanks." He slammed the receiver down, walked to the small bathroom off his bedroom, and turned on the hot water in his shower. By the time he'd stripped out of his boxers and run a toothbrush over his teeth, the water was hot enough and he walked through the shower. Ten minutes later, he'd shaved and dressed and was hurrying down the stairs from his sleeping loft.

The woodstove had burned to nothing and he let the fire die. No telling when he'd get back, and the furnace would keep the place from freezing. The remains of last night's dinner-the crust of a frozen pizza and two empty beer cans-mocked him, but he didn't have time to clean up.

By the back door of the small cabin he clipped his Glock into his holster, threw on his jacket and hat, then let himself into the garage, where he pulled on his gloves and felt the first bite of the raw morning. He'd heard the weather report last night. More of the same. No sign of a break in the cold front. Snow, snow, and more snow had been predicted and the meteorologists were gleefully talking about ever-lowering temperatures, enough that the falls and river might freeze.

More bad news.

He slid into his Blazer and frowned as he thought again of the last time the falls had frozen solid. He'd been sixteen at the time. Sixteen and a teenaged idiot.

His jaw clenched as he backed out of the garage, his tires crunching on the fresh snow, the windshield fogging. In his mind's eye, he was looking up at Pious Falls, the cascading water having frozen in thick, icy plumes that tumbled over a hundred feet to the frozen river below.

"Let's do it," his best friend, David Landis, had said eagerly. David's face was red from the cold, his eyes bright with the challenge as he'd squinted up to the top of the cliff, the spot where the frozen creek started its free fall.

David and Shane had been friends from the first day of elementary school.

"I don't think so."

"Why not?" David had already been putting on his crampons, his ice pick was tucked into his belt-ropes, harness, and carabiners attached to his jacket. "It'll be fun." He'd cast an amused look over his shoulder. "Don't tell me you're afraid. Shane Carter, ace downhill racer, extreme rock climber, and what? Ultimate chickens.h.i.t? p.u.s.s.y-to-the-max?"

"I just don't think it's a good idea." As if to add emphasis to his words, the wind had screamed down the gorge, rustling the dead leaves and rattling the brittle branches of the surrounding trees. Thick ice coated everything, glistening in a clear, cruel glaze.

David had been undaunted. Fearless. As ever. He'd adjusted his ski mask. "You never think it's a good idea," he'd taunted as his breath fogged the air. "I'm tellin' ya, man, this is a chance of a lifetime. When does it ever get cold enough to freeze the falls? By tomorrow this place and Multnomah Falls will be crawling with climbers. Today, we climb alone." With that, he'd tightened the strap on his helmet and slid goggles onto his face. Once again he'd looked up at the tumble of ice columns that rose to the cliffs high above, so high that they were lost in the low-lying clouds. David's smile had stretched wider, his enthusiasm palpable. "I'm going with or without you, Carter, so make up your mind..."

Now, twenty-odd years later, Carter squinted through the windshield as the wipers slapped snow from the frozen gla.s.s. The Blazer slid and whined until he reached the highway, where the road had been plowed and sanded, but new snow was already piling over the older icy mounds.

Where was Sonja Hatch.e.l.l?

He feared the worst. From the diner to the Hatch.e.l.l place, the road wound up the foothills, crossing three or four bridges over swift-moving creeks. He only hoped she hadn't hit a patch of ice, swerved off the road, and ended up trapped in her little car while icy water flooded the interior.

Don't even think that way.

Sonja's probably fine.

Maybe she and Les just had a fight and she decided not to go home...

Carter didn't believe it for a second, but he didn't want to think about the unknown. Not yet. Because it scared the h.e.l.l out of him.

At 9:30 Jenna pushed open the door of the theater with her hip as she balanced two cups of steaming coffee drinks she'd picked up from the local espres...o...b..r. She made her way to Rinda's office and announced, "One large, sugar-free caramel latte with extra foam and sprinkles for you." Placing one of the cups on the corner of Rinda's desk, she added, "And a skinny double mocha grande with whipped cream for moi."

"You're a lifesaver." Rinda picked up the solitary chocolate-covered espres...o...b..an balanced on the lid of her cup and plopped it into her mouth. "I needed this. It's freezing in here, the furnace is threatening to give out, and the copier is on the fritz. And that's just for starters." She touched the rim of her paper cup to Jenna's. "Here's to things improving."

"Amen," Jenna said and settled into the faded, overstuffed chair in the corner that was often used in productions.

The door to the theater banged open and a few seconds later, Wes Allen ambled into the room. Despite the near-zero temperatures, he was wearing jeans and a fleece pullover with a hood. No jacket, coat, or hat. "What is this-the theater's new coffee klatch?" he asked, parking one hip on the side of Rinda's desk.

"That's the espresso klatch," Rinda said, brightening at the sight of her brother.

"Froufrou drinks." He snorted. "Give me the real stuff anytime. Black coffee-nothing added."

Rinda laughed. "A real he-man's drink."

"If you say so." He winked at Jenna and she forced a smile she didn't feel. What was it about him that bothered her so much? He was Rinda's brother, for crying out loud! But he always seemed to stand an inch or so too close, was quick to touch her shoulder, or, like now, wink at her conspiratorially, as if the two of them were in on some private joke.

Chill out, she told herself. She was still a case of nerves, that was all.

"So-what are the dire circ.u.mstances that made you insist I get out of bed at the crack this morning?"

"The furnace and copier, to begin with. Also, Scott said one bank of lights keeps shorting out-he was fussing with them last night and couldn't fix them."

"That's because he's just a kid. I, on the other hand, am a pro." He rotated his hands skyward as if expecting applause.

"Yeah, right. I seem to recall you were trying to fix that short just the other day."

"Point taken. Now, what about your problem?" he asked, swiveling on the corner of the desk to stare Jenna straight in the face. "Your pump?"

"All fixed. Harrison Brennan and a friend of his, Seth Whitaker, came by yesterday."

Wes pretended to be crestfallen. "You could have called me."

"Next time," she promised and took a sip from her mocha.

Footsteps sounded in the staging area. "That's probably Blanche. She wanted to go over some changes in the sheet music," Rinda said, just as the woman in question poked her head into the room.

"Am I interrupting?" Blanche asked, eyebrows lifting above narrow, black-rimmed gla.s.ses. Though, according to Rinda, Blanche was over sixty, she appeared much younger. Short, spiky hair that was more orange than red framed her round face. When she smiled, the thin lines beside her eyes and lips became more p.r.o.nounced. Single now, there were rumors that she'd been married several times and possibly had children, but Jenna wasn't certain as the older woman rarely spoke of her personal life. In the theater, Blanche was already shaking off the cold and unwinding a fuzzy scarf from around her neck.

"Not at all. Come on in and join the party. I'll put on a pot of coffee."

"About time," Wes said as he pushed away from the desk. "While it's heating, I'll look at the furnace."

"About time," Rinda threw back at him, then turned her attention to Blanche and the changes she wanted to make in the sheet music. Twenty minutes later, the coffee had brewed and Blanche had downed a cup before checking her watch, gasping, and muttering that she was late for an appointment as she flew out the door. Wes was still banging on the furnace before Rinda and Jenna were alone in the office again.

"I want to show you something," Jenna said as she reached into her purse.

"What?"

"Something I got in the mail yesterday."

"A fan letter?"

"You might call it that...if fan means fanatic." She handed Rinda a Ziploc bag with the note and envelope inside. "Don't open it. You can read it through the plastic."

"Okay." Rinda peered at the envelope and as she did, the color drained from her face. "Jesus, Jenna, what the h.e.l.l is this?"

"I don't know."

"You are every woman? You are my woman?" she whispered, her eyes rounding. "Who sent this to you?"

"Anonymous."

"Whoever did it took the time to print it on a picture of you."

"It's a copy of a promo photo from Resurrection."

"This is sick, Jenna! Demented! Psychotic! You take this letter and picture to Shane Carter p.r.o.nto!" Rinda ordered, and then read the text out loud. "I will come for you? G.o.d, that's scary as h.e.l.l." Rinda dropped the plastic bag as if it had burned her fingers, letting it fall onto a pile of unopened mail upon her desk.

"Beyond scary as h.e.l.l."

"So how'd the freak get your address?"

"I don't know...I suppose it wouldn't be all that hard, not with computers, the Internet, public information. It seems anyone can find anybody these days. I'm not sure even people in the witness protection program are safe. Ident.i.ty theft is rampant."

"This is worse than ident.i.ty theft."

"I know," Jenna agreed before finishing her mocha and crumpling the paper cup. There was a series of loud clicks and banging on metal; presumably Wes was trying to fix the furnace and she was reminded of the other day when he'd overheard part of their conversation. Was he listening now?

"So don't be an idiot," Rinda was saying. "Take the letter to the authorities. Start with Carter."

Jenna groaned inwardly. She didn't want to face the taciturn sheriff again.

"Your ranch is in his jurisdiction. Either he'll help you or point you in the right direction." Rinda bit the edge of her lip and deep furrows lined her brow. Jenna could almost see the wheels turning in her friend's mind. "Don't you think it's more than a little coincidental that some of the things you donated were stolen from here? I mean everything that was taken from this place..." she jabbed a finger at the worn floorboards of the theater "-was yours. From one of your movies. Nothing is missing from the things that anyone else gave to us. We've received tons of stuff...tons...all donated in the last couple of years, and the only things missing were originally yours. I don't like it."

"I don't, either," Jenna agreed, her anxiety level spiking again, though she attempted to stay calm and not let the paranoia that had followed her around since discovering the note get a stranglehold on her. Everything Rinda had said, she'd already thought. "To tell you the truth, I don't like a lot of things lately."

"Did something else happen?"

There was a loud click and the theater became suddenly silent, the normal whisper of moving air and rumble of a motor quiet. Eerie.

Or maybe it was just Jenna's case of nerves.

Oliver, who had been hiding behind the bookcase, let out a worried meow before hopping onto Rinda's desk and starting to groom himself.

"I did get a weird phone call," Jenna admitted. "I couldn't really hear because the connection was so bad, but I thought..." She hesitated. Had she really heard music in the background? Or was she getting paranoid?

"What kind of weird call?" Rinda prodded, her voice belying her worry.

"One where no one talks but you can hear music from the score of White Out."

"That does it! You have to talk to the police. p.r.o.nto." She shot to her feet and Oliver, startled, flew off the desk. He was out the door in a striped yellow blur.

"I know, I know. I will." At Rinda's insistent stare, she added, "Today."

"Have you told the girls?"

"I mentioned that I got a strange piece of fan mail and that they were to be extra careful. I also told them to let the answering machine take all the calls so we have a record of who phoned in on the main line. I didn't want the kids to freak out, and I didn't let them read the letter."

"Allie's pretty young but maybe you should have let Ca.s.sie read it."

"I just didn't want to upset her any more than I have already. She and I aren't exactly having a great mother/daughter relationship right now."

"She's a teenager. What else is new?"

"I know, but lately she and I are always at each other's throats. I caught her sneaking out and grounded her, but I don't think it's doing any good."

"Is she giving you the cold shoulder?"

"Make that a subzero shoulder," Jenna groused, then wished she'd said nothing. What went on between her daughter and herself wasn't anyone's business but their own. However, there were times when Jenna needed someone to confide in, another parent who had dealt with teenagers, a mother who understood the frustration and worry of raising kids.

"You just don't like her boyfriend," Rinda charged as the furnace snapped on again and the steady movement of air filled the silence.

"That's what Ca.s.sie says."

"Is it true?" Rinda dumped the dregs of her coffee into a potted fern.

"What's not to like? He smokes, drinks, does weed, I think, doesn't work, and isn't a great influence on my daughter. He's going to graduate this year, I hope, if he doesn't get kicked out for ditching cla.s.s, and he can't decide whether he wants to go to the local community college, join the Army, or take a job laying carpet for his uncle. All he thinks about is s.e.x, drugs, alcohol, and getting into trouble."

"So he's like most eighteen-year-olds."

"He's nineteen and should be getting his act together."

"Like you did?" Rinda said with a lift of one eyebrow, stretching one arm behind her head.

"At least I was working."

"For a producer nearly twice your age who was taking advantage of you."