A Winter's Kill Read online

  A Winter’s Kill

  A serial killer domestic thriller

  JK Ellem

  Copyright © by 28th Street Multimedia Group 2019

  A Winter’s Kill, is a work of fiction. All incidents, dialogue and all characters are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the written permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Copyrighted Material

  Also by JK Ellem

  Stand Alone Novels

  A Winter’s Kill

  No Justice Series:

  Book 1 No Justice

  Book 2 Cold Justice

  Book 3 American Justice

  Book 4 Hidden Justice

  Deadly Touch Series:

  Fast Read Deadly Touch

  Octagon Trilogy (Dystopian Thriller Series):

  Prequel Soldiers Field

  Book 1 Octagon

  Book 2 Infernum

  Book 3 Sky of Thorns - coming soon

  Box Sets - only available on Amazon

  Dystopian Thriller Box Set

  The Octagon Trilogy: Soldiers Field, Octagon, Infernum

  The No Justice Series Box Set

  No Justice, Cold Justice, Deadly Touch

  To buy my books go to: Amazon

  www.jkellem.com

  Dedication

  To my father Noel

  8/8/32 – 11/13/18

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Afterword

  American Justice

  Synopsis

  Chapter 1

  If You Enjoyed This Book

  Authors Note

  About the Author

  1

  He paused and sniffed the air.

  There was something there, subtle but distinct. A fragrant scent had separated itself from the other smells, and now rode a cold breeze towards him.

  He stood amongst a myriad of white pine trees, their branches caked and heavy with snow. Petals of white drifted gently from the dull muted sky above, the sun just a watery haze, the forest silent and still.

  He turned his head, his nostrils flared. He sniffed the air again trying to pinpoint its source. He was standing downwind. The scent teased him, like the invisible caress of a past lover, their lingering smell on your skin and in your memory, long after the sex had ended.

  He stood perfectly still, contemplating what to do next.

  Then it was gone, carried away on the breeze. Nothing there now.

  He shook his head, clearing his mind, shaking off the distraction and focusing back on the task at hand.

  A wide tree trunk was directly in front of him, a huge eastern white pine, as old as the forest itself. Redness was seeping around its base, warm liquid feeding the rootball. Crimson on a field of blinding white.

  Reaching out he twisted, pulled, wrenched, tearing flesh, ripping muscle, splintering bone. Finally, twenty inches of carbon shaft came away in his gloved hand. Duct tape across her mouth stifled whatever sound she would have made. A feeble moan escaped her lips as he peeled it away.

  She didn't want to give up the bolt easily. This one must have nicked a rib on the way in before it lodged behind the bone itself and the blades of the arrow snapped open.

  All his kills were at less than thirty yards, so he chose mechanical broadheads. They maintained their kinetic energy in flight, offered a wider wound channel and a shorter blood trail while still making it a quick kill. It was ironic that the hunting magazines considered it too harsh, too raw to describe it like that. So they used the term “fast expiration” whereas in fact what they really meant was “a quick kill.”

  He took a few moments to examine the bolt, making sure it wasn’t damaged. For him it was as much about the end result as it was about perfecting the mechanics of the kill. Just as a dedicated sporting shooter studied the penetration depths, trajectory lines and expansion patterns of bullets in ballistic gel, he studied the devastating impact his weaponry had on human flesh and bone. There was, however, no practice. Humans were his practice.

  Ribbons of flesh clung from the broadhead, and part of the Mossy Oak finish on the shaft was coated with blood, thick and slippery. He’d used slightly heavier bolts this time, preferring penetration over speed.

  Satisfied, he wiped it clean with a rag and fixed it back into his quiver then berated himself for getting carried away. It was the first kill of the season after all.

  He looked up and regarded her as she hung there, limp, head down, straw-colored hair covering her face, droopy like a rag doll.

  The first three shots were just for fun, deliberate, not fatal. They pinned her to the tree like an insect to a cork board, one bolt through each lung, the third through her stomach burrowing deep into the rough bark behind her.

  Then he took his time and watched her slowly suffer and slowly die. He took out his thermos from his backpack and drank some coffee while she withered and gasped, all wide-eyed, crimson bubbles slowly forming on her lips, her chest cavity making sucking noises.

  After his second cup of coffee, he'd seen enough.

  The last bolt finally killed her: a heart shot, the bolt passing left of the sternum in between the intercostal cartilage of the fifth and sixth rib.

  Slowly and carefully he packed up his gear. The snow around him resembled the floor of an ER theater, mushy and red.

  If her parents were lucky, the authorities would find her in a day or two. If not, then the wildlife would have something to keep them fed during the long winter months.

  All summer long he'd been hibernating, just like the bears do in winter. Working hard at his job, head down, tail up. Long hours, little sleep, countless demands placed on his skills and expertise. People depended on him, trusted him, never questioning. An elevated position of authority and standing in the community granted him that luxury. He liked not being questioned. That was important to him.

  During the fall he spent his months preparing, getting ready, making sure this season would be his best ever. He spent weeks poring over maps, searching for a new hunting ground, one that best suited his tastes and the risks he was willing to take. He needed a new field to plow and sow, a new location to harvest his crop, preferring to only spend one season in the same place before moving on to the next.

  Less chance of getting caught or leaving a trail for others to follow.

  Familiarity within a small town often led to sloppiness or recognition. Townsfolk would remember a face from last year. Maybe the make and model of a car, or the numbers and letters of a license plate. These small details seemed to stick in peoples’ minds in small towns. Perhaps because nothing much else happened that was worthy of note. The pace was slower, the texture of daily life more distinct compared to life in the city. But it was a risk he was willing to take if the hunting was good. It heightened the experience, the thrill. Everything was planned and calculated to cover every possible contingency, even fleeing the town quickly if needed.

  It was a long trek back through the forest to where he had parked. The hood and roof of his car were covered with a light dusting of snow. He swung out the tailgate and threw his backpack and crossbow inside, covering everything with an old tarp.

  He climbed in, started the engine and hit the gas. The tread of the wheels slipped then gripped solid ground, throwing up tufts of snow and frozen mud as he drove off.

  Moments later, he turned off the woodland dirt road and back onto the main highway into town.

  The car was a rental, they all were. A Jeep Wrangler fitted with big meaty winter tires that made light work of
the snow and icy slush. By the time he’d finished with the car and had left town, it would be driven far away by someone else to another town or city. Another layer of DNA and other trace evidence would be added to the concoction already inside. The laziness in cleaning a car properly between rentals was his good fortune. It made his vacation less worrisome.

  Ten minutes later a sign appeared on the side of the highway. “Welcome to Willow Falls, Iowa. Fields of Opportunities."

  He smiled as he drove past.

  Can't argue with that, he thought to himself.

  2

  The gathering went as well as could be expected for the funeral of one’s mother.

  The mood was appropriately somber and sullen, with just the right amount of remorse in the offers of condolence for such a loss.

  People ate when they weren’t hungry. They needed something to occupy their hands and eyes, to hide the discomfort they felt when compressed together in a small room with unfamiliar faces.

  Nothing quite ruins one’s appetite like the cold harsh reality of death masked under the pretense of a celebration of life. Thoughts of the deceased were soon replaced by thoughts of oneself. Of wondering when their turn would be. Or who would come to pay their respects when it was them in the box and not the recently departed. It was a known fact that a sudden spike in health checkups often followed in the footsteps of a good funeral.

  Where were all these people when my mother lay alone in the care facility in Salt Lake City? Carolyn Ryder thought to herself as she stood in the small, cramped living room of her mother’s house watching people she didn’t know. Where were they as her mother lay wheezing and coughing in her bed? In those final moments when her lungs were slowly collapsing from the onslaught of respiratory failure?

  Carolyn was of slight build with shoulder-length dark hair and amber eyes that missed nothing.

  The people around Carolyn reminded her of cattle in a pen. The vacant stares, the shuffling feet, the occasional glance in her direction, a nod here, a forced smile there.

  She could forgive them for not recognizing her or knowing who she really was. She had not been home to Willow Falls—her hometown and the home of her mother—for ten years.

  And those who had reluctantly approached her were unsure of what to do or what to say. They fidgeted, looked at the ground or at the ceiling as they offered their heart-felt sympathy. These people were more familiar with Jodie Ryder, Carolyn’s older sister who had never left Willow Falls. Jodie had stayed behind, gotten married, and then gotten divorced just as quick. Thankfully with no kids involved, just the baggage of a failed marriage to a man who eventually ran off with a piece of young ass who twiddled her hair behind the front counter of the local tire store.

  Carolyn often wondered what would have happened if Jodie had had kids. While on the surface her sister appeared calm and in control, she tended to be more emotional when things got difficult or stressful.

  She shouldn’t be so judgmental, Carolyn reminded herself as she pushed off the wall she had been leaning against for physical and moral support for the last ten minutes as she surveyed the room. After all, she was stuck in a roomful of complete strangers who eyed her like she was some kind of vagrant who had wandered through the front door on the promise of food and drink and a warm place to shelter from the bone-cold and swirling snow outside.

  In the kitchen she found Jodie keeping company only with a spread of frozen food on metal baking trays. A hot oven behind her yawned wide, radiating heat into the cold house. She had a dish cloth over one shoulder and a scowl on her face.

  Carolyn readied herself for what might follow. Since she had arrived a few days ago, she had barely seen her sister. The air between them seemed colder than outside.

  Near midnight, while she was filling up her car in a freezing gas station forecourt somewhere in Nebraska, Carolyn's cell phone had rung. Carolyn was driving the non-stop trip, all 1,100 miles from Salt Lake City. She knew her mother was close. That's why she was making the mad dash across four states so she could be by her bedside and say goodbye. Jodie had called her a few days beforehand to forewarn her.

  But she was too late. Jodie had called to say their mother had just died

  Carolyn calmly finished filling her car. Replaced the hose. Went inside and sat alone in a cubicle in the restroom that smelled of urine, and cried.

  Ten minutes later she emerged, got in her car, and kept driving east.

  When Carolyn finally arrived in Willow Falls, she was greeted with the news that the funeral, the wake, the church and the guest list had already been hastily organized by Jodie without even waiting for her younger sister to be consulted.

  Jodie looked up from sliding appetizers onto a ceramic serving platter. “You shouldn’t be in here. You should be outside talking to people, reacquainting yourself with them.”

  Carolyn took a deep breath. She could feel an argument brewing. It wasn’t the time nor the place, but it was all her sister’s making if she wanted to finally vent herself in front of a houseful of guests on the day they had just buried their mother. “Reacquaint with them? I don’t know even know who these people are.”

  Jodie loaded up another baking tray with more frozen food to heat up, then slid it into the oven and slammed the oven door just a little too forcefully. “That’s because you’ve never bothered to come back, to visit, to stay in contact with anyone at home.”

  Carolyn leaned her back against the kitchen counter, an island separating the two of them. This wasn’t her home. She was born here, spent her childhood here, but she had lost all connection with the place. “That’s because I live and worked in Salt Lake City,” Carolyn replied. “Where mom was originally in the care facility I had placed her in so she could be closer to me. I saw her nearly every day when I could.”

  “Worked?” Jodie wiped her hands on the dish cloth and wound a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

  Carolyn nodded. She hadn’t told her sister yet. But now was a good a time as any other. “I resigned two weeks ago.” Carolyn was planning to return to Willow Falls and stay a while, spend more time with her mother. She just thought she had more time, her mother, that is.

  Jodie gave a smirk. “Little late for that now, isn’t it?”

  Carolyn stepped forward, her anger simmering, the sarcasm in her sister’s voice clear and cutting. Through gritted teeth came Carolyn’s next words. “I was there for her, until you decided to shift her back here.”

  Jodie folded her arms defiantly across her chest, her face all frowns, furrows and harsh angles. “It was Mom’s wishes. She wanted to come home, see out what little time she had here, to be buried with dad. Don’t act so surprised.”

  Jodie had moved back into her mother’s house to tend to her. Beth Ryder was expected the live for a few more months, but the illness had taken an unexpected turn and suddenly claimed her.

  “I had every intention of coming back here sooner, to look after her, to help you.” It was no use. Carolyn couldn’t appease her older sister. Jodie had always seen herself as a Florence Nightingale. She relished playing the role, using their mother to garner leverage and sympathy from her friends and those in town who knew Beth Ryder and her ever-present daughter Jodie.