Only Murder (A Sadie Price FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 1)

CHAPTER ONE There was no one around. He loved this time in the morning, when the silence was as all-encompassing as the ice that covered everything in sight, and the sky still a heavy indigo that made vision impossible without his head-torch. It was at least an hour before dawn and he was the only fisherman on the lake, which was the way that Tom Willoughby preferred it. He found an odd comfort in the quiet, or perhaps not so odd considering that he shared his home with a talkative wife and daughter and two endlessly chattering grandchildren. The frozen lake and pre-dawn darkness had become his escape. Surrounded by nothing but ice and pine-covered mountains, this was a harsh and unforgiving landscape. Yet to him, it was the most beautiful place in the world. Tom hummed softly to himself as he went through the same prepping routine that he had for years; getting the hole squared away, baiting the hooks, and ensuring that the rods and reels were in the perfect position. It was a routine that had become second nature to him now, requiring little in the way of conscious thought, and his set up was soon complete. All he had to do now was wait. Ice-fishing could be a laborious and sometimes thankless task, but Tom was one of the best. He knew the ideal times to fish and the best spots, and where one could find a good shoal of arctic char, the biggest pikes, and even a few land-locked salmon. It had been a while since he had brought home a tasty haul of salmon. Tom knew the art of being quiet too, unlike some of the tourists who visited here, with their shiny new gear and expensive snow boots, eager for a try at getting a good yield from the frozen lakes. Tom was lost in thought when one of his lines snagged and snapped him to attention. With a practiced urgency he began to reel in his catch, only to find the rod bowing and his back bending under the weight of it. He felt a thrum of excitement; whatever this was, it was big, even bigger than the huge pike he had caught five years ago now, which had been the talk of the whole of Anchorage. Just like that pike, this one didn’t want to be caught and the heavy resistance strained his muscles and caused sweat to break out on his brow. As he wrestled with the creature on the end of his hook, the rod threatening to spring from his hands, Tom wondered if it was a fish that he had caught at all. There was no fight to it, no desperate pulling to wrench itself free. It felt like a dead weight. As he dragged it towards the hole, his muscles corded with tension and Tom felt a sense of foreboding begin to take shape as it came closer. That sense was realized as his catch finally came into view, emerging from the hole’s surface, blue and bloated with a strange sheen to its waxy skin. Tom knew a dead thing when he saw it, and his eyes strained to see what kind of animal carcass his hook had made its home in. What poor creature had gotten trapped underneath the frozen lake until he had dragged it back to the light? Then he saw the long strands of dark hair and his stomach hurled. He shouted instinctively for help even though he knew there was no one around to hear him, and suddenly the silence didn’t seem comforting at all.