Melting the Ice by Loreth Anne White Page B

blood from the gash on his face. He cussed as he made his way back along the bridge and gathered up her purse.
    He glanced up, made sure he was still alone and opened it. She had a wallet with ID. Good, they’d know it was hers. They would think she had slipped and fallen.
    Then he saw the framed photograph. Her son. Dark hair, unusual pale blue eyes. He stuffed the small frame into the back pocket of his baggy pants before retracing his steps over the bridge and dropping her purse onto the rocks alongside her sweater.
    He would have to make his way downriver now, to see if he could find her body. He had to be sure she was good and dead.
    But before he could move, a blow across the back of his shoulders shot the wind out of him. He instinctively ducked and rolled, forward and low, flowing with the force before spinning around grabbing his assailant’s ankles and bringing him down to join him in the dirt.
    He’d been hit by a piece of log. He grabbed for the log and swung it up into his assailant’s face before scrambling to his feet and hightailing it into the forest.
    “Did you see a woman, tall, in a yellow dress, honey-blond hair?”
    Rex could see the young doorman wasn’t sure how to answer. “My wife.” Rex laughed as he fished a twenty out of his wallet and tucked it into the doorman’s vest. “Women. You know how it is. She wanted Chinese, I wanted Italian. So she storms out in a huff.”
    The lad relaxed. “Yeah, typical.” He nodded in conspiratorial agreement. “Women.”
    “Did you see which way she went, buddy?”
    “Yeah.” He grinned. “Hard not to notice her. She went that way.” He pointed down the stroll that led past the shops to the park and the river.
    “Didn’t happen to see if anyone was following her, did you?”
    A wariness flickered back through the doorman’s puppy brown eyes. “Pardon me, sir?”
    “Never mind. Thanks, mate.”
    Rex bounded down the stairs. As he suspected, Hannah must be making for home, on foot.
    The sky was still pale violet with streaks of pink cloud, but in the trees near the river, it was almost dark.
    Rex trotted over the suspension bridge, keeping his center of balance low, absorbing the bounce and sway of the slats in his knees.
    He caught sight of the small pale bundle on the rocks on the opposite bank when he was halfway across the river. His pulse doubled its pace. Panic was something he didn’t allow. He couldn’t use it to his advantage. He pushed it down.
    He dropped off the gangplank onto the trail and climbed down onto the rocks before he saw the sorry bundle for what it was. Hannah’s sweater, her purse.
    His breath caught in his throat. He dropped down onto his haunches and gently touched her possessions. He saw marks in the dirt above the rocks. It looked as if she could have slipped and fallen.
    He could see nothing in the churning foam below.
    Rex picked up her sweater and saw dirt, bits of twig and traces of blood. He lifted the soft fabric to his cheek. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling her scent. When he opened them, he was in control. Years of British Special Air Services training had slammed into gear.
    He’d have to hurry, make best use of the fading light. His eyes followed the marks and scuffs where pine needles had been scraped back to reveal fresh tracks in the damp earth. Rex recognized signs of a struggle. There was blood on a piece of log on the trail. He dropped to the ground and picked up a sticky clump of needles and sniffed. More blood. It looked as if one set of tracks led up the trail into the trees.
    He looked up, squinting into dark woods. He channeled the anger that had begun to boil acrid in his gut down to where he could use it as a controlled, combustible fuel that could drive him endlessly, calm and rational, like an oiled and lethal hunter.
    He knew bush fighting, and he was no stranger to taking life. Rex set off, crouched low, into the trees along the top of the riverbank. If Hannah had