Crooked Principles: Book Two of the Warren Files

By Kevin Cady

Elijah Warren was a workaholic for the FBI, but during his hunt for the vicious “Poetic Murderer,” he fell in love with Aurelia Blanc—a beautiful and erudite forensic pathologist—and they barely escaped with their lives.

They’ve since left the FBI for slower days and a mountain cabin, but a desperate call from remote Alaska leaves them not a choice. Grizzly is a town of less than a hundred people, and for twelve straight years one of them has been killed. No one talks about the murders, like long-ignored secrets. In fact, it seems no one talks at all. But there’s a sick change in the pattern of death, and a mournful mother wants answers after her five-year-old son is stabbed and bludgeoned to death.

Something is very wrong in the diffident town of Grizzly, and stranded by the winter, Elijah and Aurelia face the killer daily, with paranoia as real as the icy air of Alaska. This is nothing like they’ve faced before.

Whose dark past will reveal Grizzly’s secrets?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Jul 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9781483471006

Book preview

CROOKED

PRINCIPLES

BOOK TWO OF THE WARREN FILES

KEVIN CADY

Copyright © 2017 Kevin Cady.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-7101-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-7100-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017909177

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 07/05/2017

Contents

Prologue

Act One: Remote, Sick, And Intimate

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

Act Two: The Unnamed Feeling

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

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Act Three: Crooked Principles

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Epilogue

About The Author

Praise for The Warren Files and Kevin Cady …

A Solitary Awakening is a feverish orchestration of mystery, violence, poetry, and even love.

-Foreword Clarion Reviews

Cady’s novel is a solid detective story thanks to a meticulous investigation.

-Kirkus Reviews

Cady’s debut novel is a winner. Can’t wait to see where he takes Elijah and Aurelia next!

-Paul Alves of the Book Guys Show

Cady’s writing is superb … Dark, engaging, and fast-paced.

-Urban Book Reviews

Cady’s nuanced prose scintillates and intrigues from beginning to end … As every piece is unearthed, momentum builds and fear intensifies.

-Foreword Clarion Reviews

"Exciting page-turner. A great first book in what I hope will become a must-read series."

-Barnsey’s Books

"Surprises seem to meet the reader head on … suspense at every turn … terrific murder mystery!"

-Strong Reviews

"Rich prose is at its most indelible when detailing perspective from the vicious man wearing black; vibrant descriptions are gloomy but no less fascinating…"

-Kirkus Reviews

From Portland, Oregon, to Cadillac Mountain, Maine (and all points in between) the crime scenes read like a top 5 list of the worst ways to die.

-Amazon Reviewer Heath Kelly

Several literary works are incorporated into the narrative and present a fresh guise to the classic poet John Keats. Mechanisms such as riddles and anagrams are expertly utilized.

-Foreword Clarion Reviews

Cady has spun language in a way that creates a sticky and visceral experience for the reader.

-Goodreads Reviewer Matt Lopez

For those who know everything matters.

I have never met any really wicked person before…I am so afraid he will look just like every one else.

-Oscar Wilde

The genesis of evil is the elimination of free will.

-Jeffrey Benjamin

Man is the cruelest animal.

-Friedrich Nietzsche

PROLOGUE

F aulkner was narrow and kinked with average brains. His nose was abrupt, downturned, his teeth angular; his hair was black and stringy. He looked like a sickly cartoon villain, but in Grizzly, Alaska, as the snow was just falling for the year, a peerless prospect was upon him. A crooked one.

Now, Mr. Faulkner, a titanic man said, unbuttoning his pinstriped suit, enormous cigar in his mouth and clenched between teeth almost as white as the snow.

Yes, sir, Faulkner said, looking way up at the man.

"This land is gold, you hear me? Black gold, he said, and tossed his hand towards the hills and mountains north and east. Then with a whirl of his barrel chest he turned back and pointed his arm, hand, and cigar south toward Grizzly and the blues of Thumb Cove, then west toward Resurrection Bay. And that, my boy, is blue-gold. All the way out to the Pacific. His smile twisted up. Faulkner hated it. The man put the cigar back in his mouth and his teeth clenched it, still making that smile. It could be a trade route," the man said, but it didn’t seem to resonate with the boy. The giant adjusted.

"Boy, this could be a tourist’s haven! You’ll be damn-near world-famous, kid! The man’s tone seemed to bounce between cheesy radio DJ and broke down Chevy salesman. He puffed his cigar. Abso-lutely locally famous, boy! How many people live here?!" he said with the heave of a laugh.

Faulkner wasn’t a boy and he wasn’t a kid, but he wasn’t far from it; he made no mention. His impending virtue walked a fragile band of trail.

The behemoth man yanked on the cigar again and pushed the smoke out like he didn’t care about tasting it. He pointed northeast. "Now that there belongs to you, boy … and if— he scoffed —you and your folks sell it to me, you all could live a different life. Everyone here could! You ever been to Los Angeles, kid?"

Faulkner wavered.

It’s a great place to take a family! Hell! To make one! He heaved that laugh again. And I bet you’d like a fine woman in your life! It’d be nice to have a woman beside you up here. Up north. Long cold nights, the man said and leaned down and nudged Faulkner, whose angular face didn’t say anything. The enormous man pointed back toward the Chugach Mountains, which was where Faulkner was already looking. "What’s out there is only worth something if you sell it. You’d be selling worthless land for something better, boy! Don’t you want better? For your family? Don’t you want greatness for Grizzly?"

The man filling the sky finished with a crescendo and tossed one fist up in the air. Then his cigar lit up and smoke blew past Faulkner as the other fist came down. "Wouldn’t it be great to really be someone around here? To make a difference? To have power?" The wind kicked up and the snow came harder. The man folded his arms across his barrel chest, and tucked the cigar down and back. He shivered.

F-Faulkner, he shuddered. "Your parents would sell those parcels if they understood," he said and danced with the wind. Goddamn it’s cold. "And I might need you … kid … let’s say … to help make them understand. You get it?"

Faulkner didn’t say anything and didn’t notice the cold, despite fewer layers. The man puffed once more on the cigar then leaned way down so he was face-to-face with Faulkner and said, "This is barely what your folks own, kid, and they don’t understand the prospects! Only you see them."

Faulkner had no idea what to say, so he said nothing as the man stood back up, still shaking. But then he said, "Would Grizzly be okay? Would people want Blackmoss here?"

Son, the talking billboard said. The Andersons have already signed. The Rileys as well. So have the Clays. That’s half the town! He heaved the laugh like it was the shot put. You’re the last family, and the wealthiest at that! Grizzly will go along with it. Eventually, they’ll be thanking you. Assuming you make the right decision. The man puffed then tossed smoke. "Blackmoss will change everything. It’ll be just what this place needs. And I’ll tell you, he said, wrapping his arm around Faulkner and pulling him closer, puffing smoke out above Faulkner’s head. The power that comes with this money, he said, and looked out over Alaska, the Chugach Mountains, Resurrection Bay and the Fjords beyond. This money I’m about to hand you, kid, will be different than anything you’ve ever felt, and the man pulled once more on the cigar. You need to consider what we’ve talked about." The man rose and re-buttoned his suit.

He handed Faulkner the rest of the cigar, which he immediately tried, pulling hard and fast and smoke packed his lungs then hurled back out, retching hot air into the night. Then the enormous man gave him instructions—the smoke stayed in his mouth.

Faulkner took the smoke in and let it trickle out past his teeth. It was nice, and he thought about how his own father had taught him nothing. Always working. He’d do better with his kids. They stood there for a while in silence as Faulkner smoked, thought, looked off northeast towards the hills then the mountains, already filling with snow, and he thought about the plot of land out there: Faulkner’s family had owned it for generations, and for what? He’d barely stepped foot there. What was it doing for them? Out there at the base of the impassable Chugach? It’s not like there wasn’t more. It was a few parcels on one side of town, and soon he’d turn that golden age and it could all be his. Or maybe sooner. There were options.

The two were silent for another few moments, and the sprawling man watched Faulkner savor each tug of the cigar as the day waned. Faulkner thought and thought, and the cigar was finally gone. He’d made his decision. His predecessors couldn’t define him. There were options.

ACT ONE: REMOTE, SICK, AND INTIMATE

CHAPTER 1

I t was a horrific scene and not one novel for the long-time sheriff.

It was the twelfth murder in twelve years.

Ash from David Levesque’s cigarette fell to the white-drifted ground. His hand lingered outside the cruiser. A view of mountainous terrain was in accordance with the full moon, and he gazed out. He took his time. Tonight, he could see nearly everything, despite the snow. It was all stunning, and just down the hill sat Grizzly, quiet in the way only the remotest mountain towns can be … though quiet doesn’t mean peaceful, as he’d so unfortunately learned. It was February first, 1998, and the sheriff sat in his car, delaying the inevitable.

David put his lips to his cigarette and smoke and cold breath fled, a rolling cloud in the morning’s bite. He mashed the butt in the ashtray and pushed the compartment back into the dashboard of his old Crown Vic. Boots crunched, and David surveyed Sapphire Park, stunning under agreeable circumstances. Atop a vast escarpment, it overlooked Grizzly, Resurrection Bay, Thumb Cove, the abundant Chugach Mountains and the Fjords to the west. You could almost see Seward, across the bay, but the mountains eased too far out and cut the sightline. Sheriff Levesque stood beside the Crown Vic, staring toward red smoke pushing up above the trees thanks to a local called Hunter Tom, who’d been out … yup … hunting. Whodathunk?

Levesque began toward the forest and trees became more frequent, jutting up around him then surrounding him in droves. When he was fully in the wood the moonlight was kept at bay, and white fell infrequently; trees had become his umbrella, snow pillows on branches. David tracked through the woods for almost a mile, following the red-smoke aura. He appreciated his thick threads but the air bit his face, the only skin showing. He held a flashlight, hand protected by a dense glove—It was minor things that allowed him to live comfortably in Alaska. For nearly half an hour David’s lightbeam sliced inky darkness, the moon forbidden, but after that time he found what he’d come for, and in this part of the forest the trees yawned, acquiescing to the snow and moonlight.

David stood feeling vile as he viewed another victim soon added to a file marked Grizzly’s Secret. A man named Turf was lit like a museum exhibit, and David hated the thought, but was grateful the vic’ was a male. It’d be at least another year till he’d face a female victim, brutal rape with the atrocity of murder.

Turf was dangling from his hands, which were extended above his head and stacked flat atop one another. A blade was impaled through them and into a tree. He hung just feet in front of David, and gravity had begun pulling Turf towards the earth, leaving vertical cat-eye gashes in his palms. His toes leered above the snow, and his body eased and swayed. David wished his police force amassed more than two. He’d at least have company. He thought back over twelve years and couldn’t take his eyes from Turf. It was a little unbelievable that he was suspended in the air by a single knife through his hands. Blood had run down and dried on his arms and was crusting and freezing, an Alaskan promise. Turf’s naked body swung in the cold and David cringed, listening as the skin on his back tore against the frozen bark.

David lingered and pulled out his lighter, which was gold-plated and weathered with a half-recognizable insignia. It sparked, but it took his fingers two tries to generate flame. Three if he was being honest. He told himself it was the wind, but knew better. His fingers crackled with each twist of the sparkwheel. They never used to.

David looked at Turf a long time, smoking and thinking.

What was troubling didn’t cease at the skewered hands; lacerations cut Turf’s chest. They carved his stomach. The wounds were extensive, flesh hanging off him like he’d been hacked at by a machete. Blood was painting his front in a myriad of crusting rivulets, tributaries down his legs dripping off his toes into the snow. Some made little blood stalactites, hanging like icicles.

Twelve years of the macabre sight was becoming tiresome, unbearable as most would say. Each year the details had been askance, but the scene was the same, murder victim, mutilated, bleeding to death. Some had been hit in a choice organ and died quickly. Some had been bludgeoned and torn apart. Some had minute cuts and got to bleed out for a day or two or even a week. Turf was some combination of those things. His gashes were wide, like big slack smiles. Turf also had gotten to freeze to death.

As David stood, the wind began to howl more ferociously, a low growl from the southwest out over the water, then a rumble from higher elevation. He lit another cigarette. Only two tries. He was sure of it. And he waited on the crime scene and medical teams from Anchorage, but David Levesque knew what the following days would yield, a half-assed investigation with nothing to show for it. It didn’t seem the boys up north cared much for the little town of Grizzly, its serial killer, or the person killed every twelve months. Far later in the day, David trudged back to his Crown Vic, and found solace in the same idea as last year.

CHAPTER 2

M ore than two-thousand miles away, a remote cabin existed on October Lake in the northeast of Minnesota near the Boundary Waters. It was 7am and smoke rose from a chimney and dissipated in the sky. Dark stained logs built the house. The A-frame had massive windows on two sides. One facing sunrises. One sunsets. The house was lit with the morning’s glow, and sun reflected off the water in the lake beyond. The air was crisp and cold-chills ran along with the morning.

Inside, coffee steeped as Elijah Warren eased onto a French press’ handle. He poured a dark roast into two cups and steam came from the top of them. He gripped one, raised it and drank, and on the cup’s way down looked at his left ring finger, empty of a ring but missing a sliver off the tip from the bear trap in Tennessee the year before. Sliced right off, and it was almost like he’d forgotten it happened at all. With the events of those few months, that was kind of true. So much had happened. It’d been stitched up and he’d moved right on, but now it served as a constant reminder of how close the Poetic Murderer had gotten to both him, and more importantly, the woman asleep upstairs.

He looked out the window, a narrow smile across his face. The Misquah Hills stretched for miles outside, and the aroma of a new blend, Spirit of the Aztec, from Mexico, filled the house. He loved unique coffees, and though it wasn’t a new obsession, it had been in remission. It originally came about through travel, many years ago, and was ultimately the final piece to his puzzle that Aurelia hadn’t yet known. It’s not that he’d intentionally not mentioned it; it just so happened to be the successive years after he’d watched his dad kill his mom, and after he told Aurelia about that the year prior, at the hospital in Tennessee, it just hadn’t come back up. Things like that tend to not.

But there Elijah stood, lost with his black coffee trickling up opaque swirls, and in that moment his mind took him elsewhere, maybe because he’d been thinking about when to tell Aurelia the story, but whatever the reason he was back into his past where he rarely traveled …

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A young Elijah was perched on a stump far away from Minnesota in a raised tropical wood overlooking a beach. Elijah was a man barely a man and hair was sprouting in patches on his face and chin. His arms were narrow and he wore a ballcap. He wore jeans with tears and low shoes with white soles. His face was tanned, and his shirt was off, tucked into the back of his jeans. His ribs poked out like warped piano keys. He raised his hand to his lips and pulled on a narrow joint filled with local Panamanian pot, which wasn’t that great—which he’d procured from a taxi driver that didn’t exactly seem dependable as they went careening along hilled-turns to his hotel room in downtown Panama City. He’d come from Jamaica.

His next stop was Aruba.

So despite loving pieces of Panama, especially the girls, he’d be happy to keep moving.

He’d been on the move nonstop.

But that was what he needed.

He’d first arrived in downtown Panama City months ago, amongst a schismatic façade. On one side of the bay is Old Town Panama—the only walled city on the Pacific side of the continent. It’s decrepit and half torched, decaying everything, grand churches beautiful yet despondent in their perfect opposition. On the northern side of the bay is the new downtown, vast skyscrapers and glass and metal, stunning modernity a cruel illusion since septic systems weren’t fully functioning.

Young Elijah felt more comfortable in Old Town, formally known as Panama Viejo. He liked what he called the oldness to it. Maybe it was its history, at first a route used for the Spanish to transfer Peru-mined gold back to Spain. Though rumor had it, in 1671, a pirate named Henry Morgan was going to raid the territory, so the Spanish fled and burnt the city to the ground and Henry arrived to find wreckage. Old Town Charm.

The first thing Elijah did in Old Town was eat ceviche, white fish and lemon and strange and delightful. Then he went up a cracking cement staircase. He unlocked a thick door between fractured cement walls and unloaded a slim bag he intended to leave. He felt underneath the bathroom sink for the key to a Fiat, which would be parked a few blocks away along the bay. He pulled a low brim down and checked his wallet to see which ID was in it. He collected a synonymous bag and went back out.

The process was now routine. He unloaded, then collected.

Elijah got into a black Fiat. It took a few hours to drive to Playa Guanico Abajo, first dodging through New Downtown then along the coast, then through heavy forests and along a highway where he knew damn well he shouldn’t travel at night—he’d heard stories of gangs who lived in the hills in raw shacks, waiting for lone travelers and they’d throw Molotov cocktails to bring your car to a stop, and depending on gender the next moments generally differed.

Young Elijah had arrived at Playa Guanico and parked. He’d hiked away from the beach and up a steep escarpment to watch for the next shipment from Isla Isabela, a small tropical island with lush mountains and wet forests, plenty of shade, just a few hundred miles off the coast of South America. He lit his narrow joint, sitting upon the stump and thinking about the shipment of coffee, the finest beans he could find, only a few days ago if he could believe it.

Then his eyes were closed.

He woke with the day fading and a ship gradually grew from his raised perspective. The water was changing colors. What had been the teal blue of the morning Pacific was now bouncing fire, blossoming red and orange and that small silhouette coming closer, a black growing dagger.

He shook off his nap and poured then sipped a black Sumatran as he watched the boat bounce through the Pacific. He couldn’t wait to try the new stuff.

Elijah was suddenly in his kitchen, back to 1998 from his brief stint back in 1985, back to his new life in Minnesota, and his new coffee from Mexico, and the love of his life still asleep upstairs, unaware of all that backlogged shit. He hadn’t visited those memories in years, and moving forward, he hoped they’d stay muted where they belonged. He didn’t want to finish that story.

Whimpers were then loud behind him. Elijah turned and knelt and ran his hands along a dog’s long ears. The dog belonged to him and Aurelia, and the dog was called Larson after being rescued from a local shelter after moving to Minnesota. He was a bloodhound.

Elijah loved the dog, despite his name and despite never thinking he’d take to a pet. The case of Charles Larson was Elijah and Aurelia’s first, and its culmination revolved around two distinct facts: Larson smashed Elijah in the head with a gun. Then as he was standing there, ready to kill, Aurelia put a bullet through Larson’s hand. She’d saved him. And she’d named the dog, arguing that, People do things like that all the time! Like, if you meet in Texas, you call your kid Houston! Elijah wasn’t convinced, but he loved the dog anyway, mercilessly.

Since moving to Minnesota, Elijah and Aurelia were all about their own routine. Lucas Cullen, the Poetic Murderer, was far away, and each morning, Aurelia would sleep-in a bit, and Elijah would make coffee. Larson tried to help, though hadn’t shown aptitude for much other than napping and fetching toys from the lake.

Elijah gave the dog a bear hug and kissed him on the head and stood back up to his coffee. It was a beautiful morning in northern Minnesota, and he looked out the large wall of windows towards the lake and the rising sun.

Elijah took two mugs up a spiral staircase, which led to a lofted bedroom with open sides. The loft sat in the apex of their A-frame and looked down into the rest of the house. Bare feet on a wooden floor and Elijah was at the bed, wide paws following tediously. Elijah looked down at Aurelia. They weren’t married, but the title didn’t mean much. They’d never been conventional. Why start now? He loved her so fucking much, and couldn’t believe she was willing to share a life with him. He couldn’t understand, but he didn’t push that. He’d never been in love, and although an unknown disquiet had kept them apart, something changed while tracking the man wearing black. And it’d been almost ten months since they caught Lucas.

They were now private investigators. They’d resigned from the FBI, but still picked up contract work. They were good enough at their jobs to pick and choose when they did them, and money didn’t much matter. Really, they were taking the Bureau jobs for Director Adams. They couldn’t let that man down, but living in their cabin in northern Minnesota, they’d found the life they’d always dreamt of. They’d found what could occupy them separate from tracking twisted killers. They’d never looked back to New York.

G-mornin’, lady. Coffee.

Morning, detective. She stretched and wiped sleep from her eyes. How’s the morning? She took the black coffee.

Nice. Kind of cold, he said, and sat in a thick, green chair in a nearby corner.

Good. Then we don’t have to go anywhere, she said and rolled toward where he sat. She looked at him sideways with her perfectly delicate face, full eyes, full lips, and all that looked at Elijah. He couldn’t believe it. Come here, detective, she said. When did you get so handsome? She took a drink of her coffee and leaned on one elbow, wrapped up in the sheet.

Good question, Ms. Blanc. Elijah moved to sit down beside her and wrapped her up in one arm. It happened when you decided I wasn’t awful? he said, raising his voice at the end, and she laughed. She stared at him with another drink of coffee.

I suppose that’s pretty accurate, she said. Although what all have you said about me? I seem to remember you saying I was, ‘boring and uptight?’ And, ‘too hot for my own good?’ Either ring a bell?

"Never. Neither. I would never have said those things."

You lie, Elijah Warren. The good news, I think, is that we abhorred each other equitably. He laughed. They loved being in that bedroom loft, sharing the morning, unhurried and content. There was no demand to find a killer or venture out into the concrete jungle, now far away. Aurelia rose from bed, wrapped in the sheet. She leaned onto the half-wall and looked down onto their cabin’s downstairs and out the east and west windows. It was the picture she’d always had, a life that wasn’t confused, but simple, beautiful in the only eyes that mattered. She didn’t exactly get the blue house she’d wanted, but she loved this one. This one was real, and it was theirs, and that was better than any fantasy. They drank their coffee and talked through the morning.

Then the earth had rotated a half turn. They were downstairs and moonlight shone through the east windows. Whisky was in their glasses not coffee and they were wrapped up on the couch. Aurelia was staring at him and thinking things she’d never thought. She didn’t exactly know how to put them.

I love you, Eli. Promise nothing changes.

The fire was loud. The moon was brilliant.

Aurelia, you’re what I have. You’re it. What could change this? he said, but later wished he wouldn’t have, because in the coming year two separate events would uproot their life, deracinate all they had and knew, and throw them to the far reaches of the globe and their sanity, push them beyond what they felt they’d ever see or know and push their relationship past where they thought it could go.

But in that moment they were as happy as they’d ever been, euphorically disconnected from the rest of the world. It’d be many more passes of the moon before they could step back and understand how rare the ten months they’d just spent in Minnesota had been.

CHAPTER 3

February second. 1998.

Grizzly, Alaska.

A usual shout came down the hall and Anika Gardo followed it. Coming, hon, she called on the way to her son’s room. She passed pictures of Tanner, one for each year lined up in the hall; there were five. A narrow carpet was in the middle of the floor, and at each side, exposed wood met it and ran a smooth foot into the crooks of the wall. It was a typical morning in the Gardo house, and Anika had been making pancakes when she heard her son calling.

Mom! Tanner yelled.

Anika turned into his room. "Honey, what is it?" Anika said. Why didn’t he ever call for his dad?

Anika had been ten years married to Arthur, who would just be pulling on shoes across the hall. His routine was concrete. Had it really been ten years?

Well, it had to have been. Art made manager at Blackmoss almost twenty years ago, and since, the pay had been steady. Not to mention, he wasn’t the smallest fish in the pond. In general, work is work in Grizzly. There’s not much option when it comes to employment. At least he hit management.

On the shores of Thumb Cove, back in 1949, when New Earth Excavation showed up taking samples, asking townspeople to sell their land to build the mine, things changed. Everything did. Blackmoss Coal Mine was born, and in a few short years, New Earth Excavation employed damn-near everyone, be they down in the mine or on the surface doing secretarial work. The choice pretty much split the men and women. All hundred of them.

Anika smiled and stood in the frame of her son’s door. Will you help with my shoes, Mom? Tanner said, embarrassed. He was looking up at Anika, screaming innocence. He was perched on a small chair in front of the window with his shoes sitting on the floor. His legs dangled and swung. I know I should do it on my own, Mom, but it’s not always easy. Tanner was the center of their family.

Well, Mister Tanner, I believe I can help. But it’s the last time! she said with an enormous wink. Then she heard a low growl from off in the distance. Up in the mountains. She knew what it meant. She had been hoping their hitherto mild winter would endure.

Because Grizzly was generally snowed in during the winter months, blocked off at the single mountain pass by a wall of white, and the storms just keep coming; snow buries them. Darkness does, and Grizzly’s choked by the