The Coldest Fear

Don't miss
THE CRUELEST CUT
by Rick Reed

“Rick Reed, retired homicide detective and author of
Blood
Trail
, the true-crime story of serial killer Joe Brown, brings
his impressive writing skills to the world of fiction with
The
Cruelest Cut.
This is as authentic and scary as crime
thrillers get, written as only a cop who's lived this drama in
real life can write. . . . A very good and fast read.”

â
Nelson DeMille

“A tornado of dramaâyou won't stop spinning till you've been spit out the other end. Rick Reed knows the dark side as only a real-life cop can, and his writing crackles with authenticity.”

â
Shane Gericke

“Put this one on your must-read list.
The Cruelest Cut
is a can't-put-down adventure. All the components of a crackerjack thriller are here, and author Reed knows how to use them. Readers will definitely want to see more of Reed's character Jack Murphy.”

âJohn Lutz

“A jaw-dropping thriller that dares you to turn the page.”

âGregg Olsen

“A winner of a debut novel . . . Reed is a master of describing graphic violence. Some of the crime scenes here will chill you to the bone.”

â
Bookreporter.com

A
LSO BY
R
ICK
R
EED

The Cruelest Cut

Blood Trail

THE
COLDEST FEAR

RICK REED

PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Don't miss
THE CRUELEST CUT
by Rick Reed
A
LSO BY
R
ICK
R
EED
Title Page
Dedication
C
HAPTER
O
NE
C
HAPTER
T
WO
C
HAPTER
T
HREE
C
HAPTER
F
OUR
C
HAPTER
F
IVE
C
HAPTER
S
IX
C
HAPTER
S
EVEN
C
HAPTER
E
IGHT
CHAPTER NINE
C
HAPTER
T
EN
C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN
C
HAPTER
T
WELVE
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN
C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN
C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN
C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN
C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN
C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN
C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-ONE
C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-TWO
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER
THIRTY
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER
THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER
FORTY
CHAPTER
FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER
FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER
FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER
FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER
FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER
FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER
FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER
FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER
FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER
FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER
FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER
FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER
FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER
FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER
FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER
FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER
FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER
FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER
SIXTY
CHAPTER
SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER
SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER
SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER
SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER
SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER
SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER
SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER
SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER
SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER
SEVENTY
CHAPTER
SEVENTY-ONE
CHAPTER
SEVENTY-TWO
CHAPTER
SEVENTY-THREE
CHAPTER
SEVENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER
SEVENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER
SEVENTY-SIX
CHAPTER
SEVENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER
SEVENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER
SEVENTY-NINE
CHAPTER
EIGHTY
CHAPTER
EIGHTY-ONE
CHAPTER
EIGHTY-TWO
CHAPTER
EIGHTY-THREE
CHAPTER
EIGHTY-FOUR
CHAPTER
EIGHTY-FIVE
CHAPTER
EIGHTY-SIX
CHAPTER
EIGHTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER
EIGHTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER
EIGHTY-NINE
CHAPTER
NINETY
CHAPTER
NINETY-ONE
CHAPTER
NINETY-TWO
CHAPTER
NINETY-THREE
CHAPTER
NINETY-FOUR
CHAPTER
NINETY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Copyright Page

for Jennifer

C
HAPTER
O
NE

Snow hung heavy in the branches of Scotch pine and cedar trees, and where it hadn't turned to slush, the land was covered in a foot of snow. The storm had surprised everyone, and as the tall, dark-haired young man stepped off the bus in the town's center he could hear generators humming in every direction.

The town hadn't changed much, and even with snow, all the old landmarks were still there. Bertha's Diner was still on the corner, across the street from Rambo's, a redneck tavern where violent brawls broke out over imagined remarks or innocent looks. Next to Rambo's was the old five-and-dime where he used to look through the plate-glass windows at the toys and candy and wonder what it would be like to have a whole dollar to spend.

The five-and-dime was now a Dollar General, but the displays in the window could have been from fifteen years ago, as if time had somehow shifted backwards. But it hadn't. He had traveled a great distance to get here. And he was here with a purpose.

The judge had sentenced him to the asylum until such time he was declared fit to stand trial, but that day had never come. He had spent fifteen years inside. Fifteen years of watching, listening, learning what to say and how to say it. Learning how to convince the doctors that he was cured.

Before he had gone to the asylum he had hidden something in this town. Hidden it in the only place that, as an eight-year-old, he knew it would be safe. For fifteen years he had dreamed of this day, when he would finally reclaim what was rightfully his.

He half expected that when he returned to Shawneetown, Illinois, everyone would cast curious looks at him. Would wonder what he was doing home. What he was doing “out.” But the town that had seemed so bustling to him as an eight-year-old only looked tired and depleted to him at age twenty-three.

There were just a handful of people on the streets. Like the snow, they looked washed of color, drained of life. He crossed the street, stepping into the ruts left behind by cars, and walked into the narrow gangway between Rambo's and the Dollar General store. The odor in the narrow alleyway reminded him of the burnt-grease smell on his father's clothing when he would come home from a night of drinking and gambling in the back room at the tavern. He remembered his mother being unable to buy food or clothing for them because of his father's affection for blackjack and poker.

The alleyway emptied out into a field behind the buildings and led into the woods. The State Highway Department used the field behind Rambo's to store crushed cinders and bricks for when the roads iced over. The huge pile of grit was gone, but even after fifteen years the cinders crunched under the smooth soles of his brand-new dress shoes. The asylum had given him shoes, slacks, a button-down shirt, and a recycled sport coat whose sleeves were several inches too short. They were his only possessions.

At the edge of the field was a small cut-through that the kids had used to get into the woods. A few hundred yards through the woods to the south were railroad tracks. And less than a mile on the other side of the tracks was the tiny house where he had once lived with his mother, father, and sister.

The house was gone now. The bus had driven past the lot on the way into town. A row of cheap duplexes had been built over his old stomping grounds. He had stared at the wide expanses of snow behind the duplexes and remembered the night he had run out the back of his house, through the fields and into the woods, covered in blood and weaving between the big wild blackberry bushes, which tore at his bare arms and chest. It had been snowing that night, too.

He made his way down the path behind Rambo's, and emerged from the woods into a small clearing where an old cabin stood. Its wood was blackened with age, and the handmade shutters were lying on the ground, smashed into pieces by vandals, everything covered in pristine white snow, but it was still there. When he was a kid, the cabin was rumored to be haunted. The truth was that it was a historical landmark. A Civil War general had lived there.

He didn't care about the historical significance of the cabin. He only wanted the item he had hidden there that night when he had run from the back door of his home covered in blood, some his own, some his father's. He had run in a daze, but with enough sense to know he had to hide it. The bone axe was what had finally set him free and he couldn't let anyone get it. It belonged to him and he to it.

He stopped just inside the sagging doorway of the cabin and closed his eyes to re-create that night. Three steps ahead he heard the floorboard creak. He knelt and found the loose floorboard and pulled at it with his fingers until it came free. Reaching into the small opening, roughly four inches by six inches, his hand closed on what he wanted. The bone axe was much bigger than the opening, but when his hand came back out it was closed around the short wooden handle of the weapon. The blade was handmade, forged from heavy iron, covered in years of rust. It was crafted to slaughter cattle, the blade sharpened and heavy enough to cut through bones.

He hefted the weight in his hand. It had seemed much larger and heavier when he was eight years old.

He'd have to find a place to stay, at least for the night. Somewhere out of town. He'd take the axe with him to give it a proper going-over. The bone axe still had a lot of work to do. Killing his father was only the beginning.

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