Cold Jade Read Online Free Page A

quintessential Florida – a three-story structure with the first level being primarily the pool, garage, an outdoor kitchen and a sitting area. The second floor was the main living space, with a wide open lanai that offered sweeping views of the Estero River.
    The outdoor areas of the first and second level were screened in and there was many a night when Mack sat on the second floor lanai, overlooking the river, with a beer in hand. He loved to listen to the river as it gently made its way out to the Gulf.
    The third floor was Mack’s private sanctuary. It included his bedroom, bath, and home office. The home office was where he spent most of his time, reading various law enforcement blogs, news websites, and exchanging email with some of his former colleagues, most of whom were still with the Bureau.
    Now, he went to the outdoor kitchen, rinsed the tuna again, placed it on a platter with plastic wrap, and put it in the fridge.
    He used the small bathroom off the pool, washed his hands, went back outside, dumped the ice from the fish cooler, and overturned it next to the steps that led to the dock.
    Back on the dock, he opened the beer cooler and looked inside. He had three bottles left.
    He dragged the cooler over to the simple wooden bench at the end of his dock. The dock itself was a T with the base of the T being the walkway back to the house. The bench sat on the right side of the dock, with a clear view of the river, and the sanctuary on the other side of the water.
    Mack pulled one of the beers from the ice, twisted off the cap, and closed the lid of the cooler. He sat on the bench, drained half of the beer in one long pull and smacked his lips.
    The river was high, but the tide had started to go back out, and Mack listened as a soft breeze stirred the palmettos behind him.
    He finished the beer, grabbed another from the cooler and saw an osprey fly along the river before landing in a towering tree across from him. The tree was dead, its long branches spread out like fingers on a hand, perfect fishing spots for the osprey.
    “Who are you?” a voice said.
    Mack turned and saw his sister watching him from the end of the dock. She was tall and thin, and in some ways looked very much like Mack. But a much older, and much more tired version. Now, she didn’t look scared, she just seemed curious.
    “Hi Janice, it’s me, Wallace. Your brother.”
    Her eyes seemed to flutter as hints of recognition struggled to connect. Mack was never sure just how much registered with Janice, or how much didn’t. She suffered from Wernicke-Korsakoff Syndrome brought on by years of severe alcoholism. The condition, known in politically incorrect circles as ‘wet brain’ had left his sister with a collection of ever-changing psychological maladies that included memory loss, hallucinations and general confusion.
    “Oh,” she said. “Why are you sitting out here?”
    “I just got back from fishing. What have you been up to?”
    “I’ve been painting with Adelia,” she said. Adelia was Janice’s live-in nurse, a no-nonsense woman who was as good for Mack as she was for Janice.
    Mack had noticed the paint on Janice’s fingertips. It was an activity his sister enjoyed, but it was also excellent therapy. Anything to challenge the brain, make it connect its circuits. The theory being that one day, if enough connections were made, healing would take place. Janice enjoyed painting with Adelia, but the connections, and the healing, hadn’t happened yet.
    Janice turned on her heel as Mack’s cell phone rang.
    He slid the last beer from the cooler, and looked at the caller.
    Archibald Spencer .

11
    100 miles west of Iowa
    R ebecca Spencer opened her eyes and saw a sheet of white metal. It took her a moment to realize that she was looking at the ceiling of a van. And that she was inside the van, and it was moving.
    Her other senses quickly sent other messages flooding in. Her head hurt. Her mouth was horribly dry. Her body