The Darkest Thread Read online

  Contents

  Your Free Books

  Copyright

  Title Page

  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

  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

  Epilogue

  Scene 2

  All the Blue-Eyed Angels Free Sample

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Your Free Books

  The Erin Solomon Series

  More from Jen Blood

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Thank You For

  Buying this Book!

  Hit the button below for your FREE

  Jen Blood Starter Library,

  including two full-length novels -

  All the Blue-Eyed Angels and Midnight Lullaby -

  and the short story collection,

  In Between Days: Diggs & Solomon Shorts 1990 - 2000

  Or visit us online to sign up at www.jenblood.com

  Copyright © 2016 by Jen Blood

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design By

  www.damonza.com

  Published by Adian Press

  www.adianpress.com

  THE

  DARKEST THREAD

  The Flint K-9 Search and Rescue Mysteries

  Book 1

  Jen Blood

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  THE BRUSH WAS THICK and the air cool, and rain pelted my chilled skin. My shirt was drenched, and my ponytail had gotten snagged so many times I was debating cutting the damned thing off. Up ahead, I caught sight of a flash of dark fur and cursed under my breath.

  Phantom is my lead dog, a German shepherd who was closer to death than life when I rescued her from the needle at an animal shelter in my hometown back in Georgia five years ago. She’s one of the best search dogs I’ve ever had, but she can also be a willful old goat—particularly when she sets her mind to something. This morning, that was exactly what she’d done.

  “Phan!” I shouted. The dog continued on, oblivious. Beside me, my seventeen-year-old son, Bear, glanced at me. I tried not to look as frustrated as I felt. “She’s got a scent.”

  “Not the one you set, though,” he pointed out, as though I hadn’t noticed.

  “I gave her the go-ahead,” I said. Nothing like the present to seize a teaching moment. “Eventually, you’ve got to get to a point where you trust your dog. Sure, she passed by the scent trail I laid. I gave her the go-ahead when I realized she had something else in mind, though.”

  “Like squirrel for dinner?” he asked. At the end of the lead Bear held, his own dog—a white pit bull named Casper—strained to join Phantom in the search. Thankfully, Bear held tight. One rogue dog was more than enough for what should have been a quiet Maine morning.

  “Very funny,” I said with a grimace. This was supposed to be our version of a field trial, since Phantom was getting on in years and it had been a while since I’d put her skills to the test. My business, Flint K-9, is run from the mid-coast Maine island where I live with Bear, a small staff of misfits and miscreants, and a slew of dogs and other assorted wild things in need of a respite. Bear and I had decided to take a couple of days on the mainland to put our dogs through their paces—and, in the process, give Bear some time in the field himself, since he’d been on my tail for the better part of the past year to give him more responsibility.

  The night before, I’d come out and set a scent trail that wound through a stretch of woods in Appleton, Maine, and then Bear and I returned first thing this morning with Phantom and Casper. It wasn’t long before I realized Phantom had caught a whiff of something I’d never laid down, however. Now, an hour later, she was in hot pursuit of…something.

  “Up ahead!” Bear said. I heard the distant sound of the bell Phantom wears to keep me from losing her when she’s off lead, but when I followed Bear’s gaze, I saw nothing. Not surprising—where wild things are concerned, Bear’s got a sixth sense I’ve never been able to top or tap into.

  Sure enough, the next thing I heard was Phantom’s telling double bark, deep-throated and clear. I found it.

  The question was, what exactly was it?

  I was none too pleased at the answer we got once we’d followed the reckless trail Phantom had blazed. At the end, I caught sight of a felled doe just to our left.

  “Keep Casper back,” I warned Bear. He obligingly ordered the dog to ‘leave it,’ and I noted somewhere in the back of my mind that Casper followed the command immediately. The dog was coming along, no question.

  I moved closer to Phantom’s find and knelt next to the body of a large white-tailed doe. Based on the rate of decomp, she’d been killed at least a day ago. Anger grew like fire in my belly at sight of the wound in her side. Not only had she been shot off-season, but the jackass who’d done it hadn’t even cared enough to follow up, find her, and finish the job. I looked around. I’d expected to find Phantom with the deer, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  “I guess we know what scent she was following,” Bear said, forehead furrowed.

  “I’ll call the ranger, let him know he’s got a poacher out here.” I looked around. If Phantom had found what she was looking for, where was she now? I couldn’t hear her bell anymore. Bear scanned the thick woods, rain dripping from his shaggy dark hair. I glanced at the doe one more time, for the first time noticing a key piece of information I’d missed before: the swollen teats of a nursing mother.

  “There!” Bear said. He pointed into a stand of spruce and pine, and I caught sight of a black and tan tail whipping through the underbrush.

  I moved forward, Bear and Casper beside me. The woods smelled of overripe berries and fresh earth, but the scent of blood beneath it made my heart go still. Bear’s face was tense, no hope in his green eyes.

  He’d been in this business long enough to know the likelihood of what we’d find.

  Ahead of us, I saw Phantom move carefully into the underbrush, until her head and muzzle had disappeared.

  I watched as the dog lay down, settling her aging bones on the cold, wet ground. At eight years old, she’s coming up on retirement age—something I’ve been doing my best to avoid thinking about. Her head reappeared as she twisted to look at me, wet brown eyes meeting mine. She barked again, twice, just in case I hadn’t heard her the first time. That second alert always seems a little patronizing to me, like she’s suggesting I might be slow on the uptake for not getting there sooner.

  She turned back to whatever was in the brush and crawled forward until she was half swallowed by the bushes herself. I lay
down on my belly beside her and inched in, ignoring the thorns that tore at my cheeks and hair or the mud that drenched my front, focused instead on the animal I was sure I would find.

  “Well, hello there,” I said quietly when I finally caught sight of her—a young fawn speckled with white, caught in blackberry brambles and too tuckered to fight any longer.

  The fawn flailed at sight of me, letting out a pitiful bleat, then stilled when Phantom whimpered and ran her tongue over the deer’s tawny fur in long, leisurely strokes.

  The fawn calmed, focused on Phantom now. I crept in further.

  “Good girl, Phan,” I said. “Good find.”

  #

  It took just under twenty minutes to get the fawn untangled once we’d found her. In the meantime, we found her brother farther in the brush, also alive. Both were scraped up and plenty scared, but there were no broken bones. That didn’t mean they were home free, of course—I’ve seen plenty of animals succumb to shock after something like this, when they’d seemed just fine. Still, it was a start.

  I’d offered Phantom the knotted rope she usually gets after a successful search, but she turned up her nose at it. She was too concerned with her new charges to play games.

  From here, our destination was Windfall Island—formerly Payson Isle, an island ten miles off the coast of Maine. The island had been very generously donated by Erin Solomon, a reporter who had inherited the place and assured me she never, ever wanted to set foot on its shores again after the drama she’d faced there several months ago. Call it Fantasy Island and hire a couple of guys decked out in white suits and bad accents for all I care—the place is yours now, she’d told me in our last conversation. Thus, Windfall Island was born. There, Bear and our crew run a wildlife rehab center and Flint K-9, a business devoted to training rescued shelter dogs for individuals, law enforcement, and search and rescue divisions around the world. The fawns would get medical care and some R&R out on the island before they were ideally released back into the wild as soon as they were able.

  We’d just gotten back to the Jeep when Monty, my second-in-command, called. I answered my cell while Bear was getting the fawns safely situated in one of the padded crates we carry for just such emergencies, his voice low as he whispered sweet nothings to the babies.

  “Funny story,” I answered as I hit the ‘Accept Call’ button. “We hit the woods with two dogs and a few scent markers… We’re coming back with both dogs, half the scent markers, and a couple of injured fawns who’ll need tending to. I need to get in touch with the warden, but will you let Therese know we’re coming? I think they’re fine, but they’ll need the usual intake and a vet should give them a good once-over. We should be back on the island by nine if she wants to meet us at the dock.”

  “And good morning to you too, Jamie Flint,” he said, in his finest New Orleans drawl. “I’m just fine, thanks for asking. How was your night in the big city?”

  Monty had been on me lately about my interpersonal skills. I’d told him more than once, though: I’m a single mother and a business owner with anywhere from two dozen to a hundred mouths to feed on any given day. I don’t have time for interpersonal anything. “It was just fine, thank you. Did you hear what I said?”

  “Two more babies to add to the zoo,” he said. “Got it, boss. I’ll meet you at the dock in Littlehope, and I can take it from there.”

  “No need. The boat’s at the wharf, we can bring the fawns straight over.”

  There was a pause on the line. “Actually, I’m not sure you’ll be back on the island for a few days yet.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that, and said so. Monty wouldn’t give me any details as to why I couldn’t head home yet, but something in his voice got my antennae up. The rain had cleared, but there was still a lingering heaviness in the air. I’ve been called superstitious more than once in my time, but I’ve learned to listen to the chills that climb the base of my spine, the voices that ride the wind.

  Right now, those voices were all I could hear.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  TRUE TO HIS WORD, Monty met me at the town landing in Littlehope, a fishing village off Route 97 with a population of 753, including the team of seven I’d relocated with me to the island a year before. Two people stood beside him. One was a big, burly man with graying hair and a wool overcoat I was guessing cost considerably more than my car—though, granted, I got the car used from Uncle Henry’s Swap & Sell It Guide. It seemed unlikely Mr. Overcoat had ever heard of Uncle Henry’s.

  I did know the other man, though. He stood at the dock in a worn trench coat, taller by several inches than the man beside him, a pensive expression on his face. Despite myself, I couldn’t help but notice that it was a very handsome face.

  “Will you get the fawns on board and ready for the trip?” I asked Monty, without greeting Special Agent Jack Juarez or the man by his side. Bear and I carried the crate between us, careful not to jostle it. Monty—five-foot-nine and 190 pounds of pure muscle—took my end.

  “Will do,” he agreed. “Did you get in touch with the warden?”

  “I talked to him in the car,” I said. “They already caught the guy. Some numb-nuts who got drunk last night and decided going out in the dark off-season and shooting things was the perfect way to pass the time. The warden didn’t know the doe had fawns, though.”

  “So they’ll string the guy up by his balls till he rots?” Monty said cheerfully.

  “Fingers crossed,” Bear said, with no trace of Monty’s good humor.

  “He’ll get his day in court,” I said. “We’ll hope for the best from there.” The incident was actually a serious one; shooting a deer out of season is already a punishable offense, but going out at night under the influence considerably ups the stakes. Depending on the judge, the offender was looking at a fine of at least a thousand dollars, jail time, and confiscation of any weapons used in commission of the crime. Personally, I hoped they threw the book at the guy. Not all judges agree with me, however.

  “Did you talk to Therese?” I asked, returning to business. Therese is our veterinarian out on the island, a necessity when you deal with as many animals as we do—many of them in less-than-ideal condition when they come to us.

  “I told her to expect us,” Monty said. “Any idea when you’ll be back?”

  “I don’t even know that I’m going anywhere,” I said with a pointed look. “I still don’t have a clue what this is about. Once I have some idea, I’ll let you know.”

  Monty eyed Jack with a hint of distrust, but made no comment.

  Monty and I have worked together for six years now, ever since he was first recommended to me—two days after being released from the Maine State Prison. There, he’d been part of a dog training program for inmates that’s run by a friend of mine. Marie Finnegan’s endorsement isn’t one that comes easily. I hired Monty on the spot, and haven’t had a moment of regret since.

  He is, however, occasionally a little overprotective.

  Once Monty and Bear were on the boat, I refocused on Jack Juarez. His dark hair was cut shorter and his clothes hung looser than they had when I’d seen him last, almost nine months ago. Half circles shadowed his dark eyes. Though at five-foot-ten I’m taller than most of the women and a lot of the men I work with, Jack always makes me feel smaller. Petite, almost. He has broad shoulders and an athletic frame that easily tops six feet, his darker skin tone thanks to a Mexican mother who died when Jack was young and a Cuban father he never knew.

  Those parents are just a few of the ghosts who haunt Jack. Right now, it looked like they were doing a bang-up job.

  “Monty tells me someone’s been asking for me?” I said.

  “I guess you could say that. There’s a situation…of sorts.”

  He looked uneasily at the man beside him. Since I didn’t know what he was talking about and he hadn’t so much as dropped an email to let me know he was still alive in the past nine months, I folded my arms and waited. Maybe it
was petty, but I wasn’t going to make things any easier for him. Jack cleared his throat.

  “This is Special Agent in Charge Gerard McDonough,” he said, introducing me officially to Overcoat. “And this is Jamie Flint, sir.”

  The man stepped forward with his hand extended before Jack had the words out of his mouth. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Jamie. It’s a pleasure.”

  I shook his hand, noting that the iron grip stopped just shy of bone crushing. “What can I do for you, Agent McDonough?” I asked.

  “We have a situation,” he said immediately. I’m not a fan of small talk myself, so the fact that he’d jumped right in earned him a point or two in his favor. “Two sisters have gone missing.”

  I couldn’t hide my surprise. “If you’re looking to organize a search, all you needed to do was call. We’ve got—“

  “It’s not as simple as that,” Jack interjected.

  “Of course it is,” McDonough said coolly. The tension between them could have cracked lead.

  “What isn’t so simple about it?” I asked, directing the question to Jack.

  “The girls went missing up in Vermont, along the Long Trail on Glastenbury Mountain.”

  “You’re not working with Vermont K-9?” I asked. “That’s their turf.”

  “They’re out there,” Jack said. “Police are there, forest service is there, reporters are there. It’s a three-ring circus.”

  McDonough didn’t look happy with his assessment. The second he mentioned Glastenbury Mountain, though, I knew what Jack was talking about. Any time a search is organized around the country, it’s my business to at least take notice. In this case, that wasn’t hard since it was all over the news. K-9 search and rescue teams were out looking for two girls in their teens who’d been missing since the previous morning.

  “VTK9 is good,” I said. “They know that area well. I’m flattered you think I’d be helpful, but I think you’re better off with that crew. I’ve worked with them before, and I’ve always been impressed.”