The Alpine Christmas Read Free Page A

swirling everywhere. Perfect steelheading weather. Only a true masochist could love the sport.
    “And?” I encouraged Milo after Bill had made his exit.
    Milo leaned on his elbows. He was a big shambling man in his mid-forties, with sharp hazel eyes, graying sandy hair, and a long face with a square jaw. It was a nice face, even an attractive face, though I made a point of not usually acknowledging the fact. When it came to the male-female thing, Milo and I had our own agendas. Or so it seemed.
    “Then something really hit,” Milo continued, his high forehead creasing. “It didn’t feel like a fish, but it didn’t seem like a snag, either. I let the line play out a little, but there wasn’t any fight. So I started to reel in. I damned near died when I saw what I had.” Milo gulped, blanched, and gave a shudder. Impatient, I stared at his stricken expression. He’d been the sheriff of Skykomish County for over eight years. Surely he’d seen it all.
    “Well, what was it?” I demanded.
    He passed a big hand over his face. “It was a leg, Emma. A human leg. And it was still wearing a tennis shoe. With no sock.”

Cha p ter Two
    I felt a bit pale, too. For a long moment, Milo and I stared at each other across the desk. Finally, I spoke, my voice a trifle weak: “What did you do with it?” I clutched at my Styrofoam cup, feeling the warmth, but not benefitting from it.
    Having related his grisly tale, Milo sat back in his chair. His color was returning, but he was shaking his head again. “I had a big garbage bag in the Cherokee Chief, so I got it and put the thing in it. Then I came back here and called Bill and Jack to come over quick. Doc Dewey will do the rest. I tell you, Emma, it’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen in twenty-five years of law enforcement.”
    I sipped my coffee and reflected. We could get the story on page one, but it wouldn’t run more than a couple of inches. Later, when and if we knew more, we could do a detailed article. Over the past two or three years, several body parts had been hauled out of rivers in Snohomish and King counties. This, however, was a first for Skykomish.
    “So it’s all up to Doc?” I inquired. Gerald Dewey, M.D., known locally as young Doc, had recently taken over not only his late father’s practice, but old Doc’s coroner’s duties as well.
    Milo nodded. “It’s pretty routine. Try to make an ID, figure out time and cause of death. If foul play is suspected, then we go to work.” Draining his mug with its NRA emblem, Milo seemed to have regained his composure. He actuallychuckled. “Weird, huh? Except for a couple of those Snohomish County cases, nobody’s been able to figure out if we’ve got another serial killer or a lot of accident-prone people in western Washington.”
    “Or too many nuts living in the woods and playing with their Skilsaws,” I remarked.
    “Always a possibility,” agreed Milo. “City people don’t realize how many goof balls take to the high country. Recluses who were strange to start with and keep getting stranger.”
    “Transients, too,” I pointed out. “Either as victim or as hermit. Or both. Do you figure this was a man?”
    Milo turned serious again. “My guess is that it was a woman, or maybe a kid. It had been in the river a long time. I’ll spare you the decomposition details, but judging from the sockless tennis shoe alone, I’d say maybe two or three months.”
    I was grateful to be spared. One of my flaws as a journalist is my squeamish stomach. “Will you check out a list of missing persons?”
    Milo gave a grunt of assent. “It won’t do much good. Nobody I know of is missing around here, except for the usual wandering husband or fed-up wife. If it’s a juvenile, we’d have a better chance—most of them are on the National Crime Information Center computer. After the Green River killer investigation, there was a move to report missing prostitutes on a national basis, but the truth is that the