Hearts of Stone Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Brad Smith

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-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

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Brad Smith

  The Carl Burns Series

  ROUGH JUSTICE *

  HEARTS OF STONE *

  The Virgil Cain Series

  RED MEANS RUN

  CROW’S LANDING

  SHOOT THE DOG

  * available from Severn House

  HEARTS OF STONE

  A Carl Burns thriller

  Brad Smith

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain 2016 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  First published in the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of

  110 East 59th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022

  This eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2016 by Brad Smith.

  The right of Brad Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8579-1 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-786-9 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-855-1 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  ONE

  Carl saw the flying dog from inside the workshop. He was standing at the vise, sharpening the aged Remington chainsaw, when something caught his eye and he looked out the window to see the young Border Collie soaring, twelve feet in the air, its front paws extended, ears laid back, teeth bared. The animal seemed suspended perfectly parallel to the ground for a second or two and then, having missed its prey, it hit the hard turf in an uncoordinated tangle of legs before leaping back to its feet, ready for another try.

  Stacy Fulton, the young woman who ran the farm’s online sales, was the dog’s accomplice in this. As Carl watched, she walked over to retrieve the Frisbee from the grass while the pup raced back to the flatbed trailer that was the animal’s launching pad. Stacy had taught the dog the routine, to stand stock still on the trailer until she shouted ‘Go!’ at the same instant she flung the Frisbee high in the air out over the lawn. The soaring dog would catch the disk two or three times out of ten and would play the game all day long if Stacy would accommodate it. As it was, she usually obliged the pup during her work breaks. With Carl in the fields a good deal of the time and Frances busy with the television show, Stacy had become the one closest to the animal. She had started in the warehouse a few weeks after the pup had arrived at the farm. She and the animal were both green and eager to learn and whip smart. Stacy was twenty-one; she’d gone to university for a couple of years and then decided to take a year off. Carl suspected that her leaving school was a financial decision but he didn’t know for sure. Her family was out west, somewhere in British Columbia. She and Frances had become close. Stacy didn’t know it but Frances had already decided to lend her the money for school if she decided to go back. For the time being, Stacy was helping run the warehouse and teaching the Border Collie aerial maneuvers.

  Today the pup caught the Frisbee just as Carl came out of the workshop, carrying the Remington in one hand and a newer model Stihl in the other. He set both down by the door of the machine shed and went inside, where he fired up the Ferguson tractor and drove it around behind the building, to where the wood wagon was parked. A functional relic, it had been built by Frances’s father fifty or so years earlier; it was a large rectangular hardwood box, crudely constructed, resting on two axles and supported by leaf springs salvaged from a 1936 Reo truck. Carl hooked the wagon tongue to the draw bar of the tractor and then drove back around to the front of the shed.

  Stacy walked over, the tooth-marked Frisbee in her hand and the panting pup at her heels, as Carl put the saws into the wagon. It was a cool and cloudy autumn day and she was wearing jeans and a down vest over a cream-colored sweater, her hair back in a ponytail. As she walked, the dog kept nipping at her hand, begging for one more turn.

  ‘What are you cutting?’ she asked.

  Carl indicated the forest lot, a quarter mile away, at the rear of the farm. ‘Dead oak in the bush. I’ve been meaning to drop it all summer and never got around to it. Better do it now, it could snow any day.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ Stacy joked.

  ‘Saying it or not saying it won’t make a difference.’

  ‘I guess not.’ Stacy glanced toward the warehouse. ‘I’d better get back to it. People are still ordering Thanksgiving stuff. They need to realize we don’t offer drone delivery.’ She smiled. ‘Not yet anyway.’

  ‘Christ,’ Carl said.

  ‘Frances is right, you’re an old-fashioned guy.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with being old-fashioned. I almost forgot – do you need a ride to the airport tomorrow?’

  ‘I decided not to go home,’ she replied. ‘Flights were crazy expensive. And – I don’t know – I wasn’t real pumped about spending time with my dad’s new girlfriend. Frances invited me to stay with you guys.’

  ‘Good,’ Carl said. ‘My daughter’s just started her new job in Edinburgh so it’s a trade-off. You can do the dishes in her place.’

  ‘That’s a little sexist.’

  Carl smiled. ‘Hey, I’m an old-fashioned guy.’

  ‘Bugger,’ she said. ‘Are you taking Boomer to the bush with you?’

  Carl thought about it. ‘I’d better not. That’s a big tree to come down and I can’t cut and watch him at the sam
e time. The way he tear-asses around, he could get hurt.’

  ‘I’ll keep him in the warehouse until you’re gone.’

  After she took the animal inside, Carl pulled the Ferguson around to the gas pump and filled the tank. Heading for the lane he stopped at the house and went inside for a thermos and bagged lunch he’d prepared. He put them in the wagon and started out. As he drove along the dirt lane leading to the bush the sun came out, for the first time that day and for a few days before. The poplars along the lane had already lost their leaves, scattered in the mud of the fields. The maple trees in the bush were out in full color, brilliant red under the emerging sun. The oaks showed yellow. Their leaves would be the last to fall.

  The tree to be cut was a massive white oak, the trunk forty inches or so across. It had died slowly over the course of the past couple of years, with more bared branches each season. Frances, ever vigilant of white ash bore and Dutch elm disease, had tried to find out what was killing the oak.

  ‘Old age, I’m guessing,’ Carl had told her. ‘Trees get old, same as people.’

  Frances had been unconvinced. She suspected that the chemicals sprayed by farmers using genetically modified seeds could be at fault. In fact, she took those farmers to task for everything from the disappearance of honey bees to ground water pollution to sickness in some kids. Carl didn’t disagree with any of it. But he was pretty sure that the tree had just gotten old. He told Frances he would count the rings on the stump after cutting it.

  Using the old Remington, that cutting took over an hour. The Stihl was nearly new – and more efficient – but it had just an eighteen inch bar. The Remington was a brute, weighing nearly fifty pounds, and had a cutting bar of twenty-four inches.

  The tree hit the forest floor with a crash that shook the ground. Carl set the Remington aside and, taking up the Stihl, began to cut the top branches into stove wood lengths, stopping periodically to toss the pieces into the wagon. The tree, now that he saw it lying on the ground, was even bigger than he had previously thought. It would fill the wagon three or four times with firewood.

  By the time he stopped for lunch, the wagon was overflowing and he had at least another face cord cut on the ground. He sat on the massive log and ate the sandwich and drank coffee from the thermos. The day was warm enough that he was down to his shirtsleeves. After eating he went to the stump to try to determine the tree’s age. White oaks were slow growers and some years – depending on temperature, rainfall, amount of sun – would be slower than others, so some of the growth lines on the stump were tiny and inconsistent. Counting them, Carl was forced to make a guess. But that guess came in at about a hundred and forty years.

  Old age, like he said.

  Not that Frances would necessarily agree with him on that. She was a pragmatist who required concrete evidence before she believed anything. Not only that, but Carl suspected that she liked to argue with him. She didn’t seem all that interested in arguing with other people, and by that he was flattered. It created within him a certain feeling which for a long time he couldn’t identify. Eventually it came to him: it made him feel at home, not just with Frances but with simply being there on the farm. More than that, it made him feel at home with himself.

  He realized that he had never in his fifty plus years on the planet felt that way. It wasn’t something he thought about missing until he was no longer missing it. If he had given it any consideration he probably would have concluded that it was something available to certain people and not to others. It wasn’t something a man could achieve simply by striving for it. It either showed up or it didn’t.

  He certainly had never felt at home with Frances’s sister Suzy, whom he had married when they were both still teenagers. They had been a poor match, both reckless and wild, both destined for trouble. Suzy had died of an overdose and a few years later Carl had gone to jail for arson. The only good thing that came from the relationship was their daughter Kate, and it had been Kate who had indirectly led Carl back to the farm – and to Frances. Kate was involved at that time in a criminal trial, as a victim testifying in a twenty-year-old sexual assault case. Carl had returned to the area to support her, even though she wanted nothing to do with him. In trying to get closer to his daughter, Carl became very close to Frances. What happened between them surprised the hell out of Carl, and he suspected it had done the same to Frances. He was reluctant by nature to analyze the situation. He was perfectly content in the knowledge that he felt at home for the first time ever.

  Not that he and Frances had a perfect relationship. Such a thing did not exist and they were both well aware of it. For instance, he hadn’t told her that he was cutting the tree today and she was not going to be happy when she heard about it. She liked cutting firewood, she liked being in the bush, as did Carl. There was something mindless and yet gratifying about it. There was no politics to it, no agenda other than the obvious.

  He would have waited but, as he’d said to Stacy, he wanted to drop the tree and haul the wood out of the bush before the snow came. Frances was in the city, shooting the Christmas special that would air two and a half months later. The Thanksgiving show – which they’d filmed in August – would be on this weekend.

  The TV show had started out with her doing spots on a local morning program in Rose City – cooking segments using River Valley Farm products. After a dozen or so of those, the station had pitched the show to her and she had agreed, based on the logic that the program would boost the farm’s profile and consequently increase sales. Which it had. But Carl had suspected from the start that Frances was not at all comfortable being a TV personality, that she had no desire to be famous, even if that fame only existed in a limited market in a few cities. He was pretty sure she’d rather be in the bush, cutting firewood and arguing with Carl. He wouldn’t pressure her to quit the show because he wasn’t certain that it was what she wanted. Still, he held out hope that she would. In a world where dogs could fly, anything was possible.

  Carl went back to work now and spent the afternoon cutting, resorting back to the Remington for the larger pieces of the trunk. Even cut into stove lengths they were too heavy to lift. Eventually he’d bring back the larger John Deere tractor, with the front end loader, to lift them on to a hay wagon.

  It was late in the day, the sun falling into the river, when he drove the Ferguson tractor, with the wagon behind, up to the wood shed. Dusk was coming on and he decided to unload the firewood in the morning. The warehouse was dark and there were lights on in the kitchen at the house. In the half-light Carl could see Boomer lying on the front lawn, fast asleep. Stacy must have tired him out; he didn’t so much as raise his head when Carl drove the tractor around the corner of the shed. Frances wasn’t home from the city yet but would be soon. They shot until five o’clock and rarely went overtime.

  Carl stowed the saws in the shed and started for the house. He whistled sharply as he approached the dog, but oddly enough the animal still didn’t move. In the gloaming, Carl didn’t see the splash of red on the grass until he was twenty feet away. His heart in his mouth, he hurried to the dog.

  The afternoon hadn’t gone smoothly, although Frances hadn’t expected that it would. One of the station managers – an enthusiastic type named Shawn, fresh out of community college – had come up with the idea of having several local sports figures join Frances in the make-believe kitchen in the studio to prepare their favorite Christmas recipes. The concept seemed sound enough but, as with most of Shawn’s ideas, it fell apart in the execution. As always, the devil was in the details.

  It turned out that the hockey player, who arrived unshaven and irritable, intended to make grilled cheese sandwiches as his special dish. He preferred processed cheese between slices of white Wonder Bread, the finished product smothered in ketchup. A second guest, a young woman who had competed in the most recent Olympics as a marathoner, wanted to make tofu stuffing. The college football star arrived with six different recipes, each with a bacon base.

 
; Frances ended up assigning each a recipe of her own and after that things went smoothly enough, although the hockey player insisted on dousing his coq au vin with his signature ketchup. When everyone was gone and the cooking area cleaned, Frances sat at the fake counter with Christina, drinking real wine from a bottle that had earlier served as background.

  ‘One of these days Shawn is going to come up with an idea that’s a cropper,’ Christina said.

  ‘And the apocalypse will be upon us,’ Frances remarked. She had removed the heavy pancake makeup and changed from her Christmas frock into jeans and a sweater. ‘What’s this about a remote?’

  ‘You said you wanted to get out of the studio more,’ Christina said. ‘I have this friend who lives out near Butterfield who has a Christmas tree farm. You know – one of those places where you go and cut your own tree. Pretty standard stuff, but the hook is that they have these huge Belgian workhorses that pull a vintage sleigh into the woods. They have a couple of teams actually – it’s a going concern. So you take the kids, bundle them up, go for a sleigh ride and cut your tree. Great visuals.’

  Frances had another drink.

  ‘What?’ Christina asked.

  ‘Let me think about it,’ Frances said. ‘What else are they suggesting?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘Why?’

  Christina poured more wine for both of them. ‘They thought we could bring in Jimmy Trimble, the polka guy, and the two of you could sing some carols.’

  ‘I’m not singing.’

  ‘There’s the Christmas spirit.’

  ‘I am not fucking singing.’

  Christina laughed. ‘I kinda told them that already.’

  Frances sighed and looked around the kitchen they had built for her. The cupboards with doors that didn’t open and the sink that didn’t run water. The refrigerator which had never been plugged in.

  ‘I didn’t think it would be like this,’ she said.

  ‘What?’