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Overview
With Walleye Junction, a taut, propulsive mystery, Karin Salvalaggio will once again grip readers from the opening page to the stunning conclusion.
When outspoken radio talk show host Philip Long is kidnapped and murdered, Detective Macy Greeley leaves her young son in the care of her mother and heads up to remote Walleye Junction, Montana to take charge of the investigation. It is initially believed that Long’s murder is the result of a controversial radio show he’s done on the rise of far right militias in the state.
Within days the two kidnappers are found dead following a massive heroin overdose, and the authorities are hopeful the investigation is finished. But there are too many discrepancies for Macy to settle for obvious answers. The kidnapper’s bodies have been moved, their son is on the run and a series of anonymous emails point investigators toward the murky world of prescription painkiller abuse. Macy soon finds herself immersed in small town intrigues as she races to find who’s really responsible for Philip Long’s murder.
Meanwhile, Philip Long’s daughter Emma is dealing with her own problems. It’s been twelve years since she left Walleye Junction after her best friend died from a drug overdose. Emma finds that little in Walleye Junction has changed in her absence. She is also becoming increasingly uneasy as the familiar surroundings stir up memories that are best forgotten.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781466891470 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | St. Martin's Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 05/10/2016 |
| Series: | Macy Greeley Series , #3 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 304 |
| File size: | 576 KB |
About the Author
KARIN SALVALAGGIO received in MA in Creative Writing from Birkbeck at the University of London. Born in West Virginia and raised in an Air Force family, she grew up on a number of military bases around the United States. The author of Bone Dust White, Burnt River, and Walleye Junction, she now lives in London with her two children.
Read an Excerpt
Walleye Junction
By Karin Salvalaggio
St. Martin's Press
Copyright © 2016 Karin Salvalaggio LtdAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-9147-0
CHAPTER 1
The voice coming in over the police radio sounded skeptical.
"Philip Long isn't here. He must have been moved to another location."
Detective Macy Greeley held the steering wheel in one hand and the radio with the other. "He may have gotten out. You need to check the perimeter and start a search. Any idea where the homeowner is?"
"We're looking into it."
"I'm just coming up to the turnoff. I'll be there in five."
In the distance the flashing lights of emergency vehicles and patrol cars bled red, white, and blue into a wash of black sky. The windshield wipers barely had time to snap back into place before Macy was once again driving blind. The view outside the car windows came at her in short bursts — a lonely stand of trees, an isolated mailbox, a farmhouse, a roadside fruit stand. A gust of wind pushed her into the oncoming lane and for a brief time she slid across the slick surface. It was late spring and snow was falling in the Whitefish Range. Summer still seemed a long way off.
Philip Long's phone call had woken her up thirty minutes ago. She'd been dozing in the incident room they'd set up at the Walleye Junction police station where the authorities were monitoring his home's incoming calls. It had been three days since he'd been abducted at gunpoint at a gas station, but his kidnappers had yet to make contact. All the authorities had so far was video footage of two masked gunmen threatening to kill their hostage if he didn't get into a dark blue van. When Philip Long tried to call his home number, it was Macy who answered.
She'd recognized his voice immediately. As far as she knew he was the only Englishman in Montana with a talk radio program. Apparently he had a way of making people sit up and listen. During their brief phone conversation, Macy had hung on his every word.
I don't know how much time I have, he said.
Can you tell us where you are?
I've been kept in the dark since I was taken. I really have no idea.
Look around. Describe what you see.
It's a family home. Maybe two floors with a basement. I'm not sure when they'll come back. I have to go.
How many kidnappers are there?
I see headlights in the trees. Someone's coming up the driveway.
* * *
Macy's eyes flicked to the digital clock on the dashboard. It was almost three in the morning. A half hour had passed since they'd spoken. If they didn't find him soon somebody else would. Macy checked the sat nav. The police had traced Long's phone call to a residence on the outskirts of Walleye Junction. The first wave of law enforcement officers was already there.
There was no sign of the secondary road she needed to turn onto. Dark windswept trees twisted overhead, the branches arching so far they almost brushed the top of the vehicle. The drainage ditch that lined Route 93 was overflowing. Black water lapped onto the road. She caught sight of what looked like an exit and put on her turn signal.
A figure burst from the trees to her right just as she was slowing down. Macy hit the brakes hard, turning the wheel as the vehicle went into a spin. A pale face. A startled look. Philip Long flew into her windshield and disappeared over the roof as the car started to roll. Glass shattered. The frame buckled. Two and a half times around and the SUV came to a rest on the hard shoulder, its back end suspended above the drainage ditch.
Macy's screams got caught up in a tangle of pain, panic, and grinding metal. She swung her head around as she tried to make sense of what had happened. Still in her seat belt, she was hanging upside down in the cab of the SUV with her hands braced against the ceiling. Her left wrist ached. She held it to her chest and blinked into what was left of the windshield. Outside, the SUV's headlights picked up the trail of rain-soaked debris that had been thrown into the road when the car rolled — broken glass, a notebook, an empty Diet Coke can, her handgun still in its holster, Philip Long's body. She struggled to move, but her seat belt was tight across her lap. She tugged at the clasp. It wouldn't give. Using her legs as leverage, she pushed back hard against the seat and tried again. Metal scraped against pavement as the car lurched back another foot. She swayed from the seat belt as the ceiling buckled beneath her.
"Shit, shit, shit, shit."
Driving rain, whipped up by strong wind, hit her directly in the face. She pressed her fingertips into her eyes and tried to think. She needed to remain calm. Help was close by. They'd get to her in time.
Outside the car something caught her eye. She looked on in disbelief. Philip Long was still alive. He staggered to his feet and swayed barefooted on the empty road. His wet gray hair was matted to his head. He took a tentative step toward her then stopped. The heavy roar of an engine filled the night. A vehicle was approaching. Its headlights hit Philip right between the eyes. He raised a hand and backed away.
Macy turned on the interior light and sifted through the wreckage in the car. The cord for the police radio was tangled on something beneath the passenger seat. She couldn't find her phone.
A motorcycle pulled up just out of her line of sight. Exhaust fumes drifted into the cab. Macy twisted around to get a better look, but all she saw was the driver's heavy black boots. The motorcycle's engine continued to rumble as its driver moved across the road. Her SUV's headlights caught him from behind. Rain poured over his helmet and down his close-fitting motorcycle gear. He knelt to pick up her gun before walking to where Philip Long was standing in the road with his hands up. Philip was yelling something, but the words were warped by wind and driving rain.
Macy's seat belt snapped loose and she fell onto the roof in a heap. Her body felt awkward and heavy. She rolled to her side and crawled through the debris on her hands and knees. She was halfway out the window when the first of two shots rang out.
She slid across the wet gravel on her stomach, the broken glass crackling beneath her. She risked one last look. Philip Long was lying on his side, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. The man turned toward her patrol car just as she dropped into the drainage ditch. The water was ice cold. She dipped below the surface and let the dark current carry her away.
CHAPTER 2It was nearly six in the morning and the lamp above the kitchen table was the only light on in the house, but outside the back garden was slowly coming into focus. After several days of heavy rain, the weather forecast was clear for the coming week. Macy pressed her palms against the cool granite countertop and waited for her hands to stop trembling. In the four days since the accident she'd had several nightmares. Her most recent had started as a faithful reenactment of the night Philip Long died. Unable to breathe, she'd tumbled through the fast-moving water in the drainage ditch. She'd woken up believing that she'd died.
Macy held her hands up to the light. There were scratches and bruises all over her body, but it was her hands that told the story best. Her fingernails were snapped off and her fingertips had been rubbed raw from trying to claw her way out of the ditch. The sides had been too steep and the water too fast. If not for the tangled roots of a cottonwood tree, she might not have survived her ordeal. She'd grabbed hold and scrambled onto the hard shoulder of Route 93. The lights of rescue vehicles glowed in the distance. She'd been so cold she'd nearly lost consciousness, but she'd limped toward those lights. She had vague memories of someone wrapping her in a blanket. Macy blinked back tears and reminded herself of what she knew to be true. It was six in the morning, she was in her mother's kitchen in Helena, Montana, and she was very much alive.
Macy returned to the kitchen table. Crime scene photos, maps, and sheets of notes were laid out in a neat grid. She spent a few seconds studying Philip Long's photograph. He was sixty-two and more physically fit than most people half his age. According to the biography on his Web site he ran five miles a day when the weather was fine. During the winter he cross-country skied. While she was recovering in the hospital she'd read most of his recent articles and listened to hours of his radio talk show. He'd had such enthusiasm for life. It was difficult for her to reconcile this man with the one she'd seen on the road that night. In her mind Philip Long was forever swaying, forever afraid, and forever in midsentence. The more she thought about it the more she was convinced he'd been trying to tell her something. In her nightmares she watched his lips move, but all she heard was the pounding of the rain and the roar of that motorcycle engine.
Philip Long had suffered thirty-one separate injuries, ranging from contusions to broken ribs to a fractured skull. It was impossible to say for certain if they were a result of the accident or a struggle with his captors. Aside from a smashed glass coffee table and a broken lamp they'd found nothing up at the house that indicated there'd been a final altercation with his kidnappers. As far as the police could tell, Philip Long was on his own when he escaped the 4,000 square-foot custom-built home on Edgewood Road.
Macy flipped through the information she'd gathered on the homeowner. Ron Forester was a Flathead Valley–based accountant who was serving time for aggravated sexual assault. He'd told the police that the kidnappers had used his home without his knowledge. Macy had watched his recorded interview from her hospital room. He'd held up his hands.
Nothing to do with me.
Macy checked the Edgewood Road property's phone records again. In the past three months there'd been no outgoing calls aside from the one Philip Long had made on the night he died. The property's utility records told a similar story. There'd been a spike in usage in the days prior to Long's abduction. The property was about a half mile away from Route 93. There were no neighbors and so far Macy could find nothing to tie Philip Long to the owner of the property. She checked the files again. A local company called Mountain Security was contracted to monitor the house alarm. According to bank records, payments for the service were still being made. Whoever broke in must have known the access code. Macy picked up Ron Forester's photo. The man was a convicted felon. She had no reason to trust anything he said.
"Nothing to do with me, my ass," she said.
Macy sifted through the photos of the home's interior. The kidnappers had forced the lock on the back door and cleared out the basement storage room where they'd kept Philip Long. There were Chinese takeaways in the refrigerator, a warm coffeepot, and dishes soaking in the sink. So far they'd found two sets of unidentified fingerprints that couldn't be accounted for.
A large flock of blue jays peppered the dawning sky before settling into uppermost branches of a birch tree at the far end of the garden. Macy glanced at the clock hanging over the kitchen table and frowned. A highway patrol officer was picking her up in an hour. Macy had protested she was well enough to drive back up to the Flathead Valley on her own, but her new boss at the Department of Justice had insisted that it was either a driver or medical leave. Macy gave in. If she wanted Philip Long out of her dreams she needed to figure out what had happened out on that isolated stretch of Route 93. The first thing she had to do was go see the house where he'd been held captive. Photographs weren't good enough.
There was a light step on the stairs and Macy turned to see her mother, Ellen, coming down in her robe and slippers. She wasn't alone. A naturally cautious child, Luke held tight to his grandmother's hand. He was nearly two and half and tall for his age. With his shaggy black hair and aquiline nose, Luke was a dead ringer for his father, former Chief of State Police Ray Davidson, but when his green eyes lit up, he was pure Greeley.
"Mommy!" he said, flinging his arms wide and racing toward her.
Macy smiled through the pain as she bent low to pick him up. The seat belt strap had left deep bruises across her chest and her left wrist ached where it had slammed against the SUV's roof. Ellen put a hand on her daughter's shoulder.
"Please don't put on an act for my benefit. I know you're hurting. Did you take some ibuprofen when you got up this morning?"
Macy groaned as she slid Luke into his high chair.
"Yes, but it doesn't seem to do much good."
"It will take time to heal, but you know that. Anyway, nothing is broken so you'll mend soon enough."
Macy started making faces at Luke. He giggled and grabbed at her nose.
"I wish I had your faith," said Macy.
"Macy, you're stronger than you think. I am grateful they're sending a driver around though. You're not ready to sit behind the wheel just yet."
"Highway patrol officer Gina Cunningham has seventeen years of experience. I doubt she's happy being reduced to a driver."
Ellen laughed. "If I get a chance to meet her I'll keep that in mind."
Macy held up the coffeepot. "I just made a fresh pot. Do you want some?"
"Thank you, that would be lovely." Ellen drifted through the downstairs rooms, turning on lights. "Why do you insist on sitting in the dark? It's creepy. And speaking of creepy, are those crime scene photos all over our kitchen table?"
"Sorry about the mess. I'll clear it up in a sec."
Ellen took a quick look. "If I were looking at these photos I'd have every light in the house switched on."
"In my spare time I'm trying to save the planet." Macy swung open the refrigerator door. "I'm making scrambled eggs. Do you want some?"
"No thank you. I'll just have a bowl of cereal." Ellen smiled. "I really like your new haircut. It suits you."
Macy brushed her red hair forward so it framed her face. "I'm not sure I like it this short. I feel oddly exposed."
"Sweetheart, you're being ridiculous. It's shoulder length. Besides, most of the time you'll pull it into a ponytail like you've always done." Ellen brushed a piece of lint from Macy's navy blazer. "You look well. You're starting to get some of your color back." She touched her daughter's cheek. "You even have a few freckles coming through. Must be spring."
Macy turned away from her mother's steady gaze. Ellen was incredibly perceptive and Macy didn't want her to see how conflicted she was feeling. Macy had been offered medical leave. It would have meant more time at home with Luke. It was her choice to return to the Flathead Valley so she could continue investigating Philip Long's kidnapping and murder. Once she was committed to a case she always saw it through. Every file and photo was stored in her head; she'd work every angle until it made sense. She'd failed Philip Long in life. She would not fail him in death.
She bent low so she could look her son directly in the eyes. Fortunately for Macy, Luke wasn't as perceptive as her mother, but she knew there would come a time when she'd have a lot of explaining to do. There were other moms who were home for dinner every night and had weekends off. She wasn't one of them. This wasn't the first time her job had taken her away for days at a time. There were a lot of police departments in rural Montana that didn't have any detectives on staff. As a special investigator working for the state, she was sent where she was most needed.
Macy made a conscious effort to change the subject. She pointed to her mother's yoga mat. It was rolled up next to the kitchen door with her gym bag.
"Are you going to your yoga class today?"
"Yep, it's nice that Luke likes the day care center. It's good for him to socialize."
"It's good for you too."
"I socialize plenty. The girls are coming over for dinner tomorrow night."
Macy smiled. The girls were all in their late sixties and loved playing a dirty game of poker.
"But the girls don't go with you to yoga?"
Macy was pretty sure her mother had met someone. Ellen was taking more care in her appearance and had finally gained back the weight she'd lost after Macy's father died. During a recent shopping trip at the mall, she'd introduced Macy to an older gentleman named Jeff who they'd bumped into in the food court. Apparently, Jeff and Ellen attended the same yoga class. Ellen had been so flustered she'd had difficulty speaking.
"Thank you again for looking after Luke," said Macy. "I couldn't do this without you."
"It's wonderful for all of us. I love that you and Luke are here with me."
Macy ruffled Luke's hair as she handed him an apple she'd cut up into wedges. He was generally quiet but took a great deal of satisfaction in repeating any interesting words he heard, the more inappropriate the better. Macy still forgot and cursed sometimes. It was hard not to laugh when he mimicked her, but Ellen had put her straight on that one right away.
Don't you dare encourage him,she warned. There's nothing cute about a child saying fuck.
Macy had loved how formal it sounded when her mother said it. You're right. It's much cuter when you drop the f bomb.
Ellen picked up a photo of Ron Forester's living room and held it up to the light.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Walleye Junction by Karin Salvalaggio. Copyright © 2016 Karin Salvalaggio Ltd. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
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