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  PRAISE FOR DANA STABENOW’S

  NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER

  BLINDFOLD GAME

  “Edge-of-seat quotient: High.”

  —Entertainment Weekly

  “[An] explosive climax.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “Action-packed ... an ingenious plot.”

  —Denver Post

  “The author jacks up the adrenaline.”

  —People

  “The drama [is] so harrowing you’ll be looking for a life vest before the last wave drenches you.... [A] smashing maritime adventure.”

  —Mystery Scene

  “Stabenow’s descriptions of the ensuing duel at sea . . . make for edge-of-seat stuff.... And the creepy, authentic-sounding terrorist scenario will make readers sit up and take notice of a state that some Americans forget is actually there.”

  —Booklist

  “[E]xcellent.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Blindfold Game, like its predecessors, can be read on two levels—as a cleverly executed thriller with an intriguing protagonist or as a fascinating exploration of an exotic society with its own unique culture. Either way, you can’t lose.”

  —San Diego Union-Tribune

  AND MORE PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR

  AND HER KATE SHUGAK SERIES

  “Stabenow’s . . . books are always welcome for their Alaskan scenes and their true-to-life characters.”

  —Rocky Mountain News

  “Dana Stabenow excels at evoking the bleakness and beauty of the far north.”

  —Seattle Times/Post Intelligencer

  MORE...

  “[Her] stories ... are lifted out of the ordinary by her splendid evocation of the Alaskan frontier, beautiful but dangerous, and its idiosyncratic and intriguing inhabitants.”

  —San Diego Union-Tribune

  “Alaska’s finest mystery writer.”

  —Anchorage Daily News

  “Stabenow is completely at ease with her detective and her environment. The Alaskan wilderness is as much a character as any of the realistic, down-to-earth folks who people her novel.”

  —Dallas Morning News

  A TAINT IN THE BLOOD

  “A powerful tale of family secrets [that] include[s] murder and blackmail.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Every time I think Dana Stabenow has gotten as good as she can get, she comes up with something better.”

  —Washington Times

  “If you haven’t discovered this splendid North Country series, now is the time ... highly entertaining.”

  —USA Today

  “Full of strong story and sharp description ... as perfect a description of a spoiled wilderness as any I’ve read that it deserves to be noted as one of her best.. what makes Stabenow stand out is the way she plants us firmly in the soil of Alaska.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “With escalating suspense and Kate’s sensuous new love affair with Alaska state trooper Jim Chopin, this book reveals previously hidden depths of Kate’s personality. New readers will be enthralled by Stabenow’s latest read, a standout in the mystery genre.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Promising intrigue.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  A GRAVE DENIED

  “Stabenow is a fine storyteller, but it is her passion for the Alaskan landscape and the iconoclastic people who inhabit it that fires this series and lifts this latest entry to its pinnacle.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “The skillful Ms. Stabenow has created a believable, well-defined character in Kate and placed her in a setting so beautiful that the crimes she investigates seem almost sacrilegious . . . this is Ms. Stabenow’s 13th Kate Shugak novel, and they just get better and better.”

  —Dallas Morning News

  “A gifted few are able to employ the setting as something more, an ingredient that adds texture and tone and lifts the story out of the commonplace and into the rare ... to these, add Dana Stabenow . . . this is the 13th volume in the Kate Shugak series, which, unlike many, keeps improving with age—due in large measure to Stabenow’s splendid evocation of the Alaskan landscape.”

  —San Diego Union-Tribune

  “The characters literally come alive to bring you into this fastpaced thriller, which will keep you turning the pages of this high-voltage mystery.”

  —Rendezvous

  A FINE AND BITTER SNOW

  “Among the series’ best.”

  —Booklist

  “The 12th in a series that truly evolves . . . rich with details about life in this snowbound culture, the story moves at a steady pace to a classic ending.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Stabenow uses the merciless magnificence of her state to create a stunning backdrop for her intense and intelligent mysteries.”

  —St. Petersburg Times

  “An intelligent crime novel that reflects both [Stabenow’s] love of wilderness and her understanding of the complex questions of profit versus the purity of the frontier.”

  —Dallas Morning News

  THE SINGING OF THE DEAD

  “With well-drawn characters, splendid scenery, and an insider’s knowledge of Alaskan history and politics, this fine novel ranks as one of Stabenow’s best.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  ALSO BY DANA STABENOW

  Blindfold Game

  THE KATE SHUGAK SERIES

  A Taint in the Blood

  A Grave Denied

  A Fine and Bitter Snow

  The Singing of the Dead

  Midnight Come Again

  Hunter’s Moon

  Killing Grounds

  Breakup

  Blood Will Tell

  Play with Fire

  A Cold-Blooded Business

  Dead in the Winter

  A Fatal Thaw

  A Cold Day for Murder

  THE LIAM CAMPBELL SERIES

  Better to Rest

  Nothing Gold Can Stay

  So Sure of Death

  Fire and Ice

  THE STAR SVENSDOTTER SERIES

  Red Planet Sun

  A Handful of Stars

  Second Star

  ANTHOLOGIES

  Powers of Detection

  Wild Crimes

  Alaska Women Write

  The Mysterious North

  A

  DEEPER

  SLEEP

  DANA STABENOW

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A DEEPER SLEEP

  Copyright © 2007 by Dana Stabenow.

  Excerpt from Prepared for Rage copyright © 2008 by Dana Stabenow.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2006052221

  ISBN: 0-312-93754-7

  EAN: 9
78-0-312-93754-6

  Printed in the United States of America

  St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / January 2007

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / January 2008

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For

  Gary and Jeanne Porter,

  with thanks for the summer lease

  so I could finish this book

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My thanks to Colonel Tom Anderson, retired, of the Alaska State Troopers and the Alaska State Trooper Museum, for letting me run barefoot through his files and back issues of the Banner, greatly aiding the plot of this novel.

  My thanks to Rob Rosenwald, who taught Kate how to make French onion soup, even if she won’t put the cognac in.

  A wink and a nudge to Barbara Peters, who will remember a conversation we had concerning the story arc of the Kate Shugak series. I would like to point out that this book was written before that conversation, so there.

  If you want to know what the Ahtna courthouse looks like, book a room at the Talkeetna Alaskan Lodge, from which I borrowed the decorating scheme.

  And whether he likes it or not, my thanks to Captain Donal J. Ryan for helping me byzantine up the plot.

  CONTENTS

  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

  EXCERPT

  Death is a deeper sleep,

  And I delight in sleep.

  —THEODORE ROETHKE, “PLAINT”

  Sec. 11.41.100. Murder in the First Degree

  (a) A person commits the crime of murder in the first degree if

  (1) with intent to cause the death of another person, the person

  (A) causes the death of any person ...

  —ALASKA STATUTES

  She’d had to spell the word weary in a spelling bee in grade school. She’d spelled it correctly, but she’d never really understood what it meant, until now. It sounded like what it meant—there was a word for that, too, but she couldn’t remember it—and she was weary, weary from the marrow of her bones out. If he would just let her sleep one night all the way through, if he would just let the old bruises heal before he gave her new ones, if she could just have one single moment in the day to think, to rest, to be.

  At first his roughness had been exciting, from the very first time when his hands shackled her wrists over her head, his knees forcing hers wide, the foreign invasion so shocking, his eyes narrowed and intent, and then the rush of feeling that spread out and up in a searing flush that seemed to melt down to the base of her brain. He enjoyed making her body rise to his, she could see it in the triumph in his face. In those early days—how many months was it now?— when she had said no, he had always been able to seduce her into a yes, always.

  Now he didn’t even seem to hear the no.

  She wondered when Ekaterina would come out to visit again. In spite of the old woman’s obvious disapproval of her marriage, of her husband, which always provoked retaliation after she left, her visits offered a respite. He couldn’t hit her when Ekaterina was there.

  She’d been coming out more often lately. Maybe she’d come tomorrow.

  Next to her the bed heaved and feet hit the floor. She lay unmoving, willing herself to disappear beneath the covers.

  Maybe Ekaterina would come today.

  He stripped the covers back. “You aren’t asleep. Get up and get down to the creek.”

  When she didn’t move as fast as he thought she ought to, he kicked her off the bed.

  She thumped onto the floor and scrambled to her feet and scurried to the door. She reached for her parka.

  “You don’t need that,” he said, handing her a bucket. “Get going. I want my coffee.”

  She slid into boots barefoot and opened the door of the cabin. She gasped when the bitter February air hit her lungs, and shivered in her nightgown.

  A hard hand shoved her off the step. “Get a move on, you lazy bitch!”

  She stumbled down the path to the creek. It was frozen over. She took the axe leaning against a nearby spruce and chopped a hole. She squatted over it, dipping the bucket into the clear, cold water beneath.

  A sound made her look up, but she wasn’t quick enough. Something hit the back of her head. In the seconds she had left, she felt a starburst of pain, and knew only an astonished relief that it was finally over.

  A quick hand moved the bucket out of the way so that her head dropped through the hole she had chopped in the ice.

  The soft splash when her face hit the water was the gentlest kiss she would ever receive.

  ONE

  JANUARY

  Niniltna

  This is just wrong, on so many levels, Jim thought. For one thing, he was freezing his butt off. Even if the front of him was plenty warm.

  For another, his boss might legitimately qualify his current activity as a colossal waste of Jim’s time, not to mention the taxpayer’s dollar. Crime had yet to be committed anywhere near or about his person.

  If you didn’t count the one he was about to commit if Kate kept rubbing up against him like that.

  Her head was a very nice fit beneath his chin, even if her hair did tickle. She shifted again, and when he spoke, his voice was a little hoarse. “Are you sure you didn’t get me out here under false pretenses, Shugak?”

  He heard the smile in her voice when she replied, felt the warmth of her breath on his throat. “Well, since it seems crime is the only thing that makes my company tolerable to you, I figured I’d find some.”

  He disregarded what she said for what she meant. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  She tilted her head to meet his eyes. “I make you want to run away like a little girl.”

  “You do not.” It sounded weak, even to him.

  She leaned back against him, warm and firm from chest to knee, and dropped her voice to a whisper roughened by the scar that bisected her throat. “Say it again. And make me believe it.”

  He could have told her to step away. He could have pushed her away. He did not do either of those things, and the sound of the truck coming down the trail was the only thing that saved him.

  And, sadly, Jim wasn’t one bit happy when Kate’s focus shifted, too.

  It was an elderly blue Ford pickup minus tailgate and rear bumper, its passenger^side window replaced with an interwoven layer of duct tape, the body rusting out from the tires up. The engine, however, maintained a steady, confident rumble that indicated more beneath the peeling hood than met the eye.

  The homeowner had dutifully cleared the requisite thirty feet of defensible space around her house in case of forest fires, which in this era of dramatic climatic change were inclined to hit interior Alaska early and often each spring. This and the winter’s meager snowfall made it easy for the pickup to crunch through the thin layer of snow on the driveway and pull around to the back of the house, where half a dozen fifty-five-gallon drums rested in an upside-down pyramid on a solidly constructed two-by-four stand, connected to each other so that the fuel from the top drums ran down into the lower drums, with the bottom drum connected to the furnace in the house by an insulated length of copper tubing.

  Kate and Jim had positioned themselves in a convenient stand of alders at the edge of the clearing, so they had a clear view of Willard Shugak as he got out of his truck, disconnected the copper tubing, connected a hose to the spigot, and began to siphon off the fuel in the drums on the stand to the black barrel tank in the back of his pickup.

  Kate swore beneath her breath. Jim kept his arms a
round her so she’d shut up and stay put. When he judged that enough fuel had been transferred from the drums to the truck’s tank to merit, at the $3.41 per gallon for diesel fuel he had last seen on an Ahtna pump, the definition of theft as provided for in the Alaska statutes, specifically 11.46.100, he said, “Shall we?” and turned her loose.

  Willard looked up when they emerged from the alders. When he saw Kate, he went white and then red and then white again. “Oh shit,” he said, his voice an insubstantial adolescent squeal that sounded odd coming out of the mouth of a forty-year-old man.

  “At least,” Kate said, boiling forward.

  Willard Shugak was all of six feet tall, but he dodged around Jim, keeping the trooper between him and Kate. His voice went high enough to wake up bats. “No, Kate, wait, I—”

  “You moron,” Kate said, forgetting for the moment that Willard was almost exactly that, “what if Auntie Balasha came home to a cold house, her pipes all froze up?”

  She reached for him and Willard backpedaled, stumbling and almost losing his balance, both hands up, palms out, in a placating gesture totally lost on its intended recipient. Jim watched, delaying official law enforcement action, mostly because he was enjoying the show.

  “I wasn’t going to take it all, honest I wasn’t.”

  “You’re not even out of oil,” Kate said, cutting back around Jim and catching the cuff of Willard’s jacket. “I went out to your place this morning and checked. You were going to sell it, weren’t you, Willard?”

  Willard yanked his arm free and darted back around Jim. “I would have paid Auntie back, honest I would!”

  “Sure you would, you little weasel. Howie put you up to this because you were behind on the rent?” Kate feinted a move, Willard dodged back out of the way, and the Darth Vader action figure peeping out of his shirt pocket fell out and vanished into the churned-up snow.

  Willard let out a cry of dismay. “Anakin!” He lumbered forward, his hands pawing wildly at the snow. Kate took advantage of his distraction and grabbed a handful of Willard’s dirty blond hair to haul him upright.