Winter Prey (5 page)

“My God, and now it’s here,” Carr said, appalled. He looked at Lucas. “Listen, I spent five years on the patrol before I got elected up here, and that was twenty years ago. Most of my boys are off the patrol or local police forces. We really don’t know nothin’ about multiple murder. What I’m askin’ is, are you gonna help us out?”

“What do you want me to do?” Lucas asked, shaking away the memories.

“Run the investigation. I’ll give you everything I can. Eight or ten guys, help with the county attorney, whatever.”

“What authority would I have?”

Carr dipped one hand in his coat pocket and at the same time said, “Do you swear to uphold the laws of the state of Wisconsin and so forth and so on, so help you God?”

“Sure.” Lucas nodded.

Carr tossed him a star. “You’re a deputy,” he said. “We can work out the small stuff later.”

Lucas looked at the badge in the palm of his hand.

“Try not to shoot anybody,” Weather said.

CHAPTER
3

The Iceman’s hands were freezing. He fumbled the can opener twice, then put the soup can aside and turned on the hot water in the kitchen sink. As he let the water run over his fingers, his mind drifted . . . .

He hadn’t found the photograph. The girl didn’t know where it was, and she’d told the truth: he’d nearly cut her head off before she’d died, cut away her nose and her ears. She said her mother had taken it, and finally, he believed her. But by that time Claudia was dead. Too late to ask where she’d put it.

So he’d killed the girl, chopping her with the corn-knife, and burned the house. The police didn’t know there was a photo, and the photo itself was on flimsy newsprint. With the fire, with all the water, it’d be a miracle if it had survived.

Still. He hadn’t
seen
it destroyed. The photo, if it were found, would kill him.

Now he stood with his fingers under the hot water. They slowly shaded from white to pink, losing the putty-like consistency they’d had from the brutal cold. For just a moment he closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the sense of things undone. And time was trickling away. A voice at the back
of his head said,
Run now. Time is trickling away.

But he had never run away. Not when his parents had beaten him. Not when kids had singled him out at school. Instead, he had learned to strike first, but slyly, disguising his aggression: even then, cold as ice. Extortion was his style:
I didn’t take it, he gave it to me. We were just playing, he fell down, he’s just a crybaby, I didn’t mean anything.

In tenth grade he’d learned an important lesson. There were other students as willing to use violence as he was, and violence in tenth grade involved larger bodies, stronger muscles: people got hurt. Noses were broken, shoulders were dislocated in the weekly afternoon fights. Most importantly, you couldn’t hide the violence. No way to deny you were in a fight if somebody got hurt.

And somebody got hurt. Darrell Wynan was his name. Tough kid. Picked out the Iceman for one of those reasons known only to people who pick fights: in fact, he had seen it coming. Carried a rock in his pocket, a smooth sandstone pebble the size of a golf ball, for the day the fight came.

Wynan caught him next to the football field, three or four of his remora fish running along behind, carrying their books, delight on their faces. A fight, a fight . . .

The fight lasted five seconds. Wynan came at him in the stance of an experienced barehanded fighter, elbows in. The Iceman threw the rock at Wynan’s forehead. Since his hand was only a foot away when he let go, there was almost no way to miss.

Wynan went down with a depressive fracture of the skull. He almost died.

And the Iceman to the cops: I was scared, he was coming with his whole gang, that’s all he does is beat up kids, I just picked up the rock and threw it.

His mother had picked him up at the police station (his father was gone by then, never to be seen again). In the car, his mother started in on him:
Wait till I get you home,
she said.
Just wait.

And the Iceman, in the car, lifted a finger to her face and said,
You ever fuckin’ touch me again I’ll wait until you’re asleep and I’ll get a hammer and I’ll beat your head in.
You ever touch me again, you better never go to sleep.

She believed him. A good thing, too. She was still alive.

He turned off the hot water, dried his hands on a dish towel.
Need to think. So much to do.
He forgot about the soup, went and sat in his television chair, stared at the blank screen.

He had never seen the photograph as it had been reproduced, although he’d seen the original Polaroid. He had been stupid to let the boy keep it. And when the boy had sent it away . . .

“We’re gonna be famous,” the kid said.

“What?” They were smoking cigarettes in the trailer’s back bedroom, the boy relaxing against a stack of pillows; the Iceman had both feet on the floor, his elbows on his knees.

The boy rolled over, looked under the bed, came up with what looked like a newspaper. He flipped it at the Iceman. There were dozens of pictures, boys and men.

“What’d you do?” the Iceman asked; but in his heart he knew, and the anger swelled in his chest.

“Sent in the picture. You know, the one with you and me on the couch.”

“You fuck.”

The Iceman lurched at him; the boy giggled, barely struggling, not understanding. The Iceman was on his chest, straddling him, got his thumbs on the boy’s throat . . . and then Jim Harper knew. His eyes rolled up and his mouth opened and the Iceman . . .

Did what? Remembered backing away, looking at the body. Christ. He’d killed him.

The Iceman jumped to his feet, reliving it and the search for a place to dump the body. He thought about throwing it in a swamp. He thought about shooting him with a shotgun,
leaving the gun, so it might look like a hunting accident. But Jim didn’t hunt. And his father would know, and his father was nuts. Then he remembered the kid talking about something he’d read about in some magazine, about people using towel racks, the rush you got, better than cocaine . . .

The Iceman, safe at home, growled: thinking. Everything so difficult. He’d tried to track the photo, but the magazine gave no clue to where it might be. Nothing but a Milwaukee post office box. He didn’t know how to trace it without showing his face. After a while he’d calmed down. The chances of the photo being printed were small, and even if it was printed, the chances of anyone local seeing it were even smaller.

And then, when he’d almost forgotten about it, he’d gotten the call from Jim Harper’s insane father. The LaCourts had a photo.

Remember the doctor.

Yes. Weather . . .

If the photo turned up, no one would immediately recognize him except the doctor. Without the doctor, they might eventually identify him, but he’d know they were looking, and that would give him time.

He got to his feet, went to wall pegs where he’d hung his snowmobile suit over a radiator vent. The suit was just barely enough on a night like this. Even with the suit, he wouldn’t want to be out too long. He pulled it on, slipped his feet into his pac boots, laced them tight, then dug into his footlocker for the .44. It was there, wrapped in an oily rag, nestled in the bottom with his other guns. He lifted it out, the second time he’d use it today. The gun was heavy in his hand, solid, intricate, efficient.

He worked it out, slowly, piece by piece:

Weather Karkinnen drove a red Jeep, the only red Jeep at the LaCourt home. She’d have to take the lake road out to Highway 77, and then negotiate the narrow, windblown road back to town. She’d be moving slow . . . if she was still at the LaCourt house.

Weather’s work was finished. The bodies were covered and would be left in place until the crime lab people arrived from Madison. She’d performed all her legal duties: this was her year to be county coroner, an unpleasant job rotated between the doctors in town. She’d made all the necessary notes for a finding of homicide by persons unknown. She’d write the notes into a formal report to the county attorney and let the Milwaukee medical examiner do the rest.

There was nothing holding her. But standing in the shed, drinking coffee, listening to the cops—even the cops coming over to hit on her, in their mild-mannered Scandinavian way—was something she didn’t want to give up right away.

And she wouldn’t mind talking to Davenport again, either, she thought. Where’d he go to? She craned her neck, looking around. He must be outside.

She flipped up her hood, pulled it tight, put on her gloves. Outside, things were more orderly. Most of the fire equipment was gone, and the few neighbors who’d walked to the house had been shooed away. It still stank. She wrinkled her nose, looked around. A deputy was hauling a coil of inch-thick rope up toward the house, and she asked, “Have you seen, uh, Shelly, or that guy from Minneapolis?”

“I think Shelly’s up to the house, and the other guy went with a bunch of people down to the lake to look at the snowmobile trail, and they’re talking to snowmobile guys.”

“Thanks.”

She looked down toward the lake, thought about walking down. The snow was deep, and she was already cold again. Besides, what’d she have to contribute?

She went back to the garage for another cup of coffee, and found that it was gone, Davenport’s Thermoses empty.

Davenport. God, she was acting like a teenager all of a sudden. Not that she couldn’t use a little . . . friendship. She thought back to her last involvement: how long, a year? She counted back. Wait, jeez. More than two years. God, it was nearly three. He’d been married, although, as he said charmingly,
not very,
and the whole thing was doomed from
the start. He’d had a nice touch in bed, but was a little too fond of network television: it became very easy to see him as a slowly composting lump on a couch somewhere.

Weather sighed. No coffee. She put on her gloves, went back out and trudged toward her Jeep, still reluctant to go. In the whole county, this was the place to be this night. This was the center of things.

But she was increasingly feeling the cold. Even with her pacs, her toes were feeling brittle. Out on the lake, the lights from a pod of snowmobiles shone toward the house. They’d been attracted by the fire and the cops and by now, undoubtedly, the whole story of the LaCourt murders. Grant was a small town, where nothing much happened.