If the trains start two hundred miles apart, how long will…
Doritos sacks littered the floor at her feet. A round cardboard tray, marked with scrapings of chocolate-cake frosting, sat on a spindly-legged TV-dinner table. An aluminum ashtray was piled with cigarette butts, and she'd just dropped another burning butt into the hole of a mostly empty Coke can. The butt guttered in the dampness at the bottom, and the stench of burning wet tobacco curdled the air; and beneath that, the smell of old coffee grounds, spoiled bananas, rotting hamburger.
On the "Wheel of Fortune," the contestants had found the letters T – - – - n-t- – - – n – n -. She stared at them, moving her lips. Turn? No, it couldn't be "turn," you just thought that because you could see the t's and the n's.
Huh. Could be two…?
The truck rattled into the driveway and her heart skipped. The girl hopped to her feet, peered out the window, saw him climbing down, felt her breath thicken in her chest. His headlights were still on and he walked around to the front of the truck, peered at a tire. Sometimes, in her young-old eyes, he looked like a dork. He weighed too much, and had that turned-in look, like he wasn't really in touch with the world. He had temper tantrums, and did things he was sorry for. Hit her. Hit Mark. Always apologized…
At other times, when he was with her, or with Mark or Rosie or the others, when they were having a fuck-in… then he was different. The yellow-haired girl had seen a penned wolf once. The wolf sat behind a chain-link fence and looked her over with its yellow eyes. The eyes said, If only I was out there…
His eyes were like that, sometimes. She shivered: he was no dork when he looked like that. He was something else.
And he was good to her. Brought her gifts. Nobody had ever brought her gifts-not good ones, anyway-before him. Her mom might get her a dress that she bought at the secondhand, or some jeans at K Mart. But he'd given her a Walkman and a bunch of tapes, probably twenty now. He bought her Chic jeans and a bustier and twice had brought her flowers. Carnations.
And he took her to dinner. First he got a book from the library that told about the different kinds of silverware-the narrow forks for meat, the wide forks for salad, the little knives for butter. After she knew them all, they talked about the different kinds of salads, and the entrees, and the soups and desserts. About scooping the soup spoon away from you, rather than toward you; about keeping your left hand in your lap.
When she was ready, they did it for real. She got a dress from Rosie, off-the-shoulder, and some black flats. He took her to Duluth, to the Holiday Inn. She'd been awed by the dining room, with the view of Superior. Two kinds of wine, red and white. She'd remember it forever.
She loved him.
Her old man had moved away two years before, driven out by Rosie and her mom, six months before the cancer had killed her mom. All her old man had ever given her were black eyes-and once he'd hit her in the side, just below her armpit, so hard that she almost couldn't breathe for a month and thought she was going to die.
He was worse with Rosie: he tried to fuck Rosie and everybody knew that wasn't right; and when Rosie wouldn't fuck him, he'd given her to Russ Harper for some tires.
When he'd started looking at the yellow-haired girl-started showing himself, started peeing with the bathroom door open when he knew she'd walk by, when he came busting in when she was in the shower-that's when Rosie and her mom had run him off.
Not that they'd had to.
Her old man had worn shapeless overalls, usually covered with dirt, and old-fashioned sleeveless undershirts that showed off his fat gut, hanging from his chest like a pig in a hammock. She couldn't talk to him, much less look at him. If he'd ever come into her bedroom after her, she'd kill him.
Had told him that.
And she would have.
This man was different. His voice was soft, and when he touched her face he did it with his fingertips or the backs of his fingers. He never hit her. Never. He was educated. Told her about things; told her about sophisticated women and the things they had to know. About sophisticated love.
He loved her and she loved him.
The yellow-haired girl tiptoed into the back of the double-wide and looked into the bedroom. Rosie was facedown on the bed, asleep, a triangle of light from the hallway crossing her back. One leg thrust straight down the bed and was wrapped from knee to ankle with a heavy white bandage. The yellow-haired girl eased the door shut, pulling the handle until she heard the bolt click.
He was climbing the stoop when she got to the door, a sack of groceries in his arms. There was a puddle of cold water on the floor and she stepped in it, said, "Shit," wiped her foot on a rag rug and opened the door. His heavy face was reddened with the cold.
"Hi," she said. She lifted herself on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek: she'd seen it done on television, in the old movies, and it seemed so… right. "Rosie's asleep."
"Cold," he said, as though answering a question. He pushed the door shut and she walked away from him into the front room, hips moving under her padded housecoat. "Is Rosie still hurting?"
"Yeah, she bitches all day. The doctor was back and took the drain out, but it'll be another week before she takes out the stitches… stunk up the whole house when she took the drain out. Bunch of gunk ran out of her leg."
"Nasty," he said. "How was the birthday party?"
"Okay, 'cept Rosie was so bitchy because of her leg." The yellow-haired girl had turned fourteen the day before. She looked at the cake ring on the floor. "Mark ate most of the cake. His friend had some weed and we got wrecked."
"Sounds like a good time." His cheeks were red like jolly old St. Nick's. "Get anything good? For your birthday?"
"The fifty bucks from you was the best," she said, taking his hand, smiling into his eyes. "Rosie gave me a Chili Peppers t-shirt and Mark gave me a tape for the Walkman."
"Well, that sounds pretty good," he said. He dumped the groceries on the kitchen table.
"There was a cop at school today, one I never seen before," the yellow-haired girl said.
"Oh, yeah?" He took a six-pack of wine coolers out of the sack, but stopped and looked at her. "Guy looks like an asshole, a big guy?"
"He was kinda good-looking but he looked like he could be mean, yeah," she said.
"Did you talk to him?"
"No. But he had some kids in the office," she said. "Lisa's friends."
"What'd they tell 'em?" He was sharp, the questions rapping out.
"Well, everybody was talking about it in the cafeteria. Nobody knew anything. But the new cop took John Mueller home with him."
"The taxidermist's kid?" His thin eyebrows went up.
"Yeah. John rode on the bus with Lisa."
"Huh." He dug into the grocery sack, a thoughtful look on his face.
"The cop was talking to the doctor," she said. "The one who takes care of Rosie."
"What?" His head came around sharply.
"Yeah. They were talking in the hall. I saw them."
"Were they talking about Rosie?" He glanced down the hall at the closed door.
"I don't know; I wasn't that close. I just saw them talking."
"Hmm." He unscrewed the top of one of the wine bottles, handed it to the yellow-haired girl. "Where's your brother?"
Jealousy scratched at her. He was fond of Mark and was helping him explore his development. "He's over at Ricky's, working on the car."
"The Pinto?"
"Yeah."
The man laughed quietly, but there was an unpleasant undertone in the sound. Was he jealous? Of Ricky, for being with Mark? She pushed the thought away.
"I wish them the best," he said. He was focusing on her, and she walked back to the couch and sat down, sipping the wine cooler. "How have you been?"
"Okay," she said, and wiggled. She tried to sound cool. Okay.
He knelt in front of her and began unbuttoning her blouse, and she felt the thickness in her chest again, as though she were breathing water. She put down the w
ine cooler, helped him pull the blouse off, let him reach around her and unsnap the brassiere; he'd shown her how he could do it with one hand.
She had solid breasts like cupcakes, and small stubby nipples.
"Wonderful," he whispered. He stroked one of her nipples, then stood up and his hand went to his fly. "Let's try this one."
She was aware of him watching, of his intent blue eyes following her; he pushed her hair out of her face.
Behind him the blonde woman on "Wheel of Fortune" was turning around the last of the letters.
Two Minute Warning, the sign said.
When the Iceman left, he drove out to the county road, to the first stop sign, and sat there, smoking, thinking about John Mueller and Weather Karkinnen. So many troubling paths were opening. He tried to follow them in his mind, and failed: they tangled like a rats' nest.
If the photograph turned up, and if they identified him, they'd have him on the sex charge. That's all he'd wanted to stop. When Harper called and said Frank LaCourt had the photo but didn't know who was in it, all he'd wanted was to get it back. Get it before the sheriff got it.
Then he'd killed Claudia too quickly and hadn't gotten the photo. Now the photo would mean they'd look at him for the killings. More than that: when they saw the photo, they'd figure the whole thing out.
He was in a perfect position to monitor the investigation, anyway. He'd know when they found the photo. He'd probably have a little time: until Weather saw it, anyway.
He'd been crazy to let the kid take the picture. But there was something about seeing yourself, contemplating yourself at a distance. Now: had John Mueller seen? Did he have a copy or know where it came from?
If they found the photo, they'd have a place to start. And if they showed it to enough people, they'd get him. He had to have it. Maybe it had burned in the fire. Maybe not. Maybe the Mueller kid knew.
And Weather Karkinnen. If she saw the photo, she'd know him for sure.
Dammit.
He rolled down the window a few inches, flipped the cigarette into the snow.
He'd once seen himself in a movie. A comedy, no less. Ghostbusters. Silly scene-a jerk, a nebbish, is possessed by an evil spirit, and talks to a horse. When the cabriolet driver yells at him, the nebbish growls and his eyes burn red, and the power flares out at the driver.
Good for a laugh-but the Iceman had seen himself there, just for an instant. He also had a force inside, but there was nothing funny about it. The force was powerful, unafraid, influential. Manipulating events from behind the screen of a bland, unprepossessing face.
Flaring out when it was needed.
He had a recurring dream in which a woman, a blonde, looked at him, her eyes flicking over him, unimpressed. And he let the force flare out of his eyes, just a flicker, catching her, and he could feel the erotic response from her.
He'd wondered about Weather. He'd stood there, naked under his hospital gown, she examined him. He'd let the fire out with her, trying to look her into a corner, but she'd seemed not to notice. He'd let it go.
He often thought about her after that encounter. Wondering how she saw him, standing there; she must've thought something, she was a woman.
The Iceman looked out at the frozen snowscape in his headlights.
The Mueller kid.
Weather Karkinnen.
CHAPTER 7
An hour after dark, the investigation group gathered in Carr's office. Climpt, the investigator, and two other men had worked the LaCourts' friends and found nothing of significance. No known feud, nothing criminal. The Storm Lake road had been run from one end to the other, and all but two or three people could account for themselves at the time of the killings; those two or three didn't seem to be likely prospects. Several people had seen Father Bergen loading his sled on his trailer.
"What about the casino?" Lucas asked Climpt.
"Nothing there," Climpt said, shaking his head. "Frank didn't have nothing to do with money; never touched it. There was no way he could rig anything, either. He was in charge of physical security for the place, mostly handling drunks. He just didn't have the access that could bring trouble."
"Do the tribe people think he's straight?"
"Yup. No money problems that they know of. Didn't gamble himself. Didn't use drugs. Used to drink years back, but he quit. Tell you the truth, it felt like a dead end."
"All right… Rusty, Dusty, how about that picture."
"Can't find anybody who admitted seeing it," Rusty said. "We're talking to Lisa LaCourt's friends, but there's been some flu around, and we didn't get to everybody yet."
"Keep pushing."
The next day would be more of the same, they decided. Another guy to help Rusty and Dusty check Lisa's friends. "And I'll want you to start interviewing Jim Harper's pals, if you can find any."
The sheriff's department's investigators shared a corner office. One did nothing but welfare investigations, worked seven-to-three, and was out of the murder case. A second had gotten mumps from his daughters and was on sick leave. The third was Gene Climpt. Climpt had said almost nothing during the meeting. He'd rolled an unlit cigarette in his fingers, watching Lucas, weighing him.
Lucas moved into the mumps-victim's desk and Helen Arris brought in a lockable two-drawer file cabinet for papers and personal belongings.
"I brought you the Harper boy's file," she said. She was a formidable woman with very tall hair and several layers of makeup.
"Thanks. Is there any coffee in the place? A vending machine?"
"Coffee in the squad room, I can show you."
"Great." He tagged along behind her, making small talk. He'd recognized her type as soon as Carr sent him to her for his ID. She knew everybody and tracked everything that went on in the department. She knew the forms and the legalities, the state regs and who was screwing who. She was not to be trifled with if you wanted your life to run smoothly and end with a pension.
She wouldn't be fooled by false charm either. Lucas didn't even try it: he got his coffee, thanked her, and carried it back to the office, left the door open. Deputies and a few civilian clerks wandered past, one or two at a time, looking him over. He ignored the desultory parade as he combed through the stack of paper on the county's first real homicide in six years.
Jim Harper had been found hanging from a pull-down towel rack in the men's room of a Unocal station in Bon Plaine, seventeen miles east of Grant. The boy was seated on the floor under the rack, a loop of the towel around his neck. His Levi's and Jockey shorts had been pulled down below his knees. The door had been locked, but it was a simple push-button that could be locked from the inside with the door open and remain locked when the door was pulled shut, so that meant nothing. The boy had been found by the station owner when he opened for business in the morning.
Harper's father had been questioned twice. The first time, the morning after the murder, was perfunctory. The sheriff's investigators were assuming accidental death during a masturbation ritual, which was not unheard of. The only interesting point on the preliminary investigation was a scrawled note to Carr: Shelly, I don't like this one. We better get an autopsy.-Gene.
Climpt. His desk was in the corner, and Lucas glanced at it. The desk was neatly kept, impersonal except for an aging photograph in a silver frame. He pushed the chair back and looked closer. A pretty woman, dressed in the styles of the late fifties or early sixties, with a baby in her arms. Lucas called Arris, asked her to find Climpt, and went back to the Harper file.
After an autopsy, a forensic pathologist from Milwaukee had declared the death a strangulation homicide. Russ Harper, the boy's father, was interviewed again, this time by a pair of Wisconsin state major-crime investigators. Harper didn't know anything about anything, he said. Jim had gone wild, had been drinking seriously and maybe smoking marijuana.
They were unhappy about it, but had to let it go. Russ Harper was not a suspect-he had been working at his gas station when the boy was murdered, and disinterested witne
sses would swear to it. His presence was also backed by computer-time-stamped charge slips with his initials on them.
The state investigators interviewed a dozen other people, including some Jim's age. They'd all denied being his friend. One had said Jim didn't have any friends. Nobody had seen the boy at the crossroads gas station. On the day he was killed, nobody had seen him since school.
"Hear you want to talk to me?"
Climpt was a big man in his middle fifties, deep blue eyes and a hint of rosiness about his cheeks. He was wearing a blue parka, open, brown pac boots with wool pants tucked inside, and carried a pair of deerhide gloves. A chrome pistol sat diagonally across his left hip bone, where it could be crossdrawn with his right hand, even when he was sitting behind a steering wheel. His voice was like a load of gravel.
Lucas looked up and said, "Yeah, just a second." He pawed through the file papers, looking for the note Climpt had sent to Carr. Climpt peeled off his parka, hung it on a hook next to Lucas', ambled over to his own desk and sat down, leaning back in his chair.
"How'd it go?" Lucas asked as he looked through the file.
"Mostly bullshit." The words came out slow and country. "What's up?"
Lucas found the note, handed it to him: "You sent this to Shelly after you handled that death report on the Harper kid. What was wrong out there? Why'd you want the autopsy?"
Climpt looked at the note, then handed it back to Lucas. "The boy was sittin' on the floor with his dick in his hand, for one thing. I never actually tried hanging myself, but I suspect that right near the end, you'd know something was going wrong and you'd start flapping. You wouldn't sit there pumpin' away until you died."
"Okay." Lucas nodded, grinned.
"Then there was the floor," Climpt continued. "There aren't many men's room floors I'd sit on, and this wasn't one of them. The gas station gets cleaned in the morning-maybe. There's a bar across the highway and guys'd come out of the bar at night, stop at the station for gas, the cold air'd hit 'em and they'd realize they had to take a whiz. Being half drunk, their aim wasn't always so good. They'd pee all over the place. I just couldn't see somebody sitting there voluntarily."
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