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  Last picture his brain took. Snapshot from the dawn of time. Hot yellow electric eyes, electric fur. A flicker of teeth. Deep in his still chest his heart might have screamed. One furtive thump. He didn’t feel the rough tongue lick at the bloody thigh. He was gone before the first tearing bite.

  Kit found herself suspended in a strange breathing bubble inserted in the ocean of fear. Entranced, she watched the wolves sniff the air, then wheel and bound away. Slowly, soundlessly, she walked though the trees, putting distance between her and the snarls of the feeding pack. When the sounds faded, the bubble burst and the fear rushed in, but it was a hot fear now, angry. She broke into a run. Not sure what happened back there. But she hoped it was him they got. Hoped it hurt.

  Then she saw the slow moving light tremble through the trees. Sprinting now, she dashed toward it, falling, getting up, breaking out of the trees, tumbling in a ditch, getting up again, running up the road shoulder toward the now stationary headlights. Screaming.

  “Mom. Dad. Help!”

  Chapter Forty-nine

  After Shank called, Sheryl put the car in gear and crept down the white tunnel of County 12, alternately checking the odometer and the shoulder at the side of the road. Had the radio going on country-western, some guy crooning about a woman who only smoked when she drank. Something to keep her sane. When she got past 1.5 on the odometer, she saw a red Jeep Cherokee idling at the side of the road, waiting out the storm.

  Her first thought: Smart move. What I should be doing.

  Then. Too close.

  A minute later she caught a break, and the snow stopped. Still creeping, she eased around a turn and saw the edge of the green cabin in the trees. Thought she heard something. Was worried she’d hit something on the road. She tapped off the AM. Kept going until she drew up even with the foot of the driveway. Stopped.

  Was supposed to wait here till he came out and waved her in…

  What the fuck!

  Shank? Yeah, it was Shank. In that white-and-black branchy coat flapping on his back. What was he doing, running across an open field, away from the house?

  She pounded the horn. Probably not a good idea. He kept going.

  Shit. Now what?

  She put the car in drive and accelerated down the road, past the woods where he’d disappeared, slowed down, trolling, peering into the trees. Made another turn, pulled over. Tried to think. Decided she should turn around, at least get pointed in the right direction. After she carefully executed the turn, she switched the high beams on and off. Although it had stopped snowing, it seemed like the snow was still there, latent in the gray air, ready to jump out any second. Looking up, she saw the clouds had this weird orange glow, like something getting ready to bust out.

  Dark everywhere she looked. Scary out here.

  She forced herself to get out of the car and yell, “Shank, over here. Shank?”

  Screw this. She hurried back inside.

  Getting real nervous now, she palmed her cell, put it down, and flashed the lights again. Then kept them on. She lit a Merit. Waited. Turned up the heater.

  Huh?

  First she saw the branches shake along the road, snow flying off, then this…kid in a green coat…tumbled out and fell into the ditch not twenty yards in front of the Nissan. The kid scrambled to her feet and started running toward Sheryl. Arms waving. Yelling. Sheryl zipped down the window, heard the kid screaming, “Mom. Dad. Help!”

  Oh, fuck me, now what?

  Sheryl opened the door, got out, eyes darting up and down the road. The kid was now doing the same thing, wild eyes tearing around, looking at Sheryl, the car, the road. A girl, red hair coming out of a ponytail, stuff matted in her hair. She staggered the last few steps and threw herself on the hood of the car. Like it was a safe place. She was covered with snow, her trousers were torn, and she had a long bleeding cut across her cheek.

  “Help. There’s a man with a gun. He shot Uncle Harry,” she panted.

  Great. Who the fuck was Uncle Harry?

  Sheryl moved forward and took the kid by the shoulders. Two powerful diametrically opposed emotions clashed in her chest; she felt an instinctive impulse to comfort her. And she wanted her to disappear.

  “Jeez, kid, what happened?” Sheryl said, feeling the bone-deep shudders coming off the kid’s shoulders, into her hands.

  “He’s in the woods. He’s after me,” the kid said, panting for breath.

  “Okay, okay.” Sheryl tried to think. “He’s after you. How far away is he?”

  “I don’t know, they got him,” she panted.

  They?

  “Hey, maybe we should get you out of sight,” Sheryl said, eyes darting up the road, then at the dense hostile trees.

  “We should call…,” the kid started to say.

  “No, we gotta hide you first. Get you outta here, someplace safe.” She turned, dashed back to the car, leaned in, and punched the trunk release. Saw the bottle of spring water in the dashboard caddy, plucked it up, and hurried back. “Here, drink this, it’ll help calm you down.” She thrust the plastic bottle into the kid’s gloved hand. “Don’t cry now.”

  The kid bunched her forehead, blew a strand of loose hair from her face with a fierce huff, and said, “I’m not crying.”

  “Okay, right.” Firmly, Sheryl gripped the shoulder of her jacket and walked her around to the back of the car. The kid started to resist. “Look, you said a guy with a gun. We gotta get you outta here. If he sees you in the car with me, he’ll be after me too. So you gonna hide in here.” Sheryl lifted the trunk lid.

  “No way,” the kid said. She threw the bottle of water at Sheryl’s feet and started to back away.

  “Sorry,” Sheryl said, pitching forward, throwing her arms around the kid, hauling her up, and falling forward with her over the edge of the trunk. Shit, the kid was strong. “This will be easier if—”

  Then the kid punched her in the forehead with a soggy wet-gloved fist and almost staggered her.

  “Fuck this,” Sheryl grunted and pounded the kid right back, stunning her enough to stuff her arms and legs free of the lid and slam it shut. As the kid’s feet beat a hollow tattoo on the inside of the trunk Sheryl ran back, yanked open the door, leaned on the horn. Listened to it echo into the still trees.

  Tried yelling again, “Shank, Shank, over here!” into the gathering darkness. Wait a minute. Think. What if the person who’d been shot was still alive, was on the phone, calling the cops? Who’s they?

  Not the time to be jumping up and down yelling.

  Sheryl jumped back into the car, turned on the dome light, and checked her face in the rearview, to see if she showed any damage where the kid punched her. Seeing none, if you didn’t count the panic in her eyes, she drew her hand across her forehead, straightening her hair, and then, for one long second, she looked up and down the road. Reached for her cell, checked her slip of paper, and punched in Shank’s number, listened to it ring. Got the fucking voice mail of the person the phone had been stolen from. Oh, great. She dropped the phone, put the car in gear, and drove slowly, scanning the trees to the left. Stopped, waited a minute. Nothing. C’mon. Where are you?

  Then she crept farther down the road, right to the edge of the open lot next to the green cabin. She began to shudder. The shaking started in her belly and worked up into her arms and her throat. If she’d learned one thing living her life, it was not to hang around the scene of a shooting.

  Then she picked up a flare of lights up the road. She killed the headlights, really shaking now as she saw the red vehicle sitting in the driveway of the target house. Two people. Running toward the house.

  That’s it. Sorry, Shank, but it looks like every man for himself.

  Lights off, keeping her eyes straight ahead, not even looking off the road when she drove past the driveway to the green cabin. When she rounded the turn past the house, she switched the lights back on, accelerated, and reached for her cell and punched in the second number on the slip of paper.


  Chapter Fifty

  Keith Nygard sat at his desk in the sheriff ’s office in the corner off the courthouse, chewing a toothpick, his eyes drifting between reading an accident report and frowning at the snow on spin cycle in his window. He heard a knock on the doorjamb. Looked up. Saw Gator Bodine standing in the doorway. He looked different.

  “Hey, Gator; you look different,” Keith said.

  Gator shrugged, brushed his knuckles along his cheek. “Just treated myself to a shave and a haircut at Irv’s.”

  “What’s the occasion?” Keith put the report aside.

  “Barnie called me from Bemidji. Just sold that old 1918 Case Model 9–18, the one with the big steel wheels.” Gator shrugged. “What the hell, thought I’d take a break, maybe go to the Anglers, have a sit-down meal.”

  “What’d you get for it?” Keith asked.

  “After Barnie’s commission, I should see about eighteen thousand.”

  “No kidding. I’m in the wrong racket. Grab a seat.” Keith indicated one of the chairs in front of his desk.

  Gator lowered himself in the chair. “Ah, reason I’m here—besides dropping in to see Mitch, down the hall”—Gator always visited his parole officer when he sold a tractor, offered to buy him a beer; Mitch always grinned and just shook his head—“is, ah…” Gator cast his eyes around.

  Keith nodded, got up, walked over, and shut the door. Resumed his seat.

  “Reason is, I ran Terry Nelson’s kid out of the old Tindall place the other night. He had all the ingredients. But he’s pretty far gone. Had him an electric hot plate for a heat source. Check this, when I caught him, he was wandering around looking for someplace to plug it in. So, like that.”

  Keith shook his head. “Jimmy Raccoon Eyes. Christ, has that kid gone south fast. Can’t believe he used to run the hurdles. He graduated high school just two years ago. Hot plate, huh? Christ. The electric’s been off in that place for years.”

  “Uh-huh. So I hassled him some. Came up with some names.” Gator withdrew a folded sheet of ruled paper from his jacket pocket, slid it across the table. “One of them’s in high school. A senior named Danny Halstad. They been out at Tindall’s cooking on a propane stove.”

  “How much?”

  Gator shrugged. “Strictly their own use. A gram maybe. But if they keep it up, others will copy them.”

  “Okay.” Keith slid the folded sheet across his desk and dropped it in his drawer. “What about the Mexicans?”

  “They’re keeping to themselves. Stay in that trailer on the building site. I think they got the message after you popped those guys.”

  Keith grinned. “You know, you got a flare for this snitching sideline.”

  Gator flashed on Shank’s parting words: What do we do with snitches? “That ain’t a term I like, Keith,” Gator said evenly, but keeping his voice suitable humble.

  “Yeah, well, you dumb fuck. You did it to yourself.”

  After letting an appropriate amount of time pass, Gator asked, “So what about that thing we talked about?”

  “Forget it. You ain’t gonna get your hunting rights restored, I don’t care how many meth labs you help me bust. We’d need a pardon from the governor. And that just ain’t gonna happen anytime soon. I checked with Terry”—Terry Magnason was the county attorney—“you should be happy with the local deal we worked with Mitch and Joey”—Joe Mitchell was the county game warden—“long as you hunt, quiet like, in the Washichu you can have your venison. You try going outside the county, even south of Z, Joe will stuff a walleye up your ass. End of story.”

  Gator accepted the lecture passively. It didn’t really bother him anymore the way Keith harped on it—like he was mourning their high school friendship, like Gator had personally disappointed him or something. He glanced at the clock on the wall next to a mounted ten-point buck: 4:06. Then he stood up.

  “Angler’s, huh,” Keith said, glancing at the snow boiling outside his office windows. “Watch it on the road going home. This could be a bad one. Howie’s out on a three-car pileup on Two.”

  “You got a point,” Gator said. “Maybe I’ll drop in on Jimmy out at the garage. Looks bad, I’ll stay over.”

  Keith nodded. “Good plan. You talk to Jimmy much lately?”

  “Not really. Cassie called me few days back, whining about Teddy getting in a fight at school. Total bullshit.”

  “Yeah, Jimmy and the other kid’s father went round and round. I had to get involved. Guess it did some good. Cassie called me, too, told me she got together with the kid’s mother and they worked it out.”

  “Whatever,” Gator said.

  “Yeah, well. Congratulations on selling the Case.”

  Gator waved, turned, and left the office, walked down the hall, and nodded to Ginny Borck, who’d been two years ahead of him in high school and who now sat in a county uniform behind the dispatch desk with its bank of new radios and computers.

  Strolling. He was strolling. Should be whistling. He went out on the street, turned up his collar, and strolled to his truck.

  A few minutes later he was easing through the snow, approaching the Angler’s, when the secure stolen cell phone rang. Relaxed, feeling complicit with fortune, he punched answer.

  Sheryl’s voice jumped at him; desperate, yelling, practically screaming: “We got a problem!”

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Broker braked the Jeep halfway up the drive in a four-wheel drift, left it idling. They were out, running toward the house. Ten yards out, seeing the garage side door open, Nina took the lead. Then she sidestepped and pointed down with her left hand while she held the Colt ready with the other.

  Broker nodded, going numb. He saw the blood crystallizing, freezing in the snow outside the door, a lot of it. Then he saw the tracks. The basement window hanging open. Looked up. Nina was in. Started after her. She met him at the door to the kitchen. “Don’t come in here,” she said, looking him dead serious in the eye.

  “Kit?” His knees buckled, then he recovered and surged past her. Saw Griffin sprawled on the floor next to the Roberts. Saw the AR-15 on the floor behind the body. Had a magazine in it. The operating handle angled back loose.

  “I told you not to come in,” Nina said. “Stay here.” She darted away. He heard her dash up the stairs, rummage though the upstairs, come back down the stairs. Doing something in the living room.

  “Kit?” he shouted.

  “Not here.” Nina reappeared, handed him the .12 gauge, a box full of shells.

  “Basement,” Broker said, pointing to the bloody steps as he jammed shells in the shotgun and racked the slide. Then old reflex kicked in. “Don’t touch anything.” He stuffed more shells in his pocket. “I’ll be outside.”

  Nina skipped down the stairwell, avoiding the bloody steps. Broker turned toward Griffin. Do something. Shut his eyes. Shook it off. Totally on automatic. Don’t touch anything. Don’t think.

  “Not here,” Nina yelled.

  “I’m outside,” Broker yelled, going back out the garage. When Nina came out, he pointed to the tracks leading off across the lawn. “She got out the basement window. Those are her boots. The shooter’s following her. Let’s go.” Then he froze, and his voice failed as it hit him. He swallowed to clear the roar in his ears. Through the explosions of their crystallized breath, he said, “He loaded the AR, Nina. I left him with a piece that didn’t work…”

  She pounded him hard on the chest. “Do your job! He did!” she shouted in that fierce voice, indicating the blood trail. “Now you do yours!”

  They moved off in unison, running on either side of the tracks leading across the field. As he ran, Broker tore out his cell and punched 911.

  “Nine-one-one, is this an emergency?” the dispatcher answered.

  “This is Phil Broker. Fire number 629, on the lake. Harry Griffin is dead, shot by an intruder in my house. My eight-year-old daughter is missing. Put me through to Keith Nygard.”

  “Stay on this connection.”

&nbs
p; “Get Keith!” Broker shouted.

  “Stay on the connection,” the dispatcher repeated.

  They were approaching the tree line. Nina shouted over her shoulder, “Griffin hit him hard. All this blood. This guy ain’t going far.”

  They ducked into the trees. The dispatcher came back. “Hello?”

  “Keith?”

  “He’s already in his car, on the way,” the dispatcher said. “We’re starting EMT…”

  “Start everything!” Broker yelled.

  “Calm down. We’re sending all we got. Now, Keith wants you to end this call. He has your number off our system. He’ll call you back on your cell. Do you copy?”

  “Copy.” Broker ended the call, ran holding the cell phone up in his left hand, the shotgun like a dueling pistol in the other. They were moving fast, staying wide of the meandering bloody trail, with an eye for taking advantage of potential cover, aware that the bleeder at the end of these tracks was armed, had killed.

  “Broker…,” Nina called out, a ragged edge to her voice. He saw what she was pointing at. More tracks, animal tracks, a lot of them. Too big for coyotes. When he looked up, he saw Nina sprinting ahead, arms pumping, charging headlong.

  Broker tried to keep up, felt something, looked up, and swore, “Shit!” Not only were they losing light, but the top tier of the trees shivered and bent. Then the snow went off in his face like a white phosphorus round. Blinding.

  Heard Nina’s muffled scream. “I saw them. They ran. I can’t tell…is it…” He ran forward to the sound of her voice. Found her dancing back and forth, peering down at…Oh, no. Without hesitating, he stepped forward, kneeling in it, checking the gristle of the face, clenched teeth showing two inches of bone top and bottom, the nose and lips chewed away.

  Stood up, shook his head. “It’s the shooter. Griffin got him. C’mon,” he yelled, grabbing her as he went by. Dragging her away from the partially devoured corpse. His heart pounded hot as he pushed her forward. “See, look, look! There’s her tracks. They keep going…leave that for the sheriff,” he panted. Then he realized that Nina was crying, the tears freezing on her cheeks, yelling sweetly, “Harry!” over and over as she ran. Suddenly she stopped, raising her free hand cupped, like she was trying to hear.