Winter Prey

by John Sandford

  "He's on the sled," the patrolman said into the radio.

  "He's moving, he's on the trail down 77. He's coming up toward your post... He's not moving too fast... wait a minute, he's moving now, he's really taking off."

  Davenport, are you monitoring?

  "Yes, I heard." Lucas was at the hospital, among the smells of alcohol and disinfectant and the stray whiffs of raw meat and urine. "Are you tracking him?"

  We got him, and he's moving your way. The caller was the FBI man who'd provided them with the special handsets and the radio beacons now attached to Helper's sled and truck. He's coming up on us. We'll let him pass and then try to hang on.

  "We're set here. Keep us posted," Lucas said. He looked at Weather.

  "He's coming." Lucas pulled the magazine from his.45, checked it.

  Climpt, who'd been sitting on an examination stool, picked up his Ithaca twelve-gauge and jacked a shell into the chamber. "He ought to be here in twenty minutes."

  "If he's coming here," Carr said. The sheriff had buckled on his pistol again, but left it untouched in its holster.

  "I got a buck that says he is," Lucas said. He slipped the magazine back into the.45 and slapped it tight with the heel of his hand.

  "You're going to kill him, aren't you?" Weather asked.

  x "We're not trying to kill him," Lucas said levelly. "But he has to make his move."

  "I don't see how you won't kill him," Weather said. "If he has a gun in his hand..."

  "We'll warn him. If he opts to fight, what can we do?"

  She thought for a moment, then shook her head. "If we had more time, I could think of something."

  "Women shouldn't be involved in this sort of thing," Climpt said.

  "Hey, fuck you, Gene," she said harshly.

  "Take it easy," Lucas said mildly. He put the.45 up to his face and clicked the safety on and off, on and off, on.

  He saw the look on her face and said, "Sorry."

  "I'm not being silly about this," she said. "Better he dies than anyone else. This ambush just seems so... cold."

  "We ain't playing patty-cake," Climpt said.

  The FBI came back: He's passing us... Okay, he's past, he looked us over pretty good. No chance that we can keep up with him, Jesus, this snow is something else, it's like driving into ajlliinnel... He must be doing forty down there in the ditch, he must be flying blind...

  we're doing thirty... Manny, he'll be coming up on you in five minutes.

  A second voice, the other FBI man: Got him on the scope...

  Davenport, we're five minutes out, he's still coming , he's maybe two miles back.

  "Got that," Lucas said. To Climpt, Weather, and Carr: "Get ready.

  I'll talk to the twins." He ran down the hall, pushed open the double doors at the end of the corridor.

  Two cops were climbing onto snowmobiles, pistols strapped around their waists, one with a shotgun in a jury-rigged scabbard hung on the side of the sled.

  "You been listening?"

  "Got it," said one of the cops. Rusty and Dusty. In their helmets they were unidentifiable.

  "All right. Stand off behind the lot, there. As soon as he gets off his'sled, we'll bring you in. If something happens, be ready to roll.

  One way or another, we take him."

  "Got it."

  The two men took off and Lucas ran back down the corridor, clumping along in his boots, zipping his jacket over the body armor. Henry Lacey trotted down the hall toward him.

  "Good luck," he called as he passed Lucas.

  Carr was hanging up the phone when Lucas got back.

  "More stuff coming in on the sonofabitch. Lot of stuff from Duluth.

  He resigned there, just like he told us, but if he hadn't, the cops were gonna get him for ripping off homes after fires. A couple of arson guys think he might have set some of the fires himself."

  "Good. The more we can pile up, the better, if there's a tri, Davenport, you got it right. He's coming, he's past us, he's on the hospital road, he's on the hospital road, we're running parallel down the highway.. Goddamn, it's hard to see anything out here.

  "Shelly, you know where to go. Weather, get your coat on. Tighten up the straps, goddammit." He pulled the adjustments tight on the body armor, helped her with her mountain parka. She'd be cold without her regular jacket, but it'd only be for a minute or two. "You know what we're doing now."

  "Pace it out, take it slow, stay with you. As soon as anybody yells, get down. Stay on the ground."

  "Right. And everybody knows the panic drill if he decides to come inside." Lucas looked at Climpt and Carr, and they nodded, and Carr gulped and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

  "Nervous?" Lucas asked Weather, trying a smile.

  "I'm okay." She swallowed. "Cottonmouth," she said.

  Even on a blizzard day, there'd be twenty or thirty people in the hospital-nurses, orderlies, maintenance people. Unless Helper had freaked out, he wouldn't try a frontal assault on the building. And he knew that Weather had a deputy as a bodyguard. His only chance was to snipe her with a rifle or to get in close with a pistol or shotgun, shoot it out with her bodyguard, like he'd tried when he ambushed Weather and Bruun. They'd set up Weather's Jeep within a rough circle of cars, they'd given him places to hide, places they could reach with snipers on the roof. They'd show her to him, just long enough.

  As soon as he flashed a gun, they'd have him.

  He's thirty seconds out.

  Anybody see a weapon?

  Didn't see a thing when he went by. He didn't show a long gun on the machine.

  He's ten seconds out. All right, he's slowing down, he's slowing down.

  He's stopped right at the entrance to the parking lot.

  Davenport, you got him?

  Lucas put the radio to his mouth, stared through the waiting room window out to the parking lot. He was looking into a bowl of snowflakes. "We can't see a thing from in here, the goddamn snow."

  He's still sitting there, can you guys on the roof see anything?

  I can see him, he's not moving.

  What's he doing?

  He's just sitting there.

  "Is he coming in?" Weather asked.

  "Not yet."

  Wait a minute, wait a minute, he's moving... He's moving past the lot, he's going past the lot down the hospital road. He's moving slow.

  Where's he going?

  He's going on past the hospital.

  Lucas: "You guys on the sleds, he's coming your way, stay out of sight."

  We're up in the woods, don't see him. Where is he?

  Still coming your way.

  Don't see him.

  'T He's on the road by that gas thing, that natural-gas pump thing, he's just going by.

  Wait a minute, we got him, he's moving slow. What do we do?

  Stay right there, let the FBI guys track him," Lucas said.

  He's passing us. Boy, you can hardly see out here.

  The FBI man's voice came in over the others: He's stopped. He's stopped. He's two hundred yards behind the hospital, by that big woods.

  "Janes' woodlot," Climpt said. "He's gonna come through the woods, sneak in through the back door by the dumpsters."

  "That's always locked," Weather said.

  Maybe he's got some way to get in."

  He's not moving. Somebody's got to take a look.

  Carr, fifty feet away, by radio: Lucas, if he doesn't move in the next minute or so, I think the guys on the sleds ought to cruise by. If he's just sitting there, they can keep going, like club riders. If he's back in the woods, we ought to know.

  I Lucas put the radio to his mouth. "You guys on the sleds--cruise him.

  Stuff your weapons inside your suits, out of sight. And be careful.

  Don't stop, keep going. If you see him, just wave."

  Lucas turned to Climpt. "We better get set up by the back door. If he comes through, we, should be able to see if he's carrying."

  You guys on the roof-we
might have to turn you he may come in the back.

  One of you go out around, back tight now, keep a lookout.

  Got that.

  "If we spot him coming in, we could have Weather just walk across the end of the t-corridor," Climpt said. "He'd be able to see her from the door, but he wouldn't have time to react. If he starts running down that way.

  .

  They worked it out as they ran to the back of the hospital , Weather and Carr hurrying behind. Henry Lacey, palefaced , stood by the reception desk with his.38. The nurses had been moved down to the emergency room, where they had concrete walls to huddle behind.

  Rusty: We just passed his sled. He's not here. It looks like he's gone up in the woods. Doesn't look like he"s wearing snowshoes, Let's, A...

  There was a moment of silence, then the same voice.

  We'll cruise him again.

  "What are they doing?" Lucas asked Climpt. "They're not going back...

  T' He put the radio to his mouth: "What're you doing? Don't go back!"

  Just coming back now.

  There was a dark, abrupt sound on the radio, a sound like a cough or a bark, and a last syllable from the deputy that might have been...

  He's...

  Silence. One second, two. Lucas straining at the radio.

  Then an anonymous radio voice from the roof.

  We got gunfire! We got gunfire from Janes' woodlot!

  Holy shit, somebody's shooting-somebody's shooting.

  CHAPTER 26

  Weather was the key, tie Iceman had decided after Davenport and Climpt left, but he couldn't go running off yet.

  Had to wait for the cops to clear.

  He opened the green Army footlocker, took out the top tray, full of cleaning equipment, ammunition, and spare magazines, and looked into the bottom.

  Four pistols lay there, two revolvers, two automatics.

  After a moment's thought he selected the Browning Hi Power 9mm automatic and a double-action Colt Python in.357 Magnum.

  The shells were cool but silky, like good machinery can be. He loaded both pistols with hollow points, stuffed thirteen more 9mm rounds into a spare magazine for the automatic , and added a speedloader with six more rounds for the.357.

  Then he watched television, the guns in his lap, like steel puppies.

  He sat in his chair and stared at the game shows, letting the pressure build, working it out. He couldn't chase her down, he couldn't get at her in the house. Wasn't even sure she was still at the house. He'd have to go back to the hospital again.

  Weather usually left the hospital at the end of the first shift.

  She'd stay to brief the new shift on her patients. The fire volunteers would be arriving a few minutes after five.

  If he were going to pull this off, he'd have to be back by then.

  A two-hour window.

  He looked down into his lap at the guns. If he put one in his mouth, he'd never feel a thing. All the complications would be history, the pressure.

  P i And all the pleasure. He pushed the thought away. Let himself feel the anger: they'd ganged up on him. Bullied him. They were twenty-to-one, thirty-to-one.

  The adrenaline started. He could feel the tension rise in his chest.

  He'd thought it was over. Now there was this thing. The anger made him squirm, pushed him into a fantasy : Standing in the snow, gun in each hand, shooting at enemy shadows, the muzzle flashes like rays coming from his palms.

  His watch brought him back. The minute hand ticked, a tiny movement in the real world, catching his eye with the time.

  1 Two-fourteen. He'd have to get moving. He heaved himself out of his chair, let the television ramble on in the empty room.

  Weather would walk out to the parking lot. Through the swirling snow.

  With a bodyguard. On any other day, a rifle would be the thing.

  With the snow, a scope would be useless : it'd be like looking into a bedsheet.

  He'd just have to get close, to make sure, this time. Nothing fancy.

  Just a quick hit and gone.

  The ride to the hospital was wild. He could feel himself moving like a blue light, a blue force, through the vortex of the storm, the snow pounding the Lexan faceplate, the sled throbbing beneath him, bucking over bumps, twisting, alive. At times he could barely see; other times, in protected areas or where he was forced to slow down, the field of vision opened out. He passed a four-by-four, looked up at the driver. A stranger. Didn't look at him, on his sled, ten feet away.

  Blind?

  He pushed on, following the rats' maze of trails that paralleled the highway, along the edge of town. Past another four-by-four. Another stranger who didn't look at him.

  A hell of a storm for so many strangers to be out on the road, not looking at snowmobiles...

  Not looking at snowmobiles.

  Why didn't they look at him? He stopped at the entrance to the hospital parking lot, thought about it. He could see Weather's Jeep.

  Several other cars close by; he could put the sled around the corner of the building, slip out into the parking lot.

  Why didn't they look at him? It wasn't like he was invisible. If you're riding in a truck and a sled goes tearing past, you look at it.

  The Iceman turned off the approach to the hospital, cruised on past.

  Something to think about. Kept going, two hundred, three hundred yards. Janes' woodlot. He'd seen Dick Janes in here all fall, cutting oak. Not for this year, but for next.

  The Iceman pulled off the trail, ran the sled up a short slope, sinking deep in the snow. He clambered off, moved fifteen feet, huddled next to a pile of cut branches.

  Coyotes did this. He knew that from hunting them. He'd once seen a coyote moving slow, apparently unwary, some three or four hundred yards out. He'd followed its fresh tracks through the tangle of an alder swamp, then up a slope, then back around... and found himself looking down at his own tracks across the swamp and a cavity in the snow where the mutt had laid down, resting, while he fought the alders. Checking the back trail.

  Behind the pile of cuttings, he was comfortable enough, hunkering down in the snow. He was out of the wind, and the temperature had begun climbing with the approach of the storm.

  He waited two minutes and wondered why. Then another minute. He was about to stand up, go back to the sled, when he heard motors on the trail.

  He squatted again, watched.

  Two sleds went by, slowly. Much too slowly. They weren't getting anywhere if they were travelers, weren't having any fun if they were joyriders. And there was nothing down this trail but fifteen or twenty miles of trees until they hit the next town, a crossroads.

  Not right.

  The Iceman waited, watching.

  Saw them come back. Heard them first, took the.357 from his pocket.

  He could see them clearly enough, peering through the of the trim pile, but he probably was invisible, branches down in the snow, above them.

  They stopped.

  They stopped. They knew. They knew who he was, what he was doing.

  The lifelong anger surged. The Iceman didn't think. The Iceman acted, and nothing could stand against him.

  The Iceman half-stood, caught the first man's chest over the blade of the.357.

  Didn't hear the shot. Heard the music of a fine machine, felt the gun bump.

  The first man toppled off his sled, the second man, black-Lexan-masked, turning. All of this in slow motion, the second man turning, the gun barrel popping up with the first shot, dropping back into the slot, the second man's body jumped, but he wavered, not falling, a hand coming up, fingers spread, to ward off the.357 JHPs; a third shot went through his hand, knocked him backwards off the sled.

  And the gun kept on, shots filing out, still no noise, a fourth, a fifth, and a sixth...

  And in the soft snow, the bumping stopped and the Iceman heard the hammer falling on empty shells, three times, four, the cylinder turning.

  Click, click, click, click.

&
nbsp; CHAPTER 27

  He's moving, he's moving, he's movingjast, what happened what happened?