Winter Prey

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.
     
    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 around, he may come in the back. One of you go out back right 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, uh  . . .
     
    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 . . . ?” 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, the 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.
    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.
    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