Winter Prey

speed. On the other hand, Lucas and Climpt were simply following his track, which was easy enough to do despite the snow. Helper had to navigate on his own. Even if he stayed on the trails, the snow had gotten so heavy that they’d be obscured, white-on-white, under the sled’s headlights. And that would slow him down.
    They started off, Climpt first, Lucas following, and lost the lights around the house within thirty seconds. After that, they were in the fishbowl of their own light. When Climpt dropped over the top of a rise or into a bowl, Lucas’ span of vision would suddenly contract, and expand again when Climpt came back into view. When Climpt suddenly moved out, his taillight would dwindle to almost nothing. When he slowed, Lucas would nearly overrun him. After two or three minutes, Lucas found the optimum distance, about fifteen yards, and hung there, the feds feeding tracking updates through the radio.
    The snow made the ride into a nightmare, his face unprotected, wet, freezing, snow clogging his eyebrows, water running down his neck.
    He’s just about crossing MacBride Road.
    Lucas flashed his lights at Climpt, pulled up beside him, took off his glove, looked at his watch, marked the time.
    “You know MacBride Road?” he shouted.
    “Sure. It’s up ahead somewhere.”
    “The feds think he crossed it about forty-five seconds ago. Let me know when we cross it and we can figure out how far behind we are.”
    “Sure.”
    They crossed it two minutes and ten seconds after Lucas marked the time, so they were less than three minutes behind. Closing, apparently.
    “Still moving?” he asked the feds.
    Still moving east.
    Carr: He’ll be crossing Table Bay Road by Jack’s Cafe. Maybe we can beat him down there, get a look at him, see if he’s still got the kid.

    They were riding through low country, but generally following creek beds and road embankments, where they were protected from the snow. Two or three minutes after crossing MacBride Road, they broke out on a lake, and the snow beat at them with full force, coming in long curving lines into their headlights. Visibility closed to ten feet, and Climpt dropped his speed to a near-walking pace. Lucas wiped snow from his face, out of his eyes, drove, watching Climpt’s taillight. Wiped, drove. Getting harder . . . Helper’s track was filling more quickly, the edges obscured, harder to pick out. Four minutes later they were across and back into a sheltered run.
    Carr: We’re setting up at Jack’s. Where is he?
    He’s four miles out and closing, but he’s moving slower.
    How’s it going, Lucas?
    Lucas, tight from the cold, lifting his brake hand to his face: “We’re still on his track. No sign of the kid. It’s getting worse, though. We might not be able to stay with him.”
    All right. I’ve been talking to Henry. We might have to make a stand here at Table Bay.
    “I wonder if the kid’s with him. I can’t believe he’d still have her, but we haven’t seen anything that might have been tracks.”
    No way to tell until we see him.
    Climpt stopped, then broke to his right, then turned in a circle, stopped. “What?” Lucas shouted, pulling up behind him.
    “Trail splits. Must’ve been another sled came through here. I don’t know if he went left or right.”
    “Where’s Table Bay Road?”
    “Off to the right.”
    “That’s where he’s headed.”
    Climpt nodded and started out again, but the pace grew jagged, Climpt sawing back and forth, checking the track. Lucas nearly overran him a half-dozen times, swerving to avoid a collision. He was breathing through his mouth now, as though he’d been running.

    The Iceman pounded down the trail, the yellow-haired girl behind him, on top the snowshoes. They’d stopped just long enough to trade places, and then went on through the thickening snow, along an almost invisible track, probing for the path through the woods.
    They were safe enough for the moment, lost in the storm. If he could just get south . . . He might have to dump the girl, but she was certainly replaceable. Alaska, the Yukon, there were women out there for the asking; not nearly enough men. They’d do anything you wanted.
    If he was going to make it south to the horse trainer’s place, he’d have to get up on the north side of the highway, take Blueberry Lake across to the main stem of the flowage. He could take Whitetail Creek.

    The feds: He’s turning. He’s turning. He’s heading north, he’s not