Winter Prey

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 intothe 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 wine 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