Winter Prey

bobbing spasmodically.
    “How long you been out?” Climpt asked.
    “Oh, two months now,” the kid said.
    “Tommy used to borrow cars, go for rides,” Climpt said.
    “Bad habit,” Lucas said, crossing his arms, leaning againstthe candy machine. “Everybody gets pissed off at you.”
    “I quit,” the kid said.
    “He’s a good mechanic,” Climpt said. Then: “Where’s Russ?”
    “Down to the house, I guess.”
    “Okay.”
    “It’d be better if you didn’t call him,” Lucas said.
    “Whatever,” the kid said. “I’m, you know, whatever.”
    “Whatever,” Climpt said. He pointed a finger at the kid’s face, and the kid swallowed. “We won’t be tellin’ Russ we talked to you.”
    Back outside, Climpt said, “He won’t call.”
    “How far is Harper’s place?”
    “Two minutes from here,” Carr said.
    “Think he’ll be a problem?”
    “Not if we get right on top of him,” Climpt said. “He won’t win no college scholarship, but he’s not stupid enough to take on a whole . . . whatever we are.”
    “A posse,” Lucas said.
    Climpt laughed, a short bark. “Right. A posse.”

    John Mueller came back to Lucas’ mind, like a nagging toothache, a pain that wouldn’t go away but couldn’t be fixed. Maybe he was at a friend’s; maybe they’d already found him . . . .
    Harper’s house huddled in a copse of birch and red pine, alone on an unlit stretch of side road, a free-standing garage in back, a mercury-vapor yard-light overhead. Windows were lit in the back of the house. Climpt killed his lights and pulled into the end of the drive, and Lucas pulled in behind him.
    Climpt and Lacey got out, pushed the truck doors shut instead of slamming them. “Are you carrying?” Climpt asked.
    “Yeah.”
    “Might loosen it up. Russ’s always got something around.”
    “All right.” Lucas turned to Lacey, who had his hands inhis pockets and was staring up at the house. “Henry, why don’t you sit out here by the truck. Get the shotgun and just hang back.”
    Lacey nodded and walked back toward the Suburban.
    “I’ll try to get a little edge on him right away,” Lucas told Climpt as they started up the driveway. “I won’t pull any real shit, but you can act like you think I might.”
    Woodsmoke drifted down on them, an acrid odor that cut at the nose and throat. Two feet of pristine snow covered the front porch. “Looks like he doesn’t use the front door at all,” Climpt said.
    As they walked around the side of the house, they heard the gun rack rattle as Lacey unlocked the shotgun and took it out, then the ratcheting sound of a twelve-gauge shell being pumped home. At the back door, Lucas could hear the sounds of a television—not the words but the rhythms.
    “Stand down at the bottom where he can see you,” Lucas told Climpt. He went to the top of the stoop and knocked on the door, then stepped to the side. A moment later the yellow porch light came on, and then a curtain pulled back. A man’s head appeared behind the window glass. He looked at Climpt, hesitated, made a head gesture, and fumbled with the doorknob.
    “We’re okay,” Lucas muttered.
    Harper pulled open the inner door, saw Lucas, frowned. He was an oval-faced man, with a narrow chin, thick, short lips, and scar tissue on his forehead and under his eyes. His eyes were the size of dimes, and black, like a lizard’s. He was unshaven. He pushed open the storm door, looked down at Climpt and said, “What do you want, Gene?”
    “We need to talk to you about the death of your son, and we need to look through Jim’s stuff again,” Climpt said.
    Harper’s thick lips twisted. “You got a warrant?”
    “Yeah, we got a warrant.”
    After another long moment Harper said, “Now what the fuck are you fuckin’ with me for, Climpt?” The question came in a low voice, rough and guttural, angry but unafraid.
    “We’re not fuckin’ with you,” Lucas snapped back. Hehooked the storm door handle with his left hand and jerked it open. Harper pulled back an inch, then settled in a fighting stance, ready to swing. He was round-shouldered but hard, with hands that looked granite-gray in the bad light. Lucas took his right hand out of his pocket, a bare hand with a .45. “Swing on me and I’ll beat the shit out of you,” he said. “And if I start to lose I’ll blow your fuckin’ nuts off.”
    “What?” Harper stepped back, dropping his right hand.
    “You heard me, asshole.”
    “Oh, yeah,”