Winter Prey

with Weather Karkinnen and people have seen us talking. Gene and I stopped at her place. She’s all right for now.”
    “I’ll send somebody over,” Carr suggested.
    Lucas shook his head. “I’ll cover it tonight. Tomorrow I’ll try to push her into a safer place, maybe out of town, until this thing is settled. I just hope it doesn’t start any talk in the town.”
    The sheriff shrugged. “It probably will, but so what? The truth’ll get out and it’ll be okay.”
    “There’s another problem,” Lucas said. “Everything we do seems to be all over town in a few minutes. You need to put the lid on, tight. If John Mueller’s missing, and if he’s missing because he talked to me, it’s possible that our killer heard about it from a teacher or another kid. But it’s also possible that it came out of the department here. Christ,everything that we’ve done . . .”
    Carr nodded, pointed a finger at Lacey. “Henry, write up a memo. Anyone who talks out of place, to anyone, about this case, is gonna get terminated. The minute I hear about it. And I don’t want anybody talking about substantive stuff on the radios, either. Okay? There must be a hundred police-band monitors in this town, and every word we say is out there.”
    Lacey nodded and opened his mouth to say something when a short dark-haired man stuck his head in the office and said, “Sheriff?”
    Carr glanced up at him, nodded and said, “I need to talk to Tony for a minute. Could we get everybody out of here except Lucas and Henry? And Gene, you stay . . . Thanks.”
    When the others had gone, Carr said, “Shut the door.” To Lucas: “Tony’s my political guy.” When the dark-haired man had closed the door, Carr handed him the Polaroid and said, “Take a look at this picture.”
    Tony took it, studied it, turned it, said “Huh,” and nibbled on a thumbnail. Finally he looked up and said, “Sheriff?”
    “You know that woman?”
    “There’re half-dozen people it could be,” he said. “But something about her jaw . . .”
    “Say the name.”
    “Judy Schoenecker.”
    “Damn,” the sheriff said. “That’s what I thought soon as I saw it. Gene?”
    Gene took the photo, looked at it, shook his head. “Could be, but I don’t know her that well.”
    “Let’s check it out,” Carr said. “Lucas, what’re you going to do? It’d be best if you stayed away from the Mueller search, at least for a while.”
    Lucas looked at his watch. “I’m going back to Weather’s. I’m about to drop dead anyway.” He reached across the desk and tapped the photograph. “Why don’t you call this a tentative identification and see if you can get a search warrant?”
    “Boy, I’d hate to . . .” the sheriff started. Then: “Screw it. I’ll get one as soon as the judge wakes up tomorrow.”
    “Have somebody call me,” Lucas said.
    “All right. And Lucas: You couldn’t help it about the kid, John Mueller,” Carr said. “I mean, if he’s gone.”
    “You really couldn’t,” Lacey agreed.
    “I appreciate your saying it,” Lucas said bleakly. “But you’re both full of shit.”

CHAPTER

10
    Sleep had always been difficult. The slights and insults of the day would keep him awake for hours, plotting revenge; and there were few days without slights and insults.
    And night was the time that he worried. There was power in the Iceman—movement, focus, clarity—but at night, when he thought things over, the things he’d done during the day didn’t always seem wise.
    Lying awake in his restless bed, the Iceman heard the three vehicles arrive, one after another, bouncing off the roadway into the snow-packed parking lot. He listened for a moment, heard a car door slam. A clock radio sat on the bedstand: the luminous red numbers said it was two o’clock in the morning.
    Who was out in the pit of night?
    The Iceman got out of bed, turned on a bedside lamp, pulled on his jeans, and started downstairs. The floor was cold, and he stooped, picked up the docks he’d dropped on the floor, slipped them on, and went down the stairs.
    A set of headlights still played across his side window, and he could hear—or feel—an engine turning over, as if people were talking in the lot. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, the headlights and engine sounds died and amoment later someone began pounding on the door.
    The Iceman went to the window, pulled back the gingham curtain, and peered out. Frost covered the center of the window