Winter Prey

back. By the time they started looking for him, he’d be buried in Alaska or the Northwest Territories. But if he was missing, it wouldn’t take long for the cops to figure out what happened. And if he ran, he’d have to give up almost everything he had. Take only what would fit in the car, and he’d have to dump the car in a few days. And he still might get caught: they had his picture, his fingerprints.
    He could go after the other members of the club, take them all out in one night. The problem was, some of them had already taken off. The Schoeneckers: how would he find them? No good.
    He had to stay. He had to find out about the photograph. Had to go back for Weather. He’d missed her twice now, and he was uneasy about it. When he’d been a kid, working the schoolyard, there’d always been a few people he’d never been able to get at. They’d always outmaneuvered him, always foiled him, sometimes goading him into trouble.Weather was like that: he needed to get at her, but she turned him away.
    He bucked up over another intersection, down a long bumpy lane cleared through the woods by the local snowmobile club, onto the next lake, and across. He came off the lake, took the boat landing road out to the highway, sat for a moment, then turned left.

    The yellow-haired girl was waiting. So was her brother, Mark. Mark with the dark hair and the large brown eyes. The yellow-haired girl let him in, helped him take off his snowmobile suit. Mark was smiling nervously: he was like that, he needed to be calmed. The Iceman liked working with Mark because of the resistance. If the yellow-haired girl hadn’t been there . . .
    “Let’s go back to my room,” she said.
    “Where’s Rosie?”
    “She went out drinking,” the yellow-haired girl said.
    “I gotta get going,” said Mark.
    “Where’re you going?” Smiling, quiet. But the shooting still boiled in his blood. God, if he could get Weather someplace alone, if he could have her for a while . . .
    “Out with Bob,” said Mark.
    “It’s cold out there,” he said.
    “I’ll be okay,” Mark said. He wouldn’t meet his eyes. “He’s gonna pick me up.”
    “And I’ll be here,” said the yellow-haired girl. She was wearing a sweatsuit, old and pilled, wished it were something more elegant for him. She plucked at the pants leg, afraid of what he might say; of cruelty in his words.
    But he said, “That’s great.” He touched her head and the warmth flowed through her.

    Later in the evening he was lying in her bed, smoking. He thought of Weather, of Davenport, of Carr, of the picture; of Weather, of Davenport, round and round . . .
    The yellow-haired girl was breathing softly next to him, her hand on his stomach.
    He needed time to find out about the photo. If he could just put them off for a few days, he could find out. He could get details. Without the photo, there wouldn’t be a link, but he needed time.

CHAPTER

14
    The telephone rang in the kitchen.
    Lucas let it ring, heard a voice talking into the answering machine. He should get it, he thought. He rolled over and looked at the green luminous numbers on the bedstand clock. Nine-fifteen.
    Four hours lying awake, with a few sporadic minutes of sleep. The air in the house was cool, almost cold, and he pulled the blankets up over his ears. The phone rang again, two rings, then stopped as the answering machine came on. There was no talk this time. Whoever it was had hung up.
    A minute later the phone rang twice again. Irritated, Lucas thought about getting up. The ringing stopped, and a moment later began again, two more rings. Angry now, he slipped out of bed, wrapped the comforter around his shoulders, stomped down the hall to the kitchen, and glared at the phone.
    Ten seconds passed. It rang again, and he snatched it up. “What?” he snarled.
    “Ah. I knew you were sleeping in,” the nun said with satisfaction. “You’ve got a message on the answering machine, by the way.”
    Lucas looked down at the machine, saw the blinking red light. “I’m freezing my butt off. Couldn’t . . .”
    “The message isn’t from me. I know you’ve got one because your phone’s only ringing twice before the machine answers, instead of four or five times,” she said, sounding even more pleased with herself.
    “How’d you get the number?”
    “Sheriff’s secretary,” Elle said. “She told me what happened last night, and that you’re guarding the body of some lady doctor who’s