Winter Prey

first, looked around, waved her on, and they walked together to the parking lot. The days were beginning to lengthen, but it was fully dark, and the thermometer had crashed again. The Indians called it the Moon of the Falling Cold.
    Bruun unlocked the passenger door of the Suburban, let her climb up, shut it behind her, and walked around the nose of the truck. The hospital was on the south edge of town; Weather lived on the north side. The quickest route to her home was down the frontage road along Highway 77 to Buhler’s Road, and across the highway at the light, avoiding the traffic of Main Street.
    “Gettin’ cold again,” Bruun said as he climbed into the truck cab. Following Carr’s instructions, she’d called for a lift home. Bruun had been on patrol, and had waited in the lobby for only a few minutes: the truck was still warm inside. “If it gets much worse, there won’t be any deer alive next year. Or anything else.”
    “I understand they’re gonna truck in hay.”
    They were talking about the haylift when she saw the snowmobile on the side of the road. The rider was kneeling beside it, working on it, fifteen feet from the stop sign for Buhler’s Road. There was a trail beside the road, and sleds broke down all the time. But something caught her attention; the man beside it looked down toward them while his hands continued working.
    “Sled broke down,” she said.
    Bruun was already watching it. “Yup.” He touched the brake to slow for the stop sign. They were almost on top of the sled. Weather watched it, watched it. The Suburban was rolling to a stop, just past the sled, the headlights reflecting off the snowbanks, back on the rider. She saw him stand up, saw the gun come out, saw him running toward her window.
    “ Gun, ” she screamed. “He’s got . . .”
    She dropped in the seat and Bruun hit the gas and the window six inches above her head exploded and Bruun shrieked with pain, jerked the steering wheel. The truck skidded, lurched, came around, and the rear window shattered over her, as though somebody had hit it with a hammer. Weather looked to her left; Bruun’s head and face were covered with blood, and he crouched over the wheel, the truck still sliding in a circle, engine screaming, tires screeching . . .
    The shotgun roared again: she heard it this time, the first time she’d heard it. And heard the shot pecking at the door by her elbow. Bruun grunted, stayed with the wheel . . . they were running now, the truck bumping . . .
    “Gotta get back, gotta get . . .” Bruun groaned. Weather, sensing the speed, pushed herself up in the seat. The side window was gone, but the mirror was still there. The rider was on the sled, coming after them, and she flashed to the night of the murders, the sled running in the ditch . . .
    They were passing a tree farm on the road back to the hospital parking lot, the straight, regimented rows of pine flashing by like a black picket fence.
    “No, no,” she said. Heart in her throat. Looked into the mirror, the sled closing, closing . . .
    “Gun coming up!” she shouted at Bruun.
    Bruun put his head down and Weather slid to the floor. Two quick shots, almost lost in the roar of the engine, pellets hammering through the shattered back window into the cab, another shot crashing through the back window into the windshield, ricocheting. Bruun groaned again and said, “Hit, I’m hit.”
    But he kept his foot on the pedal and the speed went up. The shotgun was silent. Weather sat higher, looking out the shattered side window, then out the back.
    The road was empty. “He’s gone,” she said.
    Bruun’s chin was almost on the hub of the wheel. “Hold on,” he grated. He hit the brake, but too late.
    The entrance to the hospital parking lot was not straight in. The entry road went sharply right, specifically to slowincoming traffic. They were there—and they were going much too fast to make the turn. Weather braced herself, locking her arms against the dashboard. A small flower garden was buried under the snow where they’d hit. There was a foot-high wall around it . . .
    The truck fishtailed when Bruun hit the brake, and then hit the flower-garden wall. The truck bounced, twisting, plowing through the snow, engine whining . . .
    There were people in the parking lot.
    She saw them clearly, sharply, frozen, like the face of the queen of hearts when somebody riffles a deck of cards.
    Then the truck was in the parking