Winter Prey

knew the voice, the bulk, but not well. Who was this? “I had nothing to do with it. I don’t know myself what happened,” Bergen said. “Are you going to kill me?”
    “Maybe,” the Iceman said. “Quite possibly. But that depends on what you have to say.” He dipped into his parka pocket and took out a brown bag. “If you killed them.”
    “I tell you . . .”
    “You’re an alky, I know all about it,” the Iceman said. He’d worked on this part of his speech. The priest must have confidence in him. “You were drinking againyesterday. You said so in Mass. And I asked myself, how do you get the truth out of a boozer?”
    He stuck the brown paper bag in the armpit of the hand that held the gun, fumbled at the top of the bag with his gloved right hand, and pulled free a bottle of Jim Beam. “You give him some booze, that’s how. A lot of booze. Then we’ll get the truth out of him.”
    “I’m not drinking,” Bergen said.
    “Then I’ll know, won’t I?” the Iceman asked. “And if I know . . . I’ll drop the hammer on you, priest. This is a .44 Magnum, and they’d find your brains in the next block.” He’d moved around to the end of the couch, glanced down at the water glass on the end table. Excellent.
    “Lean back on the couch,” he ordered.
    The priest settled back.
    “If you try to get up, I’ll kill you.”
    “Listen, Claudia LaCourt was one of my dearest friends.”
    “Shut up.” The Iceman set the bottle on the table, turned the loosened top with his glove hand, took the top off and dropped it on the table. With his gun hand, he reached up, hooked his scarf with his thumb, pulled it down under his chin, then pushed his ski mask up until it was just over his upper lip.
    With his glove hand, he picked up the bottle. He pointed the gun at the priest again, put the bottle to his lips, stuck his tongue into the neck of it to block the liquor, swallowed spit, took the bottle down, wiped his lips with the back of his gun hand. Bergen had to have confidence in the booze, too.
    “I got you the good stuff, Father,” he said, smacking his lips. He poured the water glass full almost to the top.
    “Drink it down,” he said. “Just slide across the couch, pick it up, and drink it down.”
    “I can’t just drink it straight down.”
    “Bullshit. An alky like you could drink twice that much. Besides, you don’t have much choice. If you don’t drink it, I’m going to blow you up. Drink it.”
    Bergen edged across the couch, picked it up, looked at it, then slowly drank it; a quarter of it, then half.
    “Drink the rest,” the Iceman said, his voice rising. The gun waggled a foot from Bergen’s head.
    He drank the rest, the alcohol exploding in his stomach.
    “Close your eyes,” the Iceman said.
    “What?”
    “Close your eyes. You heard me. And keep them tight.”
    Bergen could feel the alcohol clawing its way into him, already spreading through his stomach into his lungs. So good, so good  . . . But he didn’t need it. He really didn’t. He closed his eyes, clenched them. If he could get through this . . .
    The Iceman picked up the bottle, poured another glass of bourbon, stepped back.
    “Open your eyes. Pick up the glass.”
    “It’ll kill me,” Bergen protested feebly. He picked up the glass, looked at it.
    “You don’t have to drink this straight down. Just sip it. But I want it gone,” he said. The gun barrel was three feet from Bergen’s eyes, and unwavering. “Now—when was the last time you saw the LaCourts?”
    “It was the night of the murder,” Bergen said. “I was there, all right . . .” As he launched into the story he’d told the sheriff, the fear was still with him, but now it was joined by the certainty brought by alcohol. He was right, he was innocent, and he could convince this man. The intruder had kept his mask on: no point in doing that if he really planned to kill. So he didn’t plan to kill. Bergen, pleased with himself for figuring it out, took another large swallow of bourbon when the Iceman prompted him, and another, and was surprised when the glass was suddenly empty.
    “You’re still sober enough to lie.”
    The glass was full again, and the man’s voice seemed to be drifting away. Bergen sputtered, “Listen . . . you,” and his head dropped on his shoulder and he nearly giggled. The impulse was smothered by what seemed to be a dark stain. The stain was spreading through his body, through his