Winter Prey

brain . . .
    Took a drink, choking this time, dropped the glass, vaguely aware of the bourbon on him . . .
    And now aware of something wrong. He’d never drunk this much alcohol this fast, but he’d come close a few times. It had never gotten on him like this; he’d never had this dark spreading stain in his mind.
    Nothing was right; he could barely see; he looked up at the gunman, but his head wouldn’t work right, couldn’t turn. Tried to stand . . .
    Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe, felt the coldness at his lips, sputtered, alcohol running into him, a hand on his forehead . . . he swallowed, swallowed, swallowed. And at the last instant understood the Iceman: who he was, what he was doing. He tried, but he couldn’t move . . . couldn’t move.

    The Iceman pressed the priest’s head back into the couch, emptied most of the rest of the bottle into him. When he was finished, he stepped back, looked down at his handiwork. The priest was almost gone. The Iceman took the priest’s hand, wrapped it around the bottle, smeared it a bit, wrapped the other hand around it. The priest had sputtered alcohol all over himself, and that was fine.
    The Iceman, moving quickly, put two prescription pill bottles on the table, the labels torn off. A single pill remained in one of the bottles to help the cops with identification. The priest, still sitting upright on the couch, his head back, mumbled something, then made a sound like a snore or a gargle. The Iceman had never been in the rectory before, but the office was just off the living room and he found it immediately. A yellow pad sat next to an IBM electric. He turned the typewriter on, inserted a sheet of paper with his gloved hand, pulled off his glove and typed the suicide note.
    That done, he rolled the paper out without touching it, got the copy of the Sunday Bulletin from his pocket. Bergen signed all the bulletins.
    When he got back to the living room, the priest was in deep sleep, his breathing shallow, long. He’d taken a combination of Seconal and alcohol, enough to kill a horse,along with Dramamine to keep him from vomiting it out.
    The Iceman went to the window and peeked out. The kid who’d been shoveling snow had gone inside. He looked back at the priest. Bergen was slumped on the couch, his head rolled down on his chest. Still breathing. Barely.
    Time to go.

CHAPTER

18
    Lucas woke suddenly, knew it was too early, but couldn’t get back to sleep. He looked at the clock: 6:15. He slipped out of bed, walked slowly across the room to his right, hands out in front of him, and found the bathroom door. He shut the door, turned on the light, got a drink, and stared at himself in the mirror.
    Why Weather?
    If she was right about being chased on the night of the LaCourt murders, then the attacks had nothing at all to do with him.
    He splashed water in his face, dried it, opened the door. The light from the bathroom fell across Weather and she rolled away from it, still asleep. Her arm was showing the bruises. She slept with it crooked under her chin, almost as though she were resting her head on her fists instead of the pillow. Lucas pulled the bathroom door most of the way shut, leaving just enough light to navigate. He tiptoed across the room and out into the hall, then went through the kitchen, turning on the lights, and, naked and cold, down into her basement. He got his clothing out of the dryer and carried it back up to the other bathroom to clean up anddress. When he went back to the bedroom for socks, she said, “Mmmm?”
    “Are you awake?” he whispered.
    “Mmm-hmm.”
    “I’m calling in. I’ll get somebody down here until you’re ready to leave.”
    As he said it, the phone rang, and she rolled and looked up at him, her voice morning-rough. “Every morning it rings and somebody’s dead.”
    Lucas said “Just a moment” and padded into the kitchen. Carr was on the phone, ragged, nearly incoherent: “Phil’s dead.”
    “What?”
    “He killed himself. He left a note. He did it. He killed the LaCourts.”
    For a moment Lucas couldn’t track it. “Where are you, Shelly?” Lucas asked. He could hear voices behind Carr.
    “At the rectory. He’s here.”
    “How many people are with you?” Lucas asked.
    “Half-dozen.”
    “Get everybody the fuck out of there and seal the place off. Get the guys from Madison in there.”
    “They’re on the way,” Carr said. He sounded unsure of himself, his voice