Winter Prey

reproduction was so bad that nothing could be made of it.
    At noon, he’d decided he was clear. At one o’clock, he’d heard the first rumors of dissent: that Carr was telling people Bergen had been murdered. And he’d heard about Harper. About a deal . . .
    Harper would sell his own mother for a nickel. When his kid was killed, Harper treated it as an inconvenience. If Harper talked, if Harper said anything, the Iceman was done. Harper knew who was in the photograph.
    The same applied to Doug Reston, the Schoeneckers, and the rest. But those problems were not immediate. Harper was the immediate problem.
    Bergen’s death made a difference, whether Carr liked it or not, whether he believed it or not. If the killings stopped, believing that Bergen was the killer would become increasingly convenient.
    He sighed, and the yellow-haired girl looked at him, a worry wrinkle creasing the space between her eyes. “Penny for your thoughts,” she said.
    “Is that all, just a penny?” He stroked the back of her neck. Doug Reston had a particular fondness for her. She was so pale, so youthful. With Harper, she touched off an unusual violence: Harper wanted to bruise her, force her.
    “I gotta ask you something,” she said. She sat up, let the blanket drop down around her waist.
    “Sure.”
    “Did you kill the LaCourts?” She asked it flatly, watching him, then continued in a rush: “I don’t care if you did, I really don’t, but maybe I could help.”
    “Why would you think that?” the Iceman asked calmly.
    “ ’Cause of that picture of you and Jim Harper and Lisa havin’ it. I know Russ Harper thought you mighta done it, except he didn’t think you were brave enough.”
    “You think I’m brave enough?”
    “I know you are, ’cause I know the Iceman,” she said.

    The yellow-haired girl’s brother kept rabbits. Ten hutches were lined up along the back of the mobile home, up on stands, with a canvas awning that could be dropped over the front. Fed on Purina rabbit chow and garbage, the rabbits fattened up nicely; one made a meal for the three of them.
    The Iceman pulled four of them out of their hutches, stuffed them into a garbage bag, and tied them to the carry-rack. The yellow-haired girl rode her brother’s sled, a noisy wreck but operable. They powered down through the Miller tract and into the Chequamegon, the yellow-haired girl leading, the Iceman coming up behind.
    The yellow-haired girl loved the freedom of the machine, the sense of speed, and pushed it, churning along the narrow trails, her breath freezing on her face mask, the motorrumbling in their helmets. They passed two other sleds, lifted a hand. The Iceman passed her at Parson’s Corners, led her down a forest road and then into a trail used only a few times a day. In twenty minutes they’d reached the sandpit where John Mueller’s body had been found. The snow had been cut up by the sheriff’s four-by-fours and the crime scene people, but now snow was drifting into the holes they’d made. In two days even without much wind, there’d be no sign of the murder.
    The Iceman pulled the sack of rabbits off the carry-rack, dropped it on the snow.
    “Ready?”
    “Sure.” She looked down at the bag. “Where’s the gun?”
    “Here.” He patted his pocket, then stooped, ripped a hole in the garbage bag, pulled out a struggling rabbit, and dropped it on the snow. The rabbit crouched, then started to snuffle around: a tame rabbit, it didn’t try to run.
    “Okay,” he said: He took the pistol out of his pocket. “When it’s this cold, you keep the pistol in your pocket as long as you can, ’cause your skin can stick to it if you don’t.” He pushed the cylinder release and flipped the cylinder out. “This is a .22 caliber revolver with a six-shot cylinder. Mind where you point it.” He slapped the cylinder back in and handed it to her.
    “Where’s the safety?”
    “No safety,” said the Iceman.
    “My brother’s rifle has one.”
    “Won’t find them on revolvers. Find them on long guns and automatics.”
    She pointed the pistol at the rabbit, which had taken a couple of tentative hops away. “I don’t know what difference this makes. I kill them anyway.”
    “That’s work—this is fun,” the Iceman said.
    “Fun?” She looked at him oddly, as though the thought had never occurred to her.
    “Sort of. You’re the most important thing that ever happened to this rabbit. You’ve got the power. All the power.