Winter Prey

the counter with a rag; he had slicked-down hair, a handlebar mustache, and rode with the Woods Runners M.C. The mustard stains on his apron were turning brown. “Gimme a Miller Lite, Roy,” Harper said.
    “Don’t want your trade, Russ,” the bartender said, concentrating on his rag. There were three other men in the bar, and they all went quiet.
    “What?”
    “I said I don’t want your trade. I don’t want you in here no more.” Now the bartender looked up at him. He had small black eyes, underlined with scar tissue.
    “You’re telling me my money’s no good?” Harper pulled a handful of dollar bills from his pocket, slapped them on the bar.
    “Not in here it ain’t,” the bartender said.

    “I hate the sonofabitch,” the yellow-haired girl said. She sucked smoke from her mouth up her nostrils, looking cat-eyed sideways at the Iceman. “What’re we going to do?”
    “Well, the first thing is, he might of cut a deal with the county attorney,” the Iceman said. He was sitting on the couch with a silver beer can in his hand. “He might be wearing a wire.”

    Harper pulled into the driveway at the yellow-haired girl’s house at five minutes to four. The sky to the west was shiny-silver, but the sun was hidden behind the thin overcast. Cold. He shivered as he got out of the truck. The Iceman’s truck was already there, with an empty snowmobile trailer behind it. Harper frowned, stopped to listen. He could hear the music coming from the broken-down double-wide. Jim used to listen to it. Heavy Metal. Thump-thump.
    The Iceman’s snowmobile was sitting next to the house. Harper walked around it, knocked on the door. A little tingle, now: the yellow-haired girl was a little skinny for his tastes, but she had all the right sockets. He waited a moment, irritated, and pounded on the door.
    The yellow-haired girl answered. “Come on in,” she said, pulling the door back. Harper nodded, stepped inside, and wiped his feet on the square of carpet next to the door. The house smelled of burnt cooking oil and French fries, fatty meat and onions. “He’s in the can,” she said.
    Harper wiped his feet, and as the yellow-haired girl backed away, caught her by the arm. “I’m gonna want some pussy,” he said.
    “Whatever,” she said, shrugging. She backed into the front room, pulling him along, smiling, tongue on her upper lip. Harper went along, caught by her . . .
    And the Iceman was there with a shotgun, the muzzle only a foot from Harper’s face.
    “What?” Harper blurted.
    The Iceman put his finger to his lips, said, “Do it,” to the girl. She stepped closer to him, unzipped his parka, pulled it off his shoulders, patted it down. Harper watched for a moment, confused, then said, “Oh. You think . . .”
    The Iceman waggled the shotgun at his head, and Harper shut up, but relaxed.
    “Shirt,” whispered the yellow-haired girl. She unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it off. Untied his boots, pulled them free, looked inside. Unzipped his pants, pulled them down, pulled them off.
    “As long as you’re down there,” Harper joked.
    The Iceman half-smiled. The yellow-haired girl pulled down his underpants, then pulled them back up. Lifted his t-shirt, pulled it down. “Don’t see nothing,” she said.
    “Okay,” the Iceman said. This had worked with the priest. People want to believe. He kept the shotgun on Harper’s skull. “Now, Russ, we want to talk, but we’re not sure you didn’t cut a deal. We’re just trying to be careful. We want you to sit down on that couch and Ginny’s gonna put a little tape around your hands and ankles.”
    “Bullshit she is.” Harper was wearing nothing but his underwear and socks.
    “I got the gun and I’m scared,” the Iceman said. He blurted it out—let his voice rise and break. “If anything cracks, I’ll go to prison forever. You could handle prison, Russ, but I’d die there. Man, I’m scared shitless.”
    “You don’t need no tape,” Harper said. He went to the couch and sat down. The shotgun tracked him. “Anyway, gimme my pants.”
    “We need to tape you up,” the Iceman insisted. “I gottago outside and see if anybody came with you. You coulda made a deal.”
    “I didn’t make no deal.”
    “Then the tape ain’t gonna hurt, is it?”
    Harper stared at the Iceman. The shotgun barrel never wavered. He finally shrugged. “All right, you motherfucker.”
    The yellow-haired girl was there with a roll of duct tape. “Cross your