by Winter Prey
I Climpt touched him on the shoulder and was gone in the snow.
The transfer of gasoline seemed to take forever, Helper leaning nervously against the truck while the girl stood passively in front of him, watching the syphon. Finally she pulled the tube out of the truck, dropped it on the ground, and she and Helper edged back to his snowmobile, the girl struggling with the can. Five gallons, Lucas thought, probably thirty-five pounds. And she wasn't a big kid. Next to Helper she looked positively frail.
The yellow-haired girl boosted the can up with her thigh, tilted it so the spout fit into the mouth of the gas tank.
Again, it seemed to take forever to fill the tank, Lucas tracking , tracking, tired of looking at Helper over the sight.
The girl said something to Helper. Lucas caught one word, "Done." The girl tossed the can aside and Helper pushed her up on the driver's seat of the sled. A pair of snowshoes was strapped to the back, and Helper straddled them, sat down. His gun hand never wavered.
"Don't try to follow," Helper screamed, looking awkwardly over his shoulder as the girl started the snowmobile.
They lurched forward, stopped, then started again. Helper screamed, "Don't try..." The rest of his words were lost as they started around the side of the house, heading toward the back. The forest was now almost perfectly dark, and silent except for the chain-saw roar of the sled.
Lucas stood to watch them go, putting the rifle's muzzle up, clumping out into the yard, following the diminishing red taillight as long as he could.
The radio was running almost full time, voices...
He's going out the back.
Heading toward the flowage. Can't see him. And the feds: We got the beacon, he's moving east.
Carr came running up the driveway. "Lucas, where'n hell... T' "Over here."
Lucas waded through the snow to the driveway. Three other deputies pushed out of the woods, heading for them. Carr was breathing,hard, his eyes wide and wild. "What..."
"Gene and I'll go after them on the sleds. You follow with the trucks," Lucas said. "Remember what he did to the other two, hit 'em.
on the back trail," Carr said urgently. "If he's waiting for you, you'd never see him.", "The feds should know when he stops," Lucas said. He realized they were shouting at each other and dropped his voice. "Besides, we've got no choice. I don't think he'll keep the kid-she'll slow him down.
If he doesn't kill her, we got to be out there to pick her up. If she starts wandering 4 around on her own..
Climpt had come up on a single sled, and Lucas swung his leg over the backseat, holding the rifle out to the side. "Okay, go, go," Carr shouted, and Climpt rolled the accelerator forward and they cut back through the trees to the second sled. Lucas handed Climpt the rifle.
Climpt slung it over his shoulder as Lucas hopped on the second sled and fired it up. "How do you want to do this?" Climpt shouted. "You lead, stay on his trail. Look for the kid in case he's dumped her. If you see his taillight... shit, do what seems right. I'll hang on to the radio. If you see me blinking my lights, stop."
"Gotcha," Climpt said and powered away.
Helper was running four or five minutes ahead of them. Lucas couldn't decide whether he would be moving faster or slower. He presumably knew where he was going, so that should help his speed. On the other hand, Lucas and Climpt were simply following his track, which was easy enough to do despite the snow. Helper had to navigate on his own. Even if he stayed on the trails, the snow had gotten so heavy that they'd be obscured, white-onwhite, under the sled's headlights. And that would slow him down.
They started off, Climpt first, Lucas following, and lost. the lights around the house within thirty seconds. After that, they were in the fishbowl of their own light. When Climpt dropped over the top of a rise or into a bowl, Lucas' span of vision would suddenly contract, and expand again when Climpt came back into view. When Climpt suddenly moved out, his taillight would dwindle to almost nothing. When he slowed, Lucas would nearly overrun him. After two or three minutes, Lucas found the optimum distance, about fifteen yards, and hung there, the feds feeding tracking updates through the radio.
The snow made the ride into a nightmare, his face unprotected, wet, freezing, snow clogging his eyebrows, water running down his neck.
He's just about crossing MacBride Road. Lucas flashed his lights at Climpt, pulled up beside him, took off his glove, looked at his watch, marked the time. "You know MacBride Road?" he shouted. "Sure. It's up ahead somewhere."
"The feds think he crossed it about forty-five seconds ago. Let me know when we cross it and we can figure out how far behind we are."
"Sure.
They crossed it two minutes and ten seconds after Lucas marked the time, so they were less than three minutes behind. Closing, apparently. "Still moving?" he asked the feds.
Still moving east. Carr: He'll be crossing Table Bay Road by Jack's Cafe.
Maybe we can beat him down there, get a look at him, see if he's still got the kid.
They were riding through low country, but generally following creek beds and road embankments, where they were protected from the snow.
Two or three minutes after crossing MacBride Road, they broke out on a lake, and the snow beat at them with full force, coming in long curving lines into their headlights. Visibility closed to ten feet, and Climpt dropped his speed to a near-walking pace. Lucas wiped snow from his face, out of his eyes, drove, watching Climpt's taillight. Wiped, drove. Getting harder...
Helper's track was filling more quickly, the edges obscured, harder to pick out. Four minutes later they were across and back into a sheltered run.
Carr: We're setting up at Jack's. Where is he? He's four miles out and closing, but he's moving slower. How's it going, Lucas? Lucas, tight from the cold, lifting his brake hand to his face: "We're still on his track. No sign of the kid. It's getting worse, though. We might not be able to stay with him." All right. I've been talking to Henry. We might have to make a stand here at Table Bay. 'I wonder if the kid's with him. I can't believe he'd still have her, but we haven't seen anything that might have been tracks." No way to tell until we see him. Climpt stopped, then broke to his right, then turned in a circle, stopped. "What?" Lucas shouted, pulling up behind him.
"Trail splits. Must've been another sled came through here. I don't know if he went left or right."
"Where's Table Bay Road?"
"Off to the right."
"That's where he's headed." Climpt nodded and started out again, but the pace grew jagged, Climpt sawing back and forth, checking the track.
Lucas nearly overran him a half-dozen times, swerving to avoid a collision.
He was breathing through his mouth now, as though he'd been running.
The Iceman pounded down the trail, the yellow-haired girl behind him, on top the snowshoes. They'd stopped just long enough to trade places, and then went on through the thickening snow, along an almost invisible track, probing for the path through the woods. They were safe enough for the moment, lost in the storm. If he could just get south... He might have to dump the girl, but she was certainly replaceable.
Alaska, the Yukon, there were women out there for the asking; not nearly enough men. They'd do anything you wanted. If he was going to make it south to the horse trainer's place, he'd have to get up on the north side of the highway, take Blueberry Lake across to the main stem of the flowage. He could take Whitetail Creek. The feds: He's turning. He's turning. He's heading north, he's not heading toward Table Bay Road anymore, he's headed up toward the intersection of STH 70 and Meteor Drive. Carr: We're moving, we're going that way. Lucas flashed Climpt, pulled alongside. "They've just turned, heading north... wait a minute." He pushed the transmit button: "Do you know what trail that is? What snowmobile trail? Is it marked on the map?"
Feds: There's a creek down there, Whitetail Run. We think that's it.
"He's on a creek called Whitetail Run, heading up to Meteor Drive," Lucas said.
Climpt nodded. "That
can't be far. This trail crosses it at right angleswe'll see the turn." Carr: We're coming up on the bridge at Whitetail.
We'll nail down both sides. Another voice: They'll see the lights.
Carr: Yeah. We'll let 'em. Henry and I been talking. We decided we gotta let him know that he can't get away. We gotta give him the choice of giving up the kid and quitting, or dying. The kid's gonna die if she stays with him. If he just leaves her out in the snow somewhere, she's gone. And if he stops someplace, gets a car, he can't leave her to tell anybody. Sooner or later he'll duntp her. Feds: If he realizes there's a beacon on him, he may look for it, then we'd lose him. Carr : We're not going to let him go this time.
And if he gets away somehow... heck, we gotta risk it. Feds: Your call, Sheriff. Carr: That's right. How far out is he? -Feds: Half-mile. Forty seconds, maybe.
The Iceman roared through the turn onto Whitetail, and he was almost to the bridge when he saw the lights, shining down through the snow. He knew what they were. The cops, and especially Davenport, had some kind of karma edge on him. They kept finding him when finding him was impossible. "No!" He shouted it out as he hit the brake. The lights were there, big hand-held million-candlepower jobs, probing the creek.
He slid to a stop, turned to the yellow-haired girl: "That's the cops up there. They're tracking us somehow. If I had time... I'll have to try it on foot. I want you to take the sled back down the creek here, just ride around for a while. When they find you, tell them I'm heading for Jack's Cafe down by the flowage. Tell them that you think I'm going after a car. They'll believe that."
"I want to go with you," she said. "You're my husband."
"Can't do it now," he said.
He pulled his helmet back, leaned forward, and kissed her on the lips.
Her lips were stiff with the cold, her face wet with snow-she hadn't had a helmet-and a few tears. "I tried, but we can't get through," he said.
"You'll have to put them off me. But I'll come back. I'll get you."
"You'll get me?" she asked. "I swear I will. And I'm counting on you now. You're the only woman who can save me."
She stood in the deep snow beside the sled, watched him snap into the snowshoes. He had his pistol in his hand, his helmet back on. With the snowmobile suit, he looked almost like a spaceman. "Give me five minutes," he said. "Then take off. Just roll around for a while.
When they find you, tell them I'm headed for Jack's."
"What'll you do?"
"I'll stop the first car coming down the road and take it," he said.
"Jesus." She looked up at the faint light, then cocked her head and frowned. "Somebody's coming."
"What?" The Iceman looked up at the bridge. "Not that way... from behind us."
"Motherfucker," he said. "You go, go." Lucas and Climpt were moving again, the track filling in front of them, nothing in their world but a few lights and the rumble of the sleds. Climpt's taillight came up and he leaned to the left, taking the sled through the turn. Lucas followed, pressed the radio button, trying to talk through the bumps.
"How long will it take him to get from Whitetail to the bridge?" Feds: About two minutes.
Lucas flashed Climpt, pulled up alongside, shouted, "We're coming up on him in maybe a minute. They're gonna let him see them." He's stopped.
Carr: Where? Two or three hundred yards out, maybe. Can't really tell that close.
Can he see our lights? Maybe. "I'll take the lead from here. I'll count it out. You get the rifle limbered up." Climpt nodded, pulled the rifle down.
Lucas started counting, rolled the accelerator forward with his right hand, touched the pocket on his left thigh where he kept the pistol.
The pocket was sealed with Velcro, so he could get at it quickly enough once he'd shed his gloves... one thousand six, one thousand seven, one thousand eight.
Seconds rolling away like a slow heartbeat. Radio voice: Don't see him, don't see him. Lucas slowed, Climpt closed from behind. One thousand thirty-eight, one thousand thirty-nine... Lucas rolled forward, straining to see. His headlight beam was cupped, shortened by the snow. Looking into it was like peering into a foam plastic cup.
They hit a hump, swooped down over the far side, Lucas absorbing up the lurch with his legs, beginning to feel the ride in his thighs. One thousand sixty... Lucas rolled the accelerator back, slowed, slowed... There. Red flash just ahead. Lucas hit the brake, leaned left, dumped his speed in a skid, stayed with the sled, got it straight, headlight boring in on Helper's sled... and Helper himself. Helper stood behind his snowmobile, caught in the headlight.
Climpt had gone right when Lucas broke left, came back around, catching Helper in his lights, fixing him in the crossed beams. Lucas ripped his gloves off had the pistol... Helper was running. He was on snowshoes, running toward the treeline above the creek. Couldn't take a sled in there, too dense. Lucas hit the accelerator, pulled closer, closer. Helper looking back, still wearing his helmet, face mask a dark oval, blank. The Iceman lumbered toward the treeline, but the sound of the other snowmobiles was growing; then the lights popped up and suddenly they were there, careening through the deep snow. The lead sled swerved toward him while the other broke away. He lifted his pistol, fired a shot, and the sled swerved and the passenger dumped off. The other sled broke hard the other way, spinning, trying to miss the fallen man, out of control. The Iceman kept running, running, his breath beating in his throat, tearing his chest, running blindly with little hope, looking back. The muzzle blast was like lightning in the dark. Lucas cut left, came off the sled. Stunned, he thrashed for a moment, got upright, snow in his eyes and mouth, sputtering, put too much weight on one foot, crunched through to the next layer of snow, got to his knees, the.45 coming up, felt Climpt spinning past him.
Helper was at the treeline, barely visible, nothing more than a sense of motion a hundred feet away. Lucas fired six shots at him, one after another, tracking the motion, firing through brush and brambles, through alder branches and small barren aspen. The muzzle flash blinded him after the first shot and he fired on instinct, where Helper should have been. And where was Climpt, why wasn't he... ? And then the M- 16 came in, two bursts at the treeline. Radio: Gunfire, we got gunfire. Carr: What's happening, what's happening? Snowshoes. They'd need the snowshoes.
Lucas' sled had burrowed into a snowdrift. He started for it, then looked back at Helper's sled, saw the yellowhaired girl. She was on the snow, trying to get to her feet. Struggling. Hurt? Lucas turned toward her, pushed the transmit button: "He's on foot-heading up toward the road-he's in the woods-we got the kid. She's here-we're on the creek just below the bridge. Watch out for him. We shot up around him, he could be hit." Ginny Harris was squatting next to Helper's snowmobile, her hair gold-yellow in the lights of the snowmobiles, focused on the woods where Helper had gone.
As Lucas ran up, struggling with the knee-deep snow, she turned her head and looked up at him, eyes large and feral like a trapped fox's.
The yellow-haired girl crouched by the sled as the man on the first sled fired a series of shots into the wood. He looked menacing, a man all in black, the big pistol popping in his hand. Then there was a loud ratcheting noise from the man on the second sled, the stutter of flame reaching out toward her man like God's finger. The first man said something to her, but she couldn't hear him. She could see his lips moving, and his hand came up.
Reaching out? Pointing a gun? She rolled. She rolled away from him and he called, "You're okay, okay," but she kept rolling and her hand came up with what looked like a child's shiny chrome compact. A.22, a fifty-dollar weapon, a silly thing that could do almost nothing but kill people who made mistakes. He was leaning forward, his hand toward her, reaching out. He saw the muzzle and just before the flash felt a split second of what might have been embarrassment, caught like this.
He started to turn, to flinch away.
Then the flash. The slug hit him in the throat like a hard slap. He stopped, not knowing quite what had happened, heard the pop-po
p of other guns around him, not the heavy bang-bang, but something softer, more distant. Very far away. Lightning stuttered in the dark and flung the girl down, then Lucas hit the snow on his back, his legs folding under him. His head was downhill, and when he hit, the breath rushed out of his lungs. He tried to take a breath and sit up, but nothing happened. He felt as though a rubber stopper had been shoved into his windpipe. He strained, but nothing. The snow felt like sand on his face; he could feel it clearly, the snow. And in his mouth, a coppery, cutting taste, the taste of blood. But the rest of the world, all the sounds, smells, and sights, were in a mental rectangle the size of a shoe box, and somebody was pushing in the sides. He could hear somebody talking: "Oh, Jesus, in the neck, call the goddamn doctor, where's the doctor, is she still -riding..." And a few seconds later a shadow in his eyesight, somebody else: "Christ, he's dead, he's dead, look at his eyes." But Lucas could see. He could see branches with snow on them, he could feel himself move, could feel his angle of vision shifting as someone sat him up, he could feel-no, hear-somebody shouting at him. And all the time the rectangle grew smaller, smaller... He fought the closing walls for a while, but a distant warmth attracted him, and he felt his mind turning toward it. When he let the concentration go, the walls of the square lurched in, and now he was holding mental territory no bigger than a postage stamp. No more vision. No more sense of the snow on his face. No taste of blood.
