"We don't drink."
"Nothing?"
"No sir. Nothing."
He thought about it for a minute. Nodded. "Okay, I can buy that. So what are you doing over here? You own this car?"
"No, I rented it."
"Good, good. So what's up?"
"I drove over to see a friend. We had dinner. I'm taking him home now."
"Looked to me like you were heading out of town. Where does your friend live?"
"It's not far."
"That's not what I asked, though. You weren't going to head out to Minneapolis in this, right? You'll get blown off the road."
Holm tapped on the passenger's window. He stiffened. Made eye contact. She motioned to roll the window down. He did, an inch, flinching at the snow.
"ID, please?"
He shrugged. "I left my wallet at home."
"Uh huh."
She finally got a better look at the driver. He was the one decked out in hip-hop, head to toe. A hoodie covering his head-in the car. The worst place to wear a hoodie, right? Couldn't see side to side. He turned to check what was going on with his passenger, and she saw the scars. Knife scar on one cheek up to his temple. The rest were acne. Eyes reminded her of a snake, the way he held them. Compared to him, the passenger was angelic, practically glowing.
Poulson said, "So, Mr. Quick, let's see a license and proof of insurance, to make it official."
"Please, no. Please don't arrest us."
"Hey, nobody said anything about arresting you. Still need to see a license, son."
"We didn't do anything. It's the car. Not good in the snow."
Poulson raised all five-foot-eleven of himself up to full height, glanced across at Holm. She knew he was feeling the tingle, same as her, the one they got when things were about to turn shaky on them. Poulson said, "Okay, step out of the vehicle. We need to talk some more."
"Please, sir, it's not far."
Holm caught movement. Why hadn't Poulson told the kid to keep his hands in sight? His right was down in his seat. He started to lift it, but the passenger grabbed his arm and seethed through his teeth, "Jibriil, god, no!"
Holm went for her pistol, started shouting, "Don't move! Don't move!" Fumbly with her gloves on. Goddamn it. She stepped backwards. "Don't move! Hands where I can see them! Now!"
Poulson still didn't quite get it. He'd stepped back and pulled his S amp;W, but hadn't picked up on why Holm freaked.
She said, "The driver's got a gun! The driver's got a gun!"
The driver yanked his arm free and Poulson's eyes went wide.
She fired. Caught her glove in the slide. Sliced right through. Bullet went ting off the top of the car, then through the window. Thinking, My baby my baby my baby as she stumbled and ended up on the ground. Gun in both hands. She couldn't do that. Needed one for her radio.
That fast-three seconds? Five? The shots. Six in a row. Poulson taking them standing until the last two punched through his skull. The pink and red mist bloomed and then raced off in the wind.
Holm grabbed for her radio, fingers numb. "Officer down! Officer down!" Location, unit, all that. Shouting. Keeping her sights trained on the spot that kid would show up if he stepped out of the car. Steady. Hand shaking. Steady.
Maybe they would leave. Come on. Take off already.
But then the driver's side door opened, and the driver's head rose into her line of fire, and she squeezed the trigger. Had no idea where the bullet went. She kept squeezing, but the kid was already crouched out of sight.
She heard screaming from the passenger. He had opened his door, but hadn't gotten out. Hands high. "No, no, let's go now! What are you doing? This is bad, man, it's bad."
Holm shifted her aim to the passenger, shouted, "Freeze! Out and down on the ground! Now!"
The passenger ducked into the car.
She turned to the driver.
But he'd already found a good angle and popped off three more.
They were hot shots where her skin had gone hard and cold. Burned. The only good being that they were probably nines, and probably full-jackets, cheap-ass target shooting shit, passing right on through instead of mushrooming, fragmenting, tearing holes like craters in her body.
But then she figured out where she'd been hit: Leg once. Leg twice. Guts. Guts as in womb.
She wailed, hand straight to her stomach. Where'd it go in? Where was the blood? Maybe it missed the baby. It had to miss. She felt nauseous. Bile coming up fast. She swallowed it back. Where were the sirens? It was a small town after all. How long had it been? A minute? More?
She tried to lift her gun. Couldn't even do that. If she strained enough, she could get it up there. Took a shot in the driver's direction. Like it did any good. She scooted back again and the pain turned up the volume. She tried to stand, failed. Tried to open her squad door. The wind took it and flung it, hitting her in the cheek and ripping away skin. Bruised her arm bad. The pistol went flying.
She picked up the mike and said "Officers down" and then there were a whole bunch of people suddenly. EMTs and officers and deputies, finishing off the kids in the car before turning to save Poulson's life, then Holm's. Then Ray was there, standing over her, holding her hand. Lots of "You'll be okay" and "Just in time" and "The baby's fine".
But then something jarred her leg, sending a shock all over. She opened her eyes. She'd been dreaming the rescue. Fading out and dreaming her own rescue.
The driver looked down on her, kicked her leg again. The passenger's voice in the background yelling, "Leave her alone, man. She didn't do anything. Why did you even have a gun?"
"Cause you never know where your enemies might find you."
"They were just cops! They were going to let us go!"
Still staring down at Holm, cheap Hi-Point nine in his grip. "You that stupid, college boy? They weren't going to do shit except take us to jail. We can't let them stop us now. Got to catch that plane."
"You didn't need a gun. We're dead now. All cops, everywhere. They're going to kill us."
Holm wanted to say something. Wanted to tell them it was hopeless. They would never get out of town. But something about the driver told her otherwise. He was going to get away with it. Killing Poulson, herself, the baby, and he was going to skate. So unfair.
Driver lifted his chin. "Ain't going to kill us tonight. Allah's got other plans."
Holm blinked. The nine was barely a foot away from her face.
She thought she heard the blast…
Then saw a beautiful baby girl, hair in barrettes, wearing a yellow and white spring dress. Taking her first steps in a field of green, her daddy helping her stand, mommy cheering her on. What a smile. The best smile she would ever see.
And then the sound of a Korean coupe driving away while sirens wailed closer. The snow scoured away the town's usual assy smell-cow manure, sugar beets, and soybean processing. The snow filled her open mouth. It tasted clean.
So much snow.
TWO
Only four people knew where to find Ray Bleeker when he went ice-fishing, and one of them was dead. His buddy Forrest, who he'd known since his Army days in the Nineties, had died last fall. Cancer. Guy was only forty-eight and had seen it coming for a year. Their last fishing trip, seven months before he died, Forrest told Bleeker it was going to happen. Hard to believe, the guy still in fighting shape by then, if a little more tired and a little more bald thanks to the chemo. He'd told Bleeker that he would like his ashes spread in the lake where they fished, but on the condition that he wait until it was frozen over.
So that's what Bleeker was up to the night of the blizzard. Forrest's widow was supposed to come with, but by then she'd already met a new guy and her kids were sick and, you know, "How about you take his ashes and do it yourself? I've had five months to mourn him, and it's time to move on."