Cork hesitated a moment.
“Go on, damn you, I’m not dying!”
Cork dashed back out the kitchen door. Tracks in the snow led toward the row of pine trees that lined the northern shore of the estate. Before he could follow, the rough cough of a snowmobile engine trying to turn over came from beyond the trees. Cork ran for the Bronco. As he opened the door, he heard the engine of the snowmobile leap into a steady whine. He didn’t have much time. If the snowmobile headed north across the lake toward national forest land, he’d probably lose it. It would have too great a headstart and once it hit the trails in the woods, he wouldn’t be able to follow anyway.
But he was lucky. Just as he turned the key in the Bronco, the dark shape of the little machine shot past on the ice behind the boathouse, heading toward Aurora.
The snowmobile was running with its headlights on, but Cork drove the Bronco dark. The snowmobile headed straight for town with Cork less than fifty yards behind and gaining. If his luck held, he could close the gap completely before the driver of the snowmobile was even aware he was being followed.
His luck didn’t hold. When he was within thirty yards, the headlights of the little machine went dark and the snowmobile suddenly tunneled into the snowy night and was lost to him. He switched on his own headlights, but it was too late. The snowmobile was nowhere to be seen. He braked and the Bronco spun on the ice. It did a full 360 degrees before it came to a stop. Cork rolled his window down and listened. He heard the whine of the snowmobile cutting east, heading toward the reservation, the nearest forest land, where thick woods would swallow it quickly. Cork turned the Bronco in that direction.
He kicked his lights up to high beam. The flurry of snowflakes flew at him like a swarm of white moths. He wanted to floor the accelerator, but he was heading into a section of the lake popular with ice fisherman and he didn’t want to risk a collision with a shanty. He kept his window rolled down and leaned his head out. Although the wind rushed at him with a dull roar, he could still hear ahead of him the persistent high pitch of the snowmobile feverishly speeding away.
Then he heard something else. The sound of impact. Splintering wood followed by the thumping of heavy metal, and finally silence. He slowed and listened. The night on the lake had become still again, deceptively peaceful.
He crept the Bronco ahead. Within a minute his lights picked up the wreckage of a small shanty that lay on its side amid fragments of splintered boards. One wall was caved in, a ragged hole torn open. Cork couldn’t see the snowmobile, but from the line of scattered debris, he could guess the trajectory it must have taken after glancing off the shanty. He turned the Bronco slowly until the headlights swung onto the snowmobile. It was standing upright, as if it had simply been parked. Vehicular accidents were like that sometimes. A car could flip two or three times and come to rest on its wheels as if nothing had happened. The driver of the snow-mobile was nowhere to be seen.
Cork gripped the. 38 and stepped out. He looked carefully around, saw no one, listened, and heard only the distant, steady thrum behind him of a freight train moving slowly through Aurora. He’d taken a few cautious steps toward the snowmobile when a figure in goggles and a green parka popped up from behind the machine, laid an arm across the hood, and pulled off two rounds before Cork could move. The headlight beside him exploded and he felt a numbing blow to his right hand. He hit the snow and rolled under the Bronco. His hand had no feeling and it no longer held the revolver. The green parka let loose another round. Cork heard the bullet chisel into the ice near the rear tire. He reached out and swept through the snow with his left hand, desperately searching for the gun.
Illuminated in the beam of the remaining headlight, the green parka straddled the snowmobile again. The engine kicked over twice, then caught. The machine swung out of the light, following an arc into the darkness that would take it back toward Aurora.
Cork scrambled from under the Bronco. He wanted to find his gun, but knew it would take precious time. He jumped back in behind the wheel and cried out when he wrapped his right hand around the knob of the gear shift. In the glow from his dashboard lights, he could see something protruding from the glove on his hand between his thumb and index finger. He gave a quick, agonizing jerk and pulled out a jagged piece of glass two inches long. He hadn’t been hit by the round, but by a chunk of the shattered headlight. Although his glove was soaked with blood, he found he could manage with the glass fragment out. Using the heel of his hand he pushed the Bronco into gear, swung the vehicle around and headed in pursuit of the green parka.
In the chaos of the chase Cork had lost a feel for exactly where on the lake he was. The snow curtained the shoreline and he had nothing from which to get his bearings. He knew he was headed in the direction of Aurora, but he had only a general sense of distance. Although he wanted desperately to catch the snowmobile, he resisted the temptation to bear down on the accelerator. The near disaster with the ice hut had been a resounding caution against blind speed. Also, his luck had returned in a way. In the collision, the snowmobile had sprung an oil leak and was leaving a clear, black trail for Cork to follow across the lake.
He was intent on the trail of oil when out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of orange at the far right fringe of his headlight beam. He realized it was one of the signs warning of open water ahead, and he pumped his brakes, fighting to keep from sliding into an uncontrolled spin as he attempted to turn the Bronco. He felt the wheels drift over the ice as the vehicle slid sideways. A brief, panicked vision came to him of the Bronco gliding unchecked off the ice and plunging into the black depths of Iron Lake. He eased the wheel into the spin and managed to regain control. From behind the curtain of falling snow ahead, the blackness of the open water came at him like a gaping mouth. He continued to slow and to bring the Bronco around. Then he heard the ice groan and crack beneath him. Steadily he pushed down on the accelerator, running parallel for a moment to the open water, trying to keep the weight of the Bronco moving ahead of the breaking ice. His right hand ached, but he held tight and carefully brought the wheel around until he was moving back to safety. He made a wide full circle. When he came across the black train of oil, he centered it in the beam of the headlight, illuminating the stretch of ice between him and the open water. He killed the engine and got out. He could hear wild flailing in the water ahead. From the glove compartment he grabbed a flashlight.
He stopped well back from the edge of the ice. Using the flashlight, he located the snowmobile that appeared to have skipped twenty yards over the surface of the water before it stopped and began to sink. The hood was still above water, the green parka clinging to it desperately. Cork spun around and began to run, cutting the darkness right and left with the beam of his flashlight. He found what he was looking for, a safety station. He pulled the white life ring loose and the loops of yellow rope, then he ran back. The green parka was still holding to the hood of the snowmobile, although there was not much left above water. Cork unlooped the rope. He tried grasping the ring with his right hand, but the wound from the glass chunk hurt too much. He switched it to his left, brought it back, and heaved it. This time the pain was in his ribs. The ring fell several yards short and to the right.
“Swim for it!” Cork yelled.
The green parka started for the ring but stopped inexplicably and grabbed again for the snowmobile.
Cork hauled in the rope. He held the ring in his right hand this time and chucked it underhand, crying out as the pain knifed into him. The ring arched and fell within easy reach of the figure in the water. The green parka grabbed the ring just as the snowmobile slid from sight.