“Janes’ woodlot,” Climpt said. “He’s gonna come through the woods, sneak in through the back door by the dumpsters.”
“That’s always locked,” Weather said.
“Maybe he’s got some way to get in.”
He’s not moving. Somebody’s got to take a look.
Carr, fifty feet away, by radio: Lucas, if he doesn’t move in the next minute or so, I think the guys on the sleds ought to cruise by. If he’s just sitting there, they can keep going, like club riders. If he’s back in the woods, we ought to know.
Lucas put the radio to his mouth. “You guys on the sleds—cruise him. Stuff your weapons inside your suits, out of sight. And be careful. Don’t stop, keep going. If you see him, just wave.”
Lucas turned to Climpt. “We better get set up by the back door. If he comes through, we should be able to see if he’s carrying.”
You guys on the roof—we might have to turn you around, he may come in the back. One of you go out back right now, keep a lookout.
Got that.
“If we spot him coming in, we could have Weather just walk across the end of the t-corridor,” Climpt said. “He’d be able to see her from the door, but he wouldn’t have time to react. If he starts running down that way . . .”
They worked it out as they ran to the back of the hospital, Weather and Carr hurrying behind. Henry Lacey, palefaced, stood by the reception desk with his .38. The nurses had been moved down to the emergency room, where they had concrete walls to huddle behind.
Rusty: We just passed his sled. He’s not here. It looks like he’s gone up in the woods. Doesn’t look like he’s wearing snowshoes, Let’s, uh . . .
There was a moment of silence, then the same voice.
We’ll cruise him again.
“What are they doing?” Lucas asked Climpt. “They’re not going back . . . ?” He put the radio to his mouth: “What’re you doing? Don’t go back!”
Just coming back now.
There was a dark, abrupt sound on the radio, a sound like a cough or a bark, and a last syllable from the deputy that might have been . . .
He’s . . .
Silence. One second, two. Lucas straining at the radio. Then an anonymous radio voice from the roof.
We got gunfire! We got gunfire from Janes’ woodlot! Holy shit, somebody’s shooting—somebody’s shooting.
CHAPTER
Weather was the key, the Iceman had decided after Davenport and Climpt left, but he couldn’t go running off yet. Had to wait for the cops to clear.
He opened the green Army footlocker, took out the top tray, full of cleaning equipment, ammunition, and spare magazines, and looked into the bottom.
Four pistols lay there, two revolvers, two automatics. After a moment’s thought he selected the Browning Hi Power 9mm automatic and a double-action Colt Python in .357 Magnum.
The shells were cool but silky, like good machinery can be. He loaded both pistols with hollow points, stuffed thirteen more 9mm rounds into a spare magazine for the automatic, and added a speedloader with six more rounds for the .357.
Then he watched television, the guns in his lap, like steel puppies. He sat in his chair and stared at the game shows, letting the pressure build, working it out. He couldn’t chase her down, he couldn’t get at her in the house. Wasn’t even sure she was still at the house. He’d have to go back to the hospital again.
Weather usually left the hospital at the end of the first shift. She’d stay to brief the new shift on her patients. The fire volunteers would be arriving a few minutes after five. If he were going to pull this off, he’d have to be back by then.
A two-hour window.
He looked down into his lap at the guns. If he put one in his mouth, he’d never feel a thing. All the complications would be history, the pressure.
And all the pleasure. He pushed the thought away. Let himself feel the anger: they’d ganged up on him. Bullied him. They were twenty-to-one, thirty-to-one.
The adrenaline started. He could feel the tension rise in his chest. He’d thought it was over. Now there was this thing. The anger made him squirm, pushed him into a fantasy: Standing in the snow, gun in each hand, shooting at enemy shadows, the muzzle flashes like rays coming from his palms.
His watch brought him back. The minute hand ticked, a tiny movement in the real world, catching his eye with the time.
Two-fourteen. He’d have to get moving. He heaved himself out of his chair, let the television ramble on in the empty room.
Weather would walk out to the parking lot. Through the swirling snow. With a bodyguard. On any other day, a rifle would be the thing. With the snow, a scope would be useless: it’d be like looking into a bedsheet.
He’d just have to get close, to make sure, this time. Nothing fancy. Just a quick hit and gone.
The ride to the hospital was wild. He could feel himself moving like a blue light, a blue force, through the vortex of the storm, the snow pounding the Lexan faceplate, the sled throbbing beneath him, bucking over bumps, twisting, alive. At times he could barely see; other times, in protected areas or where he was forced to slow down, the field of vision opened out. He passed a four-by-four, looked up at the driver. A stranger. Didn’t look at him, on his sled, ten feet away. Blind?
He pushed on, following the rats’ maze of trails that paralleled the highway, along the edge of town. Past another four-by-four. Another stranger who didn’t look at him.
A hell of a storm for so many strangers to be out on the road, not looking at snowmobiles . . .
Not looking at snowmobiles.
Why didn’t they look at him? He stopped at the entrance to the hospital parking lot, thought about it. He could see Weather’s Jeep. Several other cars close by; he could put the sled around the corner of the building, slip out into the parking lot.
Why didn’t they look at him? It wasn’t like he was invisible. If you’re riding in a truck and a sled goes tearing past, you look at it.
The Iceman turned off the approach to the hospital, cruised on past. Something to think about. Kept going, two hundred, three hundred yards. Janes’ woodlot. He’d seen Dick Janes in here all fall, cutting oak. Not for this year, but for next.
The Iceman pulled off the trail, ran the sled up a short slope, sinking deep in the snow. He clambered off, moved fifteen feet, huddled next to a pile of cut branches.
Coyotes did this. He knew that from hunting them. He’d once seen a coyote moving slow, apparently unwary, some three or four hundred yards out. He’d followed its fresh tracks through the tangle of an alder swamp, then up a slope, then back around . . . and found himself looking down at his own tracks across the swamp and a cavity in the snow where the mutt had laid down, resting, while he fought the alders. Checking the back trail.
Behind the pile of cuttings, he was comfortable enough, hunkering down in the snow. He was out of the wind, and the temperature had begun climbing with the approach of the storm.
He waited two minutes and wondered why. Then another minute. He was about to stand up, go back to the sled, when he heard motors on the trail. He squatted again, watched. Two sleds went by, slowly. Much too slowly. They weren’t getting anywhere if they were travelers, weren’t having any fun if they were joyriders. And there was nothing down this trail but fifteen or twenty miles of trees until they hit the next town, a crossroads.
Not right.
The Iceman waited, watching.