Winter Prey (24 page)

“ . . . wouldn’t tell me what the guy wanted, she was just too shy, and about fifteen minutes out of nursing school. It turned out he wanted his foreskin restored, He’d heard that sex felt better with a foreskin and he figured we could just take a stitch here and put a hem over there.”

Weather had a cop’s sense of humor, Lucas decided, laughing, probably developed in the emergency room; someplace where the world got bad enough, often enough, that you learned to separate yourself from the bad news.

“There’s just a thimbleful of cognac left and I get it,” Weather said, bouncing out of the chair.

“You can have it,” Lucas said.

When she came back, she sat next to him on the couch, instead of in the chair, and put a hand behind his head, on his opposite shoulder.

“You didn’t drink hardly any of the wine. I drank two-thirds of the bottle, and now I’m finishing the cognac.”

“Fuck the cognac,” Lucas said. “Wanna neck?”

“That’s not very romantic,” she said severely.

“I know, but I’m nervous.”

“I still have a right to some romance,” she said. “But yes, necking would be appropriate, I think.”

A while later she said, “I’m not going to be coy about this; I go for the aging jock-cop image.”

“Aging?”

“You’ve got more gray than I do—that’s aging,” she said.

“Mmmm.”

“But I’m not going to sleep with you yet,” she said. “I’m gonna make you sweat for a while.”

“Whatever’s right.”

After a while she asked, “So how do you feel about kids?”

“We gotta talk,” he said.

The guest room was cool because of the northern exposure, and Lucas put on pajamas before he crawled into the bed. He lay awake for a few minutes, wondering if he should try her room, but he sensed that he should not. They’d ended the evening simply talking. When she left for her bedroom, she’d kissed him—he was sitting down—on the lips, and then the forehead, tousled his hair, and disappeared into the back of the house.

“See you in the morning,” she’d said.

He was surprised when, almost asleep, he heard her voice beside the bed: “Lucas.” Her hand touched his shoulder and she whispered, “There’s someone outside.”

“What?” He was instantly awake. She’d left a hallway light on in case he had to get up in the night to use the bathroom or get a drink of water, and he could see her squatting beside the bed. She was carrying the .22. He pushed back the blankets and swung his feet to the floor. The .45 was sitting on the nightstand and he picked it up. “How do you know?”

“I couldn’t sleep right away.”

“Neither could I.”

“I’ve got a bath off my bedroom and I went for a glass of water. I saw a snowmobile headlight angling in toward the house from out on the lake. There’s no trail that comes in like that. So I watched and the headlight went out—but I could see him in the moon, still coming. The neighbors have a roll-out dock and it’s on their lawn. He stopped behind it, I think. They don’t have a snowmobile. There’s a windbreak down there, those pines. I didn’t see him again.”

She was calm, reporting almost matter-of-factly.

“How long ago?”

“Two or three minutes. I kept watching, thinking I was crazy. Then I heard something on the siding, scratching-like.”

“Sounds like trouble,” Lucas said. He jacked a shell into the .45.

“What’ll we do?” Weather asked.

“Call in. Get some guys down here, on the lake and on the road. We don’t want to scare him off before we can get things rolling.”

“There’s a phone in my bedroom—c’mon,” she said. She padded down the hall, Lucas following. “What else?”

“He’s got to find a place to get in, and that’s gotta make
some
noise. I want you down by the kitchen, just listening. Stay behind the counter, on the floor. I’ll be in the living room, by the couch. If you hear him, just sneak back and get me. Let’s call.”

They were at her room and she picked up the phone. “Uh-oh,” she said, looking at him. “It’s dead. That’s never happened . . .”

“He took the wires out. Goddammit, he’s here,” Lucas said. “Get on the kitchen floor. I . . .”

“What?”

“I’ve got a handset in the truck.” He looked at the garage door; it’d take him ten seconds.

A loud knocking from the front room turned him around.

“What?” whispered Weather. “That’s the doors to the deck.”

“Stay back.” Lucas slipped down the hall, stopped at a corner, peeked around it, saw nothing. They’d left the curtains open so they could see the moon, but there was no visible movement on the deck outside the house, no face pressed against the glass. Nothing but a dark rectangle. The knocking started again, not as though someone were trying to force the door, but as if they were trying to wake up Weather.

“Hey . . .” A man’s voice, muffled by the tri-pane glass.

“What?” Weather had stood up, and was walking through from the kitchen toward the living room.

“Get the fuck down,” Lucas whispered urgently, waving the pistol at her. “Get down.”

She hesitated, still standing, and Lucas scuttled across the room, caught her wrist in his left hand, pulled her down and toward a wall.

“Somebody needs help,” she said.

“Bullshit: remember the phone,” Lucas said. They both edged forward toward a corner.

Another call, as if from a distance. “Hey in there. Hey, we got a wreck, we got a wreck,” and there were three more knocks. Lucas let go of Weather’s wrist and did a quick peek around the corner.

“It can’t be him—that’s somebody looking for me,” Weather said. She started past him, her white nightgown ghostly in the dim reflected light from the hall.

“Jesus,” said Lucas. He was sitting on the floor at the corner and reached up to catch her arm, but she stepped into the sightline from the deck, eight feet from the glass.

The window exploded, showering the room with glass, and a finger of fire poked through at Weather. Lucas had already pulled her back and she came off her feet, sprawling, okay, and Lucas yelled, “Shotgun, shotgun . . .” and fired three quick shots through the door, pop-pop-pop and pulled back.

The shotgun roared again, sending more glass flying across the room, pellets ripping through the end of the leather couch, burying themselves in the far wall. Lucas did a quick peek, then another, fired a fourth shot.

Weather, on her hands and knees, lunged toward the kitchen, came up with the .22 rifle she’d left there, and started back.

“Fucker!” she screamed.

“Stay down, that’s a twelve gauge,” Lucas shouted. Another shotgun blast, then another, a long five seconds apart, the muzzle flash from the first lighting up the front of the room. The flash from the second seemed fainter, the pellets ricocheting around the stone fireplace.

Five seconds passed without another shot. “He’s running,” Lucas said. “I think he’s running.”

He got to his feet and dashed into Weather’s bedroom, looked out on the lawn. He could see the man there, a hundred feet away, twenty feet from the shelter of the treeline, fifteen feet. “Goddammit.” He stepped back and fired two quick shots through the window glass, shattering
it, then one more at the fleeing figure, a hopeless shot.

The man disappeared into the trees. Lucas fired a final shot at the last spot he’d seen him, and the magazine was empty.

“Get him? Get him?” Weather was there with the rifle. He snatched it from her and ran down the hall to the living room, out through the deck and into the snow. He floundered across the yard, through snow thigh deep, following the tracks, through the treeline . . . and saw the red taillight of a snowmobile scudding across the lake, three or four hundred yards away. The rifle was useless at that range.

He was freezing. The cold caught at him, twisted him. He turned and began to run back toward the house, but the cold battered at him and he slowed, plodding in his bare feet, his pajamas hanging from him.

“Jesus, Lucas, Lucas . . .” Weather caught him under the arms, hauled him into the house. He was shaking uncontrollably.

“Handset in my truck. Get it,” he grunted.

“You get in the goddamn shower—just get in it.”

She turned and ran toward the garage, flipping on lights as she went. Lucas peeled off his sodden pajama top, so tired he could barely move, staggered back toward the bathroom. The temperature inside the house was plunging as the night air roared through the shattered windows, but the bathroom was still warm.

He got in the shower, turned on the hot water, let it run down his back, plastering his pajama pants to his legs. He was holding on to the shower head when Weather came back with the handset.

“Dispatch.”

“This is Davenport down at Weather Karkinnen’s place. We were just hit by a guy with a shotgun. Nobody hurt, but the house is a mess. The guy is headed west across Lincoln Lake on a snowmobile. He’s about two minutes gone, maybe three.”

“Weather, that’s the damnedest, stupidist thing . . .” Carr started, but Weather shook her head and looked at the blown-out window. “I won’t leave,” she said. “Not when it’s like this. I’ll figure out something.”

Lucas was wrapped in a snowmobile suit. Carr shook his head and said, “All right, I’ll get somebody from Hardware Hank out here.”

The gunman had come in on snowshoes, as the LaCourt killer had. By the time an alert had been issued, he could have been any one of dozens of snowmobilers still out on the trails within two or three miles of Weather’s house. The two on-duty deputies were told to stop sleds and take names. Nobody thought much would come of it.

“When I got the call about the shooting, I phoned Phil Bergen,” Carr told Lucas.

“Yeah?”

“Nobody home,” Carr said.

There was a moment of silence, then Lucas asked, “Does he have a shotgun?”

“I don’t know. Anybody can get a gun, though.”

“Why don’t you have somebody check on the sled, see if it’s at his house? See if he’s out on it.”

“That’s being done,” Carr said.

The Madison crime scene techs were taking pictures of the snowmobile tread tracks, the snowshoe tracks, and were digging shotgun shells out of the snow. Lucas, still shaking with cold, walked through the living room with Weather. A double-ought pellet had hit the frame on one of the photographs of her parents, but the photo was all right.

“Why did he do it that way, why . . . ?”

“I have to think about that,” Lucas said.

“About . . . ?”

“He wanted you by those windows. If he’d gone to a door, you might not have let him in. And he’d need a hell of a gun to shoot through those oak doors and be sure about getting you. So the question is, did he know about the doors?”

“I think the glass was just the way he wanted to do it,” Weather said after a minute. “He could get access up from the lake, nobody’d see him.”

“That’s possible, too. If you hadn’t seen him, if we didn’t know about the phones, you might’ve walked right up to the glass.”

“I almost did anyway,” she said.

Carr came back. “We can’t find Phil, but his sled’s in the garage. His car is gone.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Lucas said.

“I don’t either—but I’ve got dispatch calling Park Falls at Hayward. They’re checking the bars for his car.”

The man from Hardware Hank brought three sheets of plywood and a Skil saw, broke the glass fragments out of the glass doors and the window in Weather’s bedroom, fitted the openings with plywood, and set them in place with nails. “That’ll hold you for tonight,” he said as he left. “I’ll check back tomorrow on something permanent.”