Winter Prey (32 page)
21Harper was released at noon. He asked a deputy at the property window how he’d get back home, since the cops had brought him in.
“Fuckin’ hitchhike, Russ,” the cop said, and slammed the window down. Harper called his station. No answer. He finally found a kid smoking a cigarette outside a game parlor and offered him five bucks to give him a ride. The kid said ten, Harper argued, the kid tossed his cigarette in the street and told him to go fuck himself. Harper paid the ten.
The gas station was closed and locked. Harper went inside, checked the register. There was money in the till and a note: “Russ, had to close. People are pissed at you they think your in on it.”
“Motherfucker.” Harper crumbled the note, threw it in the corner, locked up and walked out to his truck. The tires were flat, all four of them. Cursing, he checked them, found no sign that they’d been slashed. That was something. He pulled an air hose out of the lube bay and filled the tires. Worried about his house, he drove down to it, parked, checked the front and sides. No one had been there since
he left it. Okay. Inside, he made a fried egg and onion sandwich, and wolfed it down. The anger was growing. The cops would get them all if they didn’t hang together. He’d done his part.
He picked up the phone, thought about it, put it down, got in his truck, drove to the station, parked and walked across the highway to the Duck Inn. There was a wall phone between the men’s and women’s restrooms, and he dropped a quarter.
The Iceman answered.
“This is Russ. We gotta talk.”
“I heard you were in jail,” the Iceman said.
“I bailed out. Where can we get together?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Russ. I think we better . . .”
“Fuck what you think,” Harper snarled. His voice had gone up and he looked quickly back toward the bar and dropped his voice again. “We gotta make some contacts. If anybody talks to the cops, if anybody cracks, we’re all going down. They know about the Schoeneckers. We gotta figure out a way to find them, tell them to stay lost. I’ll call Doug.”
“Doug’s gone. I don’t know where,” said the Iceman.
“Ah, Jesus. Well, they don’t know about him. Maybe that’s best. But listen: the cops don’t have shit on anybody at this point. But if just one of us talks . . .”
“Listen. Maybe . . . you know yellow-hair?” asked the Iceman. “You know who I mean?”
“Yeah?”
“She’s alone at her place. Why don’t you stop by around four o’clock? I can get away for a while.”
“See you then,” Harper said and hung up. He walked back out to the bar, climbed onto a barstool. The heavyset bartender was wiping the counter with a rag; he had slicked-down hair, a handlebar mustache, and rode with the Woods Runners M.C. The mustard stains on his apron were turning brown. “Gimme a Miller Lite, Roy,” Harper said.
“Don’t want your trade, Russ,” the bartender said, concentrating on his rag. There were three other men in the bar, and they all went quiet.
“What?”
“I said I don’t want your trade. I don’t want you in here no more.” Now the bartender looked up at him. He had small black eyes, underlined with scar tissue.
“You’re telling me my money’s no good?” Harper pulled a handful of dollar bills from his pocket, slapped them on the bar.
“Not in here it ain’t,” the bartender said.
“I hate the sonofabitch,” the yellow-haired girl said. She sucked smoke from her mouth up her nostrils, looking cat-eyed sideways at the Iceman. “What’re we going to do?”
“Well, the first thing is, he might of cut a deal with the county attorney,” the Iceman said. He was sitting on the couch with a silver beer can in his hand. “He might be wearing a wire.”
Harper pulled into the driveway at the yellow-haired girl’s house at five minutes to four. The sky to the west was shiny-silver, but the sun was hidden behind the thin overcast. Cold. He shivered as he got out of the truck. The Iceman’s truck was already there, with an empty snowmobile trailer behind it. Harper frowned, stopped to listen. He could hear the music coming from the broken-down double-wide. Jim used to listen to it. Heavy Metal. Thump-thump.
The Iceman’s snowmobile was sitting next to the house. Harper walked around it, knocked on the door. A little tingle, now: the yellow-haired girl was a little skinny for his tastes, but she had all the right sockets. He waited a moment, irritated, and pounded on the door.
The yellow-haired girl answered. “Come on in,” she said, pulling the door back. Harper nodded, stepped inside, and wiped his feet on the square of carpet next to the door. The house smelled of burnt cooking oil and French fries, fatty meat and onions. “He’s in the can,” she said.
Harper wiped his feet, and as the yellow-haired girl backed away, caught her by the arm. “I’m gonna want some pussy,” he said.
“Whatever,” she said, shrugging. She backed into the front room, pulling him along, smiling, tongue on her upper lip. Harper went along, caught by her . . .
And the Iceman was there with a shotgun, the muzzle only a foot from Harper’s face.
“What?” Harper blurted.
The Iceman put his finger to his lips, said, “Do it,” to the girl. She stepped closer to him, unzipped his parka, pulled it off his shoulders, patted it down. Harper watched for a moment, confused, then said, “Oh. You think . . .”
The Iceman waggled the shotgun at his head, and Harper shut up, but relaxed.
“Shirt,” whispered the yellow-haired girl. She unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it off. Untied his boots, pulled them free, looked inside. Unzipped his pants, pulled them down, pulled them off.
“As long as you’re down there,” Harper joked.
The Iceman half-smiled. The yellow-haired girl pulled down his underpants, then pulled them back up. Lifted his t-shirt, pulled it down. “Don’t see nothing,” she said.
“Okay,” the Iceman said. This had worked with the priest. People
want
to believe. He kept the shotgun on Harper’s skull. “Now, Russ, we want to talk, but we’re not sure you didn’t cut a deal. We’re just trying to be careful. We want you to sit down on that couch and Ginny’s gonna put a little tape around your hands and ankles.”
“Bullshit she is.” Harper was wearing nothing but his underwear and socks.
“I got the gun and I’m scared,” the Iceman said. He blurted it out—let his voice rise and break. “If anything cracks, I’ll go to prison forever. You could handle prison, Russ, but I’d die there. Man, I’m scared shitless.”
“You don’t need no tape,” Harper said. He went to the couch and sat down. The shotgun tracked him. “Anyway, gimme my pants.”
“We need to tape you up,” the Iceman insisted. “I gotta
go outside and see if anybody came with you. You coulda made a deal.”
“I didn’t make no deal.”
“Then the tape ain’t gonna hurt, is it?”
Harper stared at the Iceman. The shotgun barrel never wavered. He finally shrugged. “All right, you motherfucker.”
The yellow-haired girl was there with a roll of duct tape. “Cross your feet,” she said.
“You’re gettin’ kinda bossy, ya little cunt,” Harper said. But he crossed his feet. She taped them in a minute.
“Now your hands,” she said. Harper looked at the gun, shrugged, and crossed his hands. “Behind you.”
“Goddammit.”
When he was taped, she stood up and looked at the Iceman. “Got him,” she said.
“Go check,” the Iceman said, tipping his head toward the door. “Go a half-mile up the road, both ways.”
“What . . .” Harper began.
“Shut up,” said the Iceman.
“Listen, motherfucker . . .”
The Iceman stepped close to him and hit him with the stock of the shotgun. The blow caught Harper on the ear and knocked him off the couch.
“You mother—” Harper groaned. He struggled to get up. The Iceman put a foot on his head and pressed. Harper thrashed, but the Iceman rode him, giggling. The girl pulled on a snowmobile suit, boots, ran out the door and started the snowmobile. She was back in five minutes.
“Nobody out there,” she said.
“Is the tape strong enough to hold him?” the Iceman asked. He was sitting on Harper’s head, Harper cursing weakly.
“That’s all I got except for some of that paper tape,” the yellow-haired girl said. Then brightened. “There’s some wire that Rosie was gonna use for clothesline.”
“Get it. And some pliers.”
They wrapped the soft steel wire around Harper’s wrists, and the yellow-haired girl turned it until Harper started to
scream. “Fuckin’ hurts, don’t it,” she said to him. She took three more turns, saw blood.
“Careful,” the Iceman said. “Cops look for blood.” Blood is evidence.
She nodded, and carefully wired his feet, wrapping it all the way to his knees. “That’s got it,” she said.
The Iceman stood up. Harper lay still for a moment, then tried to get to his knees. When he was halfway up, the Iceman kicked him in the middle of the back, and he pitched over on his face. “Motherfucker . . .”
“Hurts, don’t it,” the yellow-haired girl said, squatting next to him so she could look in his eyes. His eyelids flickered, showing the first sign of real fear. She reached down into his underpants. “You know what I think I’ll do?” she asked playfully. “I think I’ll get a knife and cut your dick off. How’d you like that?”
The Iceman, climbing into his snowmobile suit, said, “We don’t have time to fuck around. You know how to get there?”
“Meet you in ten minutes,” she said, intense, excited.
“Take it easy in the dark,” the Iceman said.
Harper was thrashing on the floor again, managed to roll onto his back, tried to sit up. He was bleeding from his nose. The Iceman stooped, caught the wires between his ankles, and dragged him across the room, through the front door, down the porch. The yellow-haired girl was on the Iceman’s snowmobile, waved, and pulled away. Harper’s head banged off the stoop, and the Iceman pulled him through the snow to Harper’s own truck, picked him up with some effort, and threw him in the back. Then he went back inside, gathered up Harper’s clothes, got the truck keys, and went back out.
The trip to the sandpit took seven or eight minutes. The Iceman took the right down to the pit, pulled off the road into the area beaten down by deputies’ trucks when they’d found the Mueller kid. He climbed out, walked around in back, dropped the tailgate, and jerked Harper out of the
back, letting him fall to the ground.