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The Iceman lay with his head on the pillow, the yellow-haired girl sprawled restlessly beside him. They were watching the ti
Bergen was dead. The deputies the Iceman had talked to—a half-dozen of them, including the Madison people—had swallowed the note. They wanted to believe that the troubles were over, the case was solved. And just that morning he’d finally gotten something definitive about the magazine photo. The thing was worthless. The reproduction was so bad that nothing could be made of it.
At noon, he’d decided he was clear. At one o’clock, he’d heard the first rumors of dissent: that Carr was telling people Bergen had been murdered. And he’d heard about Harper. About a deal . . .
Harper would sell his own mother for a nickel. When his kid was killed, Harper treated it as an inconvenience. If Harper talked, if Harper said anything, the Iceman was done. Harper knew who was in the photograph.
The same applied to Doug Reston, the Schoeneckers, and the rest. But those problems were not immediate. Harper was the immediate problem.
Bergen’s death made a difference, whether Carr liked it or not, whether he believed it or not. If the killings stopped, believing that Bergen was the killer would become increasingly convenient.
He sighed, and the yellow-haired girl looked at him, a worry wrinkle creasing the space between her eyes. “Pe
“Is that all, just a pe
“I gotta ask you something,” she said. She sat up, let the blanket drop down around her waist.
“Sure.”
“Did you kill the LaCourts?” She asked it flatly, watching him, then continued in a rush: “I don’t care if you did, I really don’t, but maybe I could help.”
“Why would you think that?” the Iceman asked calmly.
“ ’Cause of that picture of you and Jim Harper and Lisa havin’ it. I know Russ Harper thought you mighta done it, except he didn’t think you were brave enough.”
“You think I’m brave enough?”
“I know you are, ’cause I know the Iceman,” she said.
The yellow-haired girl’s brother kept rabbits. Ten hutches were lined up along the back of the mobile home, up on stands, with a canvas awning that could be dropped over the front. Fed on Purina rabbit chow and garbage, the rabbits fattened up nicely; one made a meal for the three of them.
The Iceman pulled four of them out of their hutches, stuffed them into a garbage bag, and tied them to the carry-rack. The yellow-haired girl rode her brother’s sled, a noisy wreck but operable. They powered down through the Miller tract and into the Chequamegon, the yellow-haired girl leading, the Iceman coming up behind.
The yellow-haired girl loved the freedom of the machine, the sense of speed, and pushed it, churning along the narrow trails, her breath freezing on her face mask, the motor rumbling in their helmets. They passed two other sleds, lifted a hand. The Iceman passed her at Parson’s Corners, led her down a forest road and then into a trail used only a few times a day. In twenty minutes they’d reached the sandpit where John Mueller’s body had been found. The snow had been cut up by the sheriff’s four-by-fours and the crime scene people, but now snow was drifting into the holes they’d made. In two days even without much wind, there’d be no sign of the murder.
The Iceman pulled the sack of rabbits off the carry-rack, dropped it on the snow.
“Ready?”
“Sure.” She looked down at the bag. “Where’s the gun?”
“Here.” He patted his pocket, then stooped, ripped a hole in the garbage bag, pulled out a struggling rabbit, and dropped it on the snow. The rabbit crouched, then started to snuffle around: a tame rabbit, it didn’t try to run.
“Okay,” he said: He took the pistol out of his pocket. “When it’s this cold, you keep the pistol in your pocket as long as you can, ’cause your skin can stick to it if you don’t.” He pushed the cylinder release and flipped the cylinder out. “This is a .22 caliber revolver with a six-shot cylinder. Mind where you point it.” He slapped the cylinder back in and handed it to her.
“Where’s the safety?”
“No safety,” said the Iceman.
“My brother’s rifle has one.”
“Won’t find them on revolvers. Find them on long guns and automatics.”
She pointed the pistol at the rabbit, which had taken a couple of tentative hops away. “I don’t know what difference this makes. I kill them anyway.”
“That’s work—this is fun,” the Iceman said.
“Fun?” She looked at him oddly, as though the thought had never occurred to her.
“Sort of. You’re the most important thing that ever happened to this rabbit. You’ve got the power. All the power. You can do anything you want. You can snuff him out or not. Try to feel it.”
She pointed the pistol at the rabbit. Tried to feel it. When she killed a rabbit for di
“Just squeeze,” the Iceman coached.
And she did feel it. A tingle in her stomach; a small smile started at the corner of her mouth. She’d never had any power, not that she understood. She’d always been traded off and used, pushed and twisted. The rabbit took another tentative hop and the gun popped, almost without her willing it. The rabbit jumped once, then lay in the snow, its feet ru
“Again,” said the Iceman.
But she stood and watched for a minute. Rabbits had always been like carrots or cabbages. She’d never really thought about them dying. This one was hurting.
The power was on her now, possibilities blossoming in her head. She wasn’t just a piece of junk; she had a gun. Her jaw tightened. She put the barrel next to the rabbit’s head and pulled the trigger.
“Excellent,” said the Iceman. “Feel it?”
“Get another one,” she said.
CHAPTER
20
Harper sat on the jail bunk, scowling, shaking his head, his yellow teeth bared. His attorney, wearing a salt-and-pepper tweed suit that might have been made during the Roosevelt Administration, sat next to him, fidgeting.
“That ain’t good enough,” Harper said.
“Let me explain something to you, Russ,” Carr said. Carr’s double chin had collapsed into wattles, and the circles under his eyes were so black that he looked like he’d lost a bar fight. “Eldon Schaeffer has to get elected county attorney. If he cuts a deal with you, and it turns out you’re a member of some sex ring, and that you know who the killer is but you didn’t tell us, and Eldon gives you immunity and you walk out of here a free man . . . Well, Eldon ain’t go
“Then he can stick it in his ass,” Harper said. He nodded at his attorney. “If Dick here is right, I’ll be out of here in an hour.”
“You’ll risk going to trial for multiple murder to save a couple years in jail? You could do two or three years standing on your head,” Lucas said. He was leaning on the cell wall, looking down at Harper. “And I swear to Christ, if we tie you to the killer, if we even find a thread of evidence putting you two together, we’ll slap your ass in jail so fast your head’ll spin. For accessory to murder. You’ll die in prison.”