It's the dead of winter, and a killer like no other is turning a small Wisconsin town into a death trap-one that's closing in on Lucas Davenport.
splits. Must’ve been another sled came through here. I don’t know if he went left or right.” “Where’s Table Bay Road?” “Off to the right.” “That’s where he’s headed.” Climpt nodded and started out again, but the pace grew jagged, Climpt sawing back and forth, checking the track. Lucas nearly overran him a half-dozen times, swerving to avoid a collision. He was breathing through his mouth now, as though he’d been running. The Iceman pounded down the trail, the yellow-haired girl behind him,
‘Okay, we’ll get back to you.’ He wanted to come out when we told him the family was dead, do the last rites, but we told him to stay put, in town. We didn’t want him to . . .” “ . . . Contaminate his memory.” “Yeah.” Carr nodded, picked up the coffee he’d set on the car hood, and finished it. “How about the firemen? Would they have any reason to lie about it?” Carr shook his head. “I know them both, and they’re not particular friends. So it wouldn’t be like a conspiracy.” “Okay.” Two
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
got a radio call, answered, and then said, “You’ll have a guy waiting for you. Domeier?” “Yeah, good.” They put down at a general aviation airport at the north end of the city. The pilot would wait until ten o’clock, he said. “Got that storm coming in. Ten o’clock shouldn’t be a problem, but if you were as late as midnight, I might not get out at all.” “I’ll call,” Lucas promised, pulling off the pac boots and slipping on his shoes. “I’ll be around. Call the pilots’ lounge. There’s a guy
back into the .45 and slapped it tight with the heel of his hand. “You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?” Weather asked. “We’re not trying to kill him,” Lucas said levelly. “But he has to make his move.” “I don’t see how you won’t kill him,” Weather said. “If he has a gun in his hand . . .” “We’ll warn him. If he opts to fight, what can we do?” She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “If we had more time, I could think of something.” “Women shouldn’t be involved in this sort of