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venison. You try going outside the county, even south of Z, Joe will stuff a walleye up your ass. End of story.”

Gator accepted the lecture passively. It didn’t really bother him anymore the way Keith harped on it-like he was mourning their high school friendship, like Gator had personally disappointed him or something. He glanced at the clock on the wall next to a mounted ten-point buck: 4:06. Then he stood up.

“Angler’s, huh,” Keith said, glancing at the snow boiling outside his office windows. “Watch it on the road going home. This could be a bad one. Howie’s out on a three-car pileup on Two.”

“You got a point,” Gator said. “Maybe I’ll drop in on Jimmy out at the garage. Looks bad, I’ll stay over.”

Keith nodded. “Good plan. You talk to Jimmy much lately?”

“Not really. Cassie called me few days back, whining about Teddy getting in a fight at school. Total bullshit.”

“Yeah, Jimmy and the other kid’s father went round and round. I had to get involved. Guess it did some good. Cassie called me, too, told me she got together with the kid’s mother and they worked it out.”

“Whatever,” Gator said.

“Yeah, well. Congratulations on selling the Case.”

Gator waved, turned, and left the office, walked down the hall, and nodded to Ginny Borck, who’d been two years ahead of him in high school and who now sat in a county uniform behind the dispatch desk with its bank of new radios and computers.

Strolling. He was strolling. Should be whistling. He went out on the street, turned up his collar, and strolled to his truck.

A few minutes later he was easing through the snow, approaching the Angler’s, when the secure stolen cell phone rang. Relaxed, feeling complicit with fortune, he punched answer.

Sheryl’s voice jumped at him; desperate, yelling, practically screaming: “We got a problem!”

Chapter Fifty-one

Broker braked the Jeep halfway up the drive in a four-wheel drift, left it idling. They were out, running toward the house. Ten yards out, seeing the garage side door open, Nina took the lead. Then she sidestepped and pointed down with her left hand while she held the Colt ready with the other.

Broker nodded, going numb. He saw the blood crystallizing, freezing in the snow outside the door, a lot of it. Then he saw the tracks. The basement window hanging open. Looked up. Nina was in. Started after her. She met him at the door to the kitchen. “Don’t come in here,” she said, looking him dead serious in the eye.

“Kit?” His knees buckled, then he recovered and surged past her. Saw Griffin sprawled on the floor next to the Roberts. Saw the AR-15 on the floor behind the body. Had a magazine in it. The operating handle angled back loose.

“I told you not to come in,” Nina said. “Stay here.” She darted away. He heard her dash up the stairs, rummage though the upstairs, come back down the stairs. Doing something in the living room.

“Kit?” he shouted.

“Not here.” Nina reappeared, handed him the.12 gauge, a box full of shells.

“Basement,” Broker said, pointing to the bloody steps as he jammed shells in the shotgun and racked the slide. Then old reflex kicked in. “Don’t touch anything.” He stuffed more shells in his pocket. “I’ll be outside.”

Nina skipped down the stairwell, avoiding the bloody steps. Broker turned toward Griffin. Do something. Shut his eyes. Shook it off. Totally on automatic. Don’t touch anything. Don’t think.

“Not here,” Nina yelled.

“I’m outside,” Broker yelled, going back out the garage. When Nina came out, he pointed to the tracks leading off across the lawn. “She got out the basement window. Those are her boots. The shooter’s following her. Let’s go.” Then he froze, and his voice failed as it hit him. He swallowed to clear the roar in his ears. Through the explosions of their crystallized breath, he said, “He loaded the AR, Nina. I left him with a piece that didn’t work…”

She pounded him hard on the chest. “Do your job! He did!” she shouted in that fierce voice, indicating the blood trail. “Now you do yours!”

They moved off in unison, running on either side of the tracks leading across the field. As he ran, Broker tore out his cell and punched 911.

“Nine-one-one, is this an emergency?” the dispatcher answered.

“This is Phil Broker. Fire number 629, on the lake. Harry Griffin is dead, shot by an intruder in my house. My eight-year-old daughter is missing. Put me through to Keith Nygard.”

“Stay on this connection.”

“Get Keith!” Broker shouted.

“Stay on the connection,” the dispatcher repeated.

They were approaching the tree line. Nina shouted over her shoulder, “Griffin hit him hard. All this blood. This guy ain’t going far.”

They ducked into the trees. The dispatcher came back. “Hello?”

“Keith?”

“He’s already in his car, on the way,” the dispatcher said. “We’re starting EMT…”

“Start everything!” Broker yelled.

“Calm down. We’re sending all we got. Now, Keith wants you to end this call. He has your number off our system. He’ll call you back on your cell. Do you copy?”

“Copy.” Broker ended the call, ran holding the cell phone up in his left hand, the shotgun like a dueling pistol in the other. They were moving fast, staying wide of the meandering bloody trail, with an eye for taking advantage of potential cover, aware that the bleeder at the end of these tracks was armed, had killed.

“Broker…,” Nina called out, a ragged edge to her voice. He saw what she was pointing at. More tracks, animal tracks, a lot of them. Too big for coyotes. When he looked up, he saw Nina sprinting ahead, arms pumping, charging headlong.

Broker tried to keep up, felt something, looked up, and swore, “Shit!” Not only were they losing light, but the top tier of the trees shivered and bent. Then the snow went off in his face like a white phosphorus round. Blinding.

Heard Nina’s muffled scream. “I saw them. They ran. I can’t tell…is it…” He ran forward to the sound of her voice. Found her dancing back and forth, peering down at…Oh, no. Without hesitating, he stepped forward, kneeling in it, checking the gristle of the face, clenched teeth showing two inches of bone top and bottom, the nose and lips chewed away.

Stood up, shook his head. “It’s the shooter. Griffin got him. C’mon,” he yelled, grabbing her as he went by. Dragging her away from the partially devoured corpse. His heart pounded hot as he pushed her forward. “See, look, look! There’s her tracks. They keep going…leave that for the sheriff,” he panted. Then he realized that Nina was crying, the tears freezing on her cheeks, yelling sweetly, “Harry!” over and over as she ran. Suddenly she stopped, raising her free hand cupped, like she was trying to hear.

“What?” he yelled.

“Phone,” she yelled.

Christ, the phone was ringing in his hand. He fumbled with freezing fingers; neither of them were wearing gloves. Hit answer. Heard Nygard yelling:

“Broker, it’s Nygard. Where the hell are you, man?”

There was a jagged adrenaline surge to Nygard’s voice, but also a touch of deference. “Not sure,” Broker stopped, looking around, trying to get his bearings. “Somewhere north of the house, in the woods between the lake and the road. Where are you?”

“At the foot of your drive. Tell me quick,” Nygard said.

“We followed a blood trail from the house and found a body. Griffin fought…” His voice failed.

“Broker, you still there?”