mouth now, as though he'd been running.
The Iceman pounded down the trail, the yellow-haired girl behind him, on top the snowshoes. They'd stopped just long enough to trade places, and then went on through the thickening snow, along an almost invisible track, probing for the path through the woods.
They were safe enough for the moment, lost in the storm. If he could just get south… He might have to dump the girl, but she was certainly replaceable. Alaska, the Yukon, there were women out there for the asking; not nearly enough men. They'd do anything you wanted.
If he was going to make it south to the horse trainer's place, he'd have to get up on the north side of the highway, take Blueberry Lake across to the main stem of the flowage. He could take Whitetail Creek.
The feds: He's turning. He's turning. He's heading north, he's not heading toward Table Bay Road anymore, he's headed up toward the intersection of STH 70 and Meteor Drive.
Carr: We're moving, we're going that way.
Lucas flashed Climpt, pulled alongside.
'They've just turned, heading north… wait a minute.' He pushed the transmit button: 'Do you know what trail that is? What snowmobile trail? Is it marked on the map?'
Feds: There's a creek down there, Whitetail Run. We think that's it.
'He's on a creek called Whitetail Run, heading up to Meteor Drive,' Lucas said.
Climpt nodded. 'That can't be far. This trail crosses it at right angles-we'll see the turn.'
Carr: We're coming up on the bridge at Whitetail. We'll nail down both sides.
Another voice: They'll see the lights.
Carr: Yeah. We'll let 'em. Henry and I been talking. We decided we gotta let him know that he can't get away. We gotta give him the choice of giving up the kid and quitting, or dying. The kid's gonna die if she stays with him. If he just leaves her out in the snow somewhere, she's gone. And if he stops someplace, gets a car, he can't leave her to tell anybody. Sooner or later he'll dump her.
Feds: If he realizes there's a beacon on him, he may look for it, then we'd lose him.
Carr: We're not going to let him go this time. And if he gets away somehow… heck, we gotta risk it.
Feds: Your call, Sheriff.
Carr: That's right. How far out is he?
Feds: Half-mile. Forty seconds, maybe.
The Iceman roared through the turn onto Whitetail, and he was almost to the bridge when he saw the lights, shining down through the snow. He knew what they were. The cops, and especially Davenport, had some kind of karma edge on him. They kept finding him when finding him was impossible.
'No!' He shouted it out as he hit the brake. The lights were there, big hand-held million-candlepower jobs, probing the creek. He slid to a stop, turned to the yellow-haired girl:
'That's the cops up there. They're tracking us somehow. If I had time… I'll have to try it on foot. I want you to take the sled back down the creek here, just ride around for a while. When they find you, tell them I'm heading for Jack's Cafe down by the flowage. Tell them that you think I'm going after a car. They'll believe that.'
'I want to go with you,' she said. 'You're my husband.'
'Can't do it now,' he said. He pulled his helmet back, leaned forward, and kissed her on the lips. Her lips were stiff with the cold, her face wet with snow-she hadn't had a helmet-and a few tears.
'I tried, but we can't get through,' he said. 'You'll have to put them off me. But I'll come back. I'll get you.'
'You'll get me?' she asked.
'I swear I will. And I'm counting on you now. You're the only woman who can save me.'
She stood in the deep snow beside the sled, watched him snap into the snowshoes. He had his pistol in his hand, his helmet back on. With the snowmobile suit, he looked almost like a spaceman.
'Give me five minutes,' he said. 'Then take off. Just roll around for a while. When they find you, tell them I'm headed for Jack's.'
'What'll you do?'
'I'll stop the first car coming down the road and take it,' he said.
'Jesus.' She looked up at the faint light, then cocked her head and frowned. 'Somebody's coming.'
'What?' The Iceman looked up at the bridge.
'Not that way… from behind us.'
'Motherfucker,' he said. 'You go, go.'
Lucas and Climpt were moving again, the track filling in front of them, nothing in their world but a few lights and the rumble of the sleds.
Climpt's taillight came up and he leaned to the left, taking the sled through the turn. Lucas followed, pressed the radio button, trying to talk through the bumps. 'How long will it take him to get from Whitetail to the bridge?'
Feds: About two minutes.
Lucas flashed Climpt, pulled up alongside, shouted, 'We're coming up on him in maybe a minute. They're gonna let him see them.'
He's stopped.
Carr: Where?
Two or three hundred yards out, maybe. Can't really tell that close.
Can he see our lights?
Maybe.
'I'll take the lead from here. I'll count it out. You get the rifle limbered up.'
Climpt nodded, pulled the rifle down. Lucas started counting, rolled the accelerator forward with his right hand, touched the pocket on his left thigh where he kept the pistol. The pocket was sealed with Velcro, so he could get at it quickly enough once he'd shed his gloves… one thousand six, one thousand seven, one thousand eight. Seconds rolling away like a slow heartbeat.
Radio voice: Don't see him, don't see him.
Lucas slowed, Climpt closed from behind. One thousand thirty-eight, one thousand thirty-nine…
Lucas rolled forward, straining to see. His headlight beam was cupped, shortened by the snow. Looking into it was like peering into a foam plastic cup. They hit a hump, swooped down over the far side, Lucas absorbing up the lurch with his legs, beginning to feel the ride in his thighs. One thousand sixty… Lucas rolled the accelerator back, slowed, slowed…
There.
Red flash just ahead.
Lucas hit the brake, leaned left, dumped his speed in a skid, stayed with the sled, got it straight, headlight boring in on Helper's sled… and Helper himself.
Helper stood behind his snowmobile, caught in the headlight. Climpt had gone right when Lucas broke left, came back around, catching Helper in his lights, fixing him in the crossed beams. Lucas ripped his gloves off, had the pistol…
Helper was running. He was on snowshoes, running toward the treeline above the creek. Couldn't take a sled in there, too dense. Lucas hit the accelerator, pulled closer, closer. Helper looking back, still wearing his helmet, face mask a dark oval, blank.
The Iceman lumbered toward the treeline, but the sound of the other snowmobiles was growing; then the lights popped up and suddenly they were there, careening through the deep snow. The lead sled swerved toward him while the other broke away.
He lifted his pistol, fired a shot, and the sled swerved and the passenger dumped off. The other sled broke hard the other way, spinning, trying to miss the fallen man, out of control.
The Iceman kept running, running, his breath beating in his throat, tearing his chest, running blindly with little hope, looking back.
The muzzle blast was like lightning in the dark. Lucas cut left, came off the sled. Stunned, he thrashed for a moment, got upright, snow in his eyes and mouth, sputtering, put too much weight on one foot, crunched through to the next layer of snow, got to his knees, the.45 coming up, felt Climpt spinning past him.
Helper was at the treeline, barely visible, nothing more than a sense of motion a hundred feet away.
Lucas fired six shots at him, one after another, tracking the motion, firing through brush and brambles,
