Dead of Winter

“Why he did it?” Cloverdale said. “Shit, who really knows? He might have a hard-on toward authority figures. You know, projecting his frustrations about his life onto any symbol of the establishment.” He nodded toward Louis’s badge. “Cops would qualify.”

Louis shook his head. “A failure at being normal. It can’t be that simple.”

“Think of it as the blue-collar dream gone gray,” Cloverdale said.

Louis held Cloverdale’s eyes for a second then looked up, blinking into the huge flakes. He let out a long sigh. When he looked back at Cloverdale, he was leaning heavily against his gun. His jacket was soaked dark green from the snow. He looked suddenly very tired.

“Your man isn’t here,” Cloverdale said.

“I know that now.”

Cloverdale looked at the cruiser. “You’d better get going up that hill,” he said.

Louis nodded, hesitated then stuck out his hand. Cloverdale stared at it for a moment then shifted the rifle so he could shake Louis’s hand.

“Thanks for your help.”

“Sure. But don’t come back.” Cloverdale gave him a final smile then started back toward the compound. Louis turned and trudged toward the cruiser.

“Hey, Black Pool!”

Louis turned.

“The South,” Cloverdale called out. “You ever think about it much?”

“I try not to,” Louis said.

Cloverdale gave a low soft laugh. He raised the gun in a salute, turned and was lost in the swirling snow.

CHAPTER 14

“Turn on the defroster.”

“It’s on.”

“Well, then turn it up.”

“It’s up as high as it goes,” Jesse said. He rubbed the windshield with his sleeve. “Goddamn it, I can’t see a thing.”

“Jess, pull over,” Louis said.

“What for?”

“I’ll drive.”

“I can drive.”

“Not the way you’re acting, you can’t. Slow down or we’re going to end up wrapped around a damn tree.”

Jesse slowed to thirty-five. The cruiser crept along the snow-clogged county road. Louis let out a breath of relief when they turned back onto the main highway. It, too, was snowed over, but at least it was four lanes the rest of the way back to Loon Lake. They drove in edgy silence for fifteen minutes.

“You get anything useful back there?” Jesse asked finally.

“I’m not sure,” Louis said. He told him what Cloverdale had said.

“So the killer’s military,” Jesse said.

“Maybe.”

“But you don’t think he’s one of those guys?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Gut feeling.”

Jesse gave a small laugh. “Gut feeling. Right.”

Louis stared at Jesse. He was gripping the wheel with his right hand, his left hand bent against his temple. Louis glanced at the speedometer. What the hell was wrong now?

“Jess,” he said, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why you snapping at me?”

Jesse didn’t look at him. “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “I’m tired, that’s all.”

Louis decided to let it go. They rode the rest of the way in silence, picking up the freshly plowed wake of a snowplow just as they turned onto the road at the north end of the lake.

Florence’s voice came over the radio, asking for their location. When Louis radioed back that they were on their way back to the station, Florence told them Gibralter was waiting for them at Dot’s. Louis acknowledged the call and signed off.

“Now what?” Jesse muttered.

“Probably just wants an update,” Louis said.

“Probably wants to chew out my ass for something.”

Jesse pushed the cruiser up to forty-five. The gated entrances to tourist homes flew past. They were coming up fast on a slow-moving red truck and Louis resisted the urge to tell Jesse again to slow down.

“Ford,” Jesse said suddenly.

“What?”

“It’s a red Ford,” Jesse said, peering out at the sludge-encrusted truck ahead of them.

For a second, Louis’s heart beat faster. No, it was too new. Art Taub said the Ford was old and rusted. “It’s not the one. Let him go, Jess,” Louis said.

“No, damn it. His tint’s too dark.”

Jesse flipped on the lights and squawked the siren twice. The driver’s head snapped toward his rearview mirror and he swung to the side of the road. As they pulled up, Louis could see the truck was a new model with not a dent on it, let alone rust.

Jesse was out of the cruiser before Louis could reply. With a sigh, he grabbed the clipboard and followed.

The driver was about thirty, with a thin pale face and a fizz of dirty red hair. He had an old paisley bandana wrapped around his forehead and a small gold hoop in his left ear. On his chin, a sprout of whiskers struggled to form a goatee.

“To what do I owe this honor?” he asked nervously.

Jesse opened the truck door. “Get out.”

“Is that a request or an order?”

“Get out of the fucking truck.”

The man moved slowly. Jesse yanked him from the car so forcefully he fell to the pavement. The man grabbed the door handle to pull himself up, his eyes wide as he looked at Jesse. He wasn’t wearing a coat, just faded jeans and a dingy white T-shirt.

Louis stepped forward. “Your driver’s license, please,” he said.

The man’s pale eyes darted to the truck. “It’s in that bag on the seat.”