Winter Prey - Softcover

Sandford, John

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0593716434 ISBN 13: 9780593716434

Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2024

Inhaltsangabe

It's the dead of winter, and a killer like no other is turning a small Wisconsin town into a death trap in this #1 New York Times bestselling series

Lucas Davenport has tracked killers in cities across America. But the woods of rural Wisconsin are as dark and primal as evil itself. The winters are harsher and colder. And in the heart of every mother and father, there is fear ...

While spending the winter at his rural cabin, Davenport is enlisted to investigate a brutal crime in the small town. In his race to uncover the murderer, he learns that the killer's identity isn't the only secret in town.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

John Sandford

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

1The wind whistled down the frozen run of ShastaCreek, between the blacker-than-black walls of pine. Thethin naked swamp alders and slight new birches bentbefore it. Needle-point ice crystals rode it, like sandpapergrit, carving arabesque whorls in the drifting snow.

The Iceman followed the creek down to the lake, navigatingas much by feel, and by time, as by sight. At six minuteson the luminous dial of his dive watch, he began tolook for the dead pine. Twenty seconds later, its weather-bleachedtrunk appeared in the snowmobile headlights,hung there for a moment, then slipped away like a hitchhikingghost.

Now. Six hundred yards, compass bearing 270 degrees. . .

Time time time . . .

He almost hit the lake’s west bank as it came down fromthe house, white-on-white, rising in front of him. Heswerved, slowed, followed it. The artificial blue of a yardlight burrowed through the falling snow, and he eased thesled up onto the bank and cut the engine.

The Iceman pushed his faceplate up, sat and listened.He heard nothing but the pat of the snow off his suit andhelmet, the ticking of the cooling engine, his own breathing,and the wind. He was wearing a full-face woolen skimask with holes for his eyes and mouth. The snow caughton the soft wool, and after a moment, meltwater begantrickling from the eye holes down his face beside his nose.He was dressed for the weather and the ride: the snowmobilesuit was windproof and insulated, the legs fitting intohis heavyweight pac boots, the wrists overlapped by expeditionski mitts. A heavyweight polypropylene turtleneckoverlapped the face mask, and the collar of the suitsnapped directly to the black helmet. He was virtually encapsulatedin nylon and wool, and still the cold pried at thecracks and thinner spots, took away his breath . . .

A set of Bearpaw snowshoes was strapped behindthe seat, on the sled’s carry-rack, along with a corn-knifewrapped in newspaper. He swiveled to a sidesaddle position,keeping his weight on the machine, fumbled a miniaturemilled-aluminum flashlight out of his parka pocket,and pointed it at the carry-rack. His mittens were too thickto work with, and he pulled them off, letting them danglefrom his cuff-clips.

The wind was an ice pick, hacking at his exposed fingersas he pulled the snowshoes free. He dropped them onto thesnow, stepped into the quick-release bindings, snapped thebindings and thrust his hands back into the mittens. They’dbeen exposed for less than a minute, and already felt stiff.

With his mittens on, he stood up, testing the snow. Thelatest fall was soft, but the bitter cold had solidified the layersbeneath it. He sank no more than two or three inches.Good.

The chimes sounded in his mind again: Time.

He paused, calmed himself. The whole intricate clockworkof his existence was in danger. He’d killed once already,but that had been almost accidental. He’d had toimprovise a suicide scene around the corpse.

And it had almost worked.

Had worked well enough to eliminate any chance thatthey might catch him. That experience changed him, gavehim a taste of blood, a taste of real power.

The Iceman tipped his head back like a dog testing forscent. The house was a hundred feet farther along the lakeshore. He couldn’t see it; except for the distant glow of theyard light, he was in a bowl of darkness. He pulled the cornknife free of the carry-rack and started up the slope. Thecorn-knife was a simple instrument, but perfect for an ambushon a snowy night, if the chance should present itself.

In a storm, and especially at night, Claudia LaCourt’shouse seemed to slide out to the edge of the world. As thesnow grew heavier, the lights across the frozen lake slowlyfaded and then, one by one, blinked out.

At the same time, the forest pressed in: the pine andspruce tiptoed closer, to bend over the house with an unbearableweight. The arbor vitae would paw at the windows,the bare birch branches would scratch at the eaves.All together they sounded like the maundering approachof something wicked, a beast with claws and fangs that rattledon the clapboard siding, searching for a grip. A beastthat might pry the house apart.

When she was home alone, or alone with Lisa, Claudiaplayed her old Tammy Wynette albums or listened to thetelevision game shows. But the storm would always comethrough, with a thump or a screech. Or a line would godown somewhere: the lights would stutter and go out, themusic would stop, everybody would hold their breath . . .and the storm would be there, clawing. Candlelight made itworse; hurricane lanterns didn’t help much. For the kinds ofwickedness created by the imagination during a nighttimeblizzard, only modern science could fight: satellite-dish television,radio, compact disks, telephones, computer games.Power drills. Things that made machine noise. Things thatbanished the dark-age claws that pried at the house.

Claudia stood at the sink, rinsing coffee cups and stackingthem to dry. Her image was reflected in the windowover the sink, as in a mirror, but darker in the eyes, darkerin the lines that framed her face, like an old daguerreotype.

From outside, she’d be a madonna in a painting, the onlysign of light and life in the blizzard; but she never thoughtof herself as a madonna. She was a Mom with a still-shapelybutt and hair done with a red rinse, an easy sense of humor,and a taste for beer. She could run a fishing boat and swinga softball bat and once or twice a winter, with Lisa stayingover at a friend’s, she and Frank would drive into Grant andcheck into the Holiday Inn. The rooms had floor-to-ceilingmirrors on the closet doors next to the bed. She did like tosit on his hips and watch herself fuck, her head thrown backand her breasts a burning pink.

Claudia scraped the last of the burnt crust from the cupcaketin, rinsed it and dumped it in the dish rack to air-dry.

A branch scraped against the window. She looked out,but without the chill: she was humming to herself, somethingold, something high school. Tonight, at least, sheand Lisa weren’t alone. Frank was here. In fact, he was onthe stairs, coming up, and he was humming to himself.They did that frequently, the same things at the same time.

“Um,” he said, and she turned. His thinning black hairfell over his dark eyes. He looked like a cowboy, shethought, with his high cheekbones and the battered TonyLamas poking out of his boot-cut jeans. He was wearing atattered denim shop apron over a T-shirt and held a paintbrushslashed with blood-red lacquer.

“Um, what?” Claudia asked. This was the second marriagefor each of them. They were both a little beat-up andthey liked each other a lot.

“I just got started on the bookcase and I rememberedthat I let the woodstove go,” he said ruefully. He waggledthe paintbrush at her. “It’s gonna take me another hour tofinish the bookcase. I really can’t stop with this lacquer.”

“Goddammit, Frank . . .” She rolled her eyes.

“I’m sorry.” Moderately penitent, in a charming cowboyway.

“How about the sheriff?” she asked. New topic. “Areyou still gonna do it?”

“I’ll see him tomorrow,” he said. He turned his head, refusingto meet her eyes.

“It’s nothing but trouble,” she said. The argument hadbeen simmering between them. She stepped away from thesink and bent backwards, to look down the hall towardLisa’s room. The girl’s door was closed and the faint soundsof Guns ’N Roses leaked out around the edges. Claudia’svoice grew sharper, worried. “If you’d just shut up . . . It’snot your responsibility, Frank. You...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2024
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593716434
• ISBN 13: 9780593716434
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 416
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: gpsr@phaidon.com; gpsr@phaidon.com; ; Zähringerstraße 24; Berlin; 10707; Deutschland