Dan Simmons - Hard Freeze

"Let's get out of here," said Kurtz.

Back on Highway 5, Angelina said, "It's a good thing you chose Leo."

"Why?"

"Marco wouldn't have fit through that hole. We would've had to chop a new one."

Kurtz let that go.

Angelina glanced at him in the light of the instrument console. There was almost no traffic going through Lackawanna and back into town. "Did it occur to you that Leo might have had a family, Kurtz? A loving wife? Couple of kids?"

"No. Did he?"

"Of course not. As far as I could find out, he left New Jersey because he'd beaten his stripper girlfriend to death. He'd killed his brother the year before over some gambling debt. But my point was, he might've had a family. You didn't know."

Kurtz wasn't listening. He was trying to fight away fatigue long enough to work through this thing.

"Okay," Angelina said. "Tell me. What was this about the cops?"

"I don't know."

She waited. As they drove into the Marina Towers basement garage, Kurtz said, "I may have a way. For us to get to Gonzaga and survive. Maybe even put you in the position you want to be in and take Little Skag out of the equation."

"Kill Stevie?" She did not sound shocked at the idea.

"Not necessarily. Just get rid of his leverage."

"Tell me."

Kurtz shook his head. He looked around the garage and realized that his Volvo was still parked at the Buffalo Athletic Club. That cute little Boxster would never get through this snow. And where am I going? Hansen probably had his room at the Royal Delaware Arms and the office staked out. Kurtz thought of how crowded Gail's tiny apartment was tonight—violinist on the sofa, wino on the floor, whatever—and it made him more tired than ever.

"You have to drive me back to the Athletic Club," he said dully. Maybe he could sleep in the car there.

"Fuck that," Angelina said in conversational tones. "You're staying in the penthouse tonight."

Kurtz looked at her.

"Relax. I'm not after your body, Kurtz. And you look too wasted to make a pass. I just need to hear about this plan. You're not leaving until you tell me."

"I need a B-and-E expert tomorrow," said Kurtz. "Your family has to know someone really good at defeating security systems. Maybe cracking safes as well."

Angelina laughed.

"What's so funny?" said Kurtz.

"I'll tell you upstairs. You can sleep on the sectional in the living room. We'll build a fire, you can pour us a couple of brandies, and I'll tell you what's so funny. It'll be your bedtime story."

James B. Hansen awoke on Wednesday morning refreshed, renewed, and determined to go on the offensive. He made love to his very surprised wife—only Hansen knew that it would almost certainly be for the last time, since he planned to move on before the approaching weekend was past—and even while he made her moan, he was thinking that he had been passive in this Frears/Kurtz thing far too long, that it was time for him to reassert his dominance. James B. Hansen was a Master chess player, but he much preferred offense to defense. He had been reacting to events rather than being proactive. It was time for him to take charge. People were going to die today.

His wife moaned her weak little orgasm, Hansen dutifully had his—offering a prayer to his Lord and Savior as he did so—and then it was time to shower, strap on his Glock-9, and get to work.

Hansen went to the office long enough to have "Captain Millworth" clear his schedule except for a mandatory meeting with Boy Scout Troop 23 at 11:30 and a lunch with the Chief and the Mayor an hour after that. He called the two detectives: Myers was on the stakeout at Kurtz's secretary's house in Cheektowaga after a few hours' sleep; Brubaker had checked the Royal Delaware Arms and Kurtz's office downtown—no joy there. Hansen told Brubaker to join Myers in Cheektowaga, he would meet them there.

He went down to the precinct basement to requisition tactical gear.

"Wow, Captain," said the sergeant behind the cage wire, "you starting a war?"

"Just running a tactical exercise for a few of my boys," said Hansen. "Can't let the detectives get fat and lazy while ESU and SWAT are having all the fun, can we?"

"No, sir," said the sergeant.

"I'm going to back my Cadillac sport ute around," said Hansen. "Would you pack all this stuff in two ballistic-cloth bags and get it up to the rear door?"

"Yes, sir," said the sergeant in an unhappy tone. It wasn't his job to hump gear bags up the back stairs. But Captain Robert Gaines Millworth had a reputation as a humorless, unforgiving officer.

Hansen drove out through heavy snow to Cheektowaga, thinking about how easy this apprehension would be if he could just call a dozen of his detectives into the ready room and send them searching for Frears and Kurtz: checking every hotel and motel in the Buffalo area, running credit-card searches, going door to door. He had to smile at this. After years of being the ultimate loner, James B. Hansen was being contaminated by the group-effort persona of Captain Millworth. Well. I'll just have to get by with Brubaker and Myers . It was too bad that he had to rely on a venial, corrupt cop and a fat slacker, but he'd use them and then discard them within the next couple of days.

The venial, corrupt cop and the fat slacker were eating doughnuts in Myers's Pontiac, across the street from Arlene DeMarco's house.

"Nothing, Captain," reported Brubaker. "She hasn't even come out for her paper."

"Her car's still in the garage," said Myers, belaboring the obvious. The driveway showed six inches of fresh snow and no tire tracks.

Hansen glanced at his watch; it was not quite 8:30 a.m. "Why don't we go in and say hello?"

The two detectives stared at him over their gnawed doughnuts and steaming coffee. "We got a warrant, Captain?" asked Myers.

"I've got something better," said Hansen. The three men got out in the falling snow. Hansen opened his trunk and handed the pneumatic battering ram to Myers. "Brubaker, you ready your weapon," said Hansen. He took his own Glock-9 out, chambered a round, and crossed the street to the DeMarco house.

He knocked three times, waited a second, stood to one side, and nodded to Myers. The fat man looked at Brubaker as if questioning the order, but then swung the ram. The door burst inward, ripping its bolt chain off as it fell.

Hansen and Brubaker went in with pistols held high in both hands, swinging their weapons as they moved their heads. Living room—clear. Dining room—clear. Kitchen—clear. Bedrooms and bathrooms—clear. Basement and utility room—clear. They returned to the kitchen and holstered their weapons.

"That bugger packs a wallop," said Myers, setting the battering ram on the table and shaking his fingers.

Hansen ignored him. "You're sure someone was home when you started the stakeout?"

"Yeah," said Myers. "I could see a woman moving around in the living room yesterday afternoon before she pulled the drapes. Then the lights went off about eleven."

"The lights could have been on a timer," said Hansen. "When was the last time you saw someone move?"

Myers shrugged. "I dunno. It wasn't dark yet. Maybe, I dunno, four. Four-thirty."

Hansen opened the back door. Even with the new snow, faint tracks were visible crossing the backyard. "Stay a few paces back," he said. Not bothering to pull his glock from its holster, he followed the faint depressions in the snow across the backyard, through a gate, across the alley, and through another backyard.

"We got another warrant for this house?" asked Brubaker from the yard as Hansen went to the back door.

"Shut up." Hansen knocked.

A woman in her seventies peered fearfully through the kitchen curtains. Hansen held his gold badge to the window. "Police. Please open the door." The three detectives waited while a seemingly endless number of bolts and locks and chains were released.