P. Parrish - Dead of Winter

Louis could not see if the gun was pointed at him. Ping-ping-ping. The faint sound of the tracker matched the pounding of his pulse in his ears.

“You know what an end game is, Kincaid?”

Louis remained silent, his hand going up to shield his eyes against the light.

“The end game is the final strategy in chess,” Gibralter said. “It’s when most of the pieces are lost and the king is forced into action. Amateurs thing the king can be taken at this point. But in the hands of a master, the end game can have any number of outcomes.”

Gibralter moved his flashlight away from Louis’s face. Louis could see him smiling, shaking his head.

“Zoe, Jeannie, it doesn’t matter to me,” he said. “Weak move, Kincaid. A weak move from a weak man.”

He motioned with the gun toward the trees. Louis turned and trudged on. He was shivering violently now, the cold overtaking him. There had been no response about Zoe. A normal man would have retaliated. But there had been nothing.

Think! Think!

Gibralter was a man and every man had a weakness. Where was Gibralter’s? But this wasn’t a normal man. This wasn’t even a man. This was nothing but a gun, a badge and a fucking uniform.

A cop. Not a man, just a cop.

A cop…Attack the cop, not the man.

Louis forced himself to let out another laugh. It echoed in the darkness. “A weak man! I’m a weak man!” he yelled. “That’s the ultimate insult to you, right, Chief?”

He charged the final word with sarcasm, knowing Gibralter would pick up on it. He forced out a chuckle. “Nothing worse than a weak cop, right, Chief?”

Gibralter said nothing.

“What makes a weak cop? Why don’t you define it for me, Chief?” Louis said. “Why don’t you tell me so I can get my badge to shine as pretty as yours?”

Louis kept his eyes on the dim path created by the flashlight in his shaking hand.

“A weak cop doesn’t break the rules, right, Chief?” Louis yelled back over his shoulder.

The crunch of boots on snow.

“A weak cop doesn’t let his macho ego lead him into a dark alley alone without calling for backup, right, Chief?”

Silence.

“A weak cop doesn’t let a bunch of punks take away his gun, right, Chief?”

Louis listened for the click of a gun hammer.

“A weak cop doesn’t end up naked, spray painted, and handcuffed to a fire escape, right, Chief?”

Jesus, what am I doing?

He drew in a shuddering breath and forced out one last laugh. “And a weak cop doesn’t end up riding a fucking desk because he’s too scared to go back out on the street and do his job, right, Chief?”

“Stop!”

Louis froze. He shut his eyes, waiting. For a bullet, a blow to the back. Whatever it was he wanted it to come fast. Just let him come close. Just close enough, just one swing of the flashlight, one chance…

“Did she tell you that?”

The voice came from the same distance behind him but for the first time it sounded different, colored with a whisper of effort.

“She told me everything,” Louis said.

There was a long silence. It was so quiet Louis could hear the snow’s kiss as it touched the ground. Quiet, so very quiet.

Too quiet.

The ping had stopped.

Louis turned slowly. Gibralter was looking down at the tracking device in his gloved hand. It was now giving off a soft steady tone.

“He’s stopped,” Gibralter said. He looked off into the dark pines and then pointed his gun at Louis.

“Let’s go.”

Louis could smell the burning wood before he saw the cabin’s lights. The scent drifted to him, faint but definite, and he stopped.

“Smoke,” Gibralter said softly behind him.

They moved on slowly, quietly. Finally, Louis saw a glimmer of light in the distant trees. The snow had stopped and a silver moon was out, bathing the forest in a sickly glow. Off in the distance was a small boxy shape — a cabin.

Louis stared at it in disbelief. They had found it. The whole scheme with Cole, the tracking device, it had actually worked. He felt a rush of adrenaline. It was replaced quickly with dread. Now what?

“Son of a bitch, there it is,” Gibralter said, his voice closer now. “Switch off your light.”

As they crept nearer, they saw it was not a cabin but a small rough-hewn hut. It listed slightly under the weight of the snow, a tendril of smoke curling from a pipe in the dilapidated roof. The place was probably a deserted storage hut left over from the long-dead logging trade. No wonder they had not been able to find Lacey.

As they came up to the small clearing, Louis’s eyes went to the red pickup parked in front. His pulse quickened. Lacey was here.

They had approached the hut from the front but the two front windows were boarded shut, the door closed. The light they had seen through the trees had come from a small window on the side.

Gibralter moved around to Louis’s left, standing about five feet away. He was surveying the hut and the truck.

“Let’s go. Stay in front of me,” he said softly.

They crept up to the truck. From his position near the front wheel, Louis could make out the outline of a shotgun in the rack. Gibralter peered inside the open bed and carefully lifted a tarp.

“He’s got an arsenal here,” he whispered, nodding toward the boxes. “Probably more inside.”

“Give me back my bullets,” Louis said.

“Forget it.”

“You’re going to need my help. Lacey’s dangerous and the kid knows guns,” Louis said. “You go alone, you’re going to lose.”

“This way,” Gibralter whispered, swinging his gun back over his shoulder toward the trees.

Louis had no choice but to obey. Gibralter followed him back to the cover of the trees. He seemed to be looking for something in them.

“Stop here,” he said. “Toss me your gun.”

Louis didn’t move. What was this? What was he doing now?

“Gun,” Gibralter hissed.

Louis pulled the empty gun from his belt and flung it at Gibralter. He caught it and stuck it in his parka.

“Get out your cuffs,” Gibralter ordered.

Louis stuck his flashlight into his waistband and retrieved his cuffs. Despite the cold he felt a hot flush of terror spread over him as he realized what Gibralter was going to do.

“Do it,” Gibralter said, pointing the gun at him.

Louis didn’t move.

“Do it! Now!”

With trembling hands, Louis slapped a cuff on his right wrist.

“Other one, over that limb,” Gibralter ordered, pointing with his gun.

Louis looked up at the bare limb. It was about three inches in diameter, sturdy but just big enough for the cuff. With a look at Gibralter, he snapped it on.

“Key.”

With his free left hand, Louis dug in his pocket for the key and threw it at Gibralter. It bounced off his chest and Gibralter knelt to pick it up from the snow.

Gibralter slipped it into his pocket then smiled at Louis. “Scared?”

Angela Lacey flashed into Louis’s mind. “Fuck you,” he whispered.

For a second, Louis thought Gibralter was going to laugh. Then, incredibly, Gibralter brought a finger to his lips, like a child signaling another to be quiet. He turned and headed back to the pickup truck.

Louis watched him as he crept around the back of the truck and toward the hut. He was moving toward the open window on the side and Louis knew he was going to try to take Duane Lacey and Cole by surprise, gun them down in cold blood.

Do something! Yell! Warn them! No! They’ll panic and end up dead.

He twisted the cuff against the limb, pulling it, but it wouldn’t move. He glanced back at Gibralter. He was nearly to the window.