room. Would that not present us with the puzzle we face—and allow escape from the adjoining suite?”
“Tricky,” said Dane.
Just then, a far-off explosion boomed loudly enough to rattle the snow-flaked window.
“What was that ?” asked Joe.
Thin Ice
Winter was Inspector Zinc Chandler’s favorite season.
Most adults, the Mountie knew, loathed the winter months. To them, exile to Siberia would be no worse than suffering through a deep freeze on the prairies. How many folks died from heart attacks while shoveling snow? How many homeless men and women froze to death? How many drivers trapped in snowbound cars asphyxiated while running the engine for heat? Did you hear about the guy who crawled out of his trapped vehicle and made it to a phone booth? While he was talking to his wife, telling her not to worry, a snowplow passed in the whiteout and buried him alive.
Ah yes, winter in the Great White North!
Zinc, however, still saw winter through the eyes of a bundled-up schoolboy. Two pairs of socks in thermal boots, two pairs of mitts tethered by a string around his neck, long johns beneath a flannel shirt and jeans inside a snowsuit. His mom would throw open the door of the farmhouse in Rosetown, Saskatchewan, and let in a blast as cold as Jack Frost’s breath. No sooner would Zinc step outside than he’d have to pee.
Brrrrr …
People who weren’t from Saskatchewan didn’t know snow. Spraying the yard produced a personal skating rink. Freezing a snowdrift made a slide. Burrowing under the surface created a maze of tunnels and caves. Zinc could glide on the frozen sloughs or play hockey on the road. Lash the toboggan behind a horse and off he’d go. Drifts became forts for snowball fights. Easter egg dye gave him snow churches with stained-glass windows. On flat days bled of color, snow would fall, and Zinc, facing skyward, would capture flakes on his tongue. Once, he’d stuck his tongue to a piece of cold metal, learning a lesson to last a lifetime.
Ouch!
When he came in from the blizzard, he’d be struck by a wave of heat. Standing by the wood-burning stove in a cocoon of warmth, Zinc would peer out at the white world, stark and eerie, through an overlay of reflected Christmas lights. The next morning, he’d draw faces in the rime on the pane.
Winter …
Now that boy was a man on the cusp of forty. Transplanted to the gray blahs of Lotusland, where the rain, rain, rain replaced the requisite white, Zinc was forced into the mountains to enjoy his favorite season. Luckily, this year the Olympics had moved him up to Whistler, so the back of his Range Rover was stocked with all his winter gear: downhill and cross-country skis, snowboard, toboggan, and skates. That afternoon, he was slated to meet with Robert DeClercq, which had severely limited his options for outdoor exercise. That’s why he was seated on an icy bench beside frozen Alpha Lake, lacing up his blades, when the Latvian Iceman slit Jenna’s throat.
* * *
A spurt of blood arced across the falling snow, its warmth melting the flakes into drops of red rain. The skater completed his slashing spin with a reverse check that left him facing the carnage. His toe pick gouged a crimson hole in the ice.
“Mommy!”
The shriek of raw horror raised the hackles on Zinc’s neck. Out of the snowfall emerged a girl on wobbly skates, obviously circling the rink for Mom’s praise. Eyes wide and mouth agape, the child was transfixed by the spewing blood. Her howl of anguish shattered the brittle air.
Ka-boom!
* * *
The explosion was loud enough to reverberate off the heights of Whistler Valley, setting off avalanches that could be heard but not seen. The Latvian Iceman nodded, for that meant the other Icemen had launched their assaults, too.
Once professional soldiers trained in the tactics of winter warfare, the Icemen had been hand-picked for this work, the money from which would provide each killer
“Tricky,” said Dane.
Just then, a far-off explosion boomed loudly enough to rattle the snow-flaked window.
“What was that ?” asked Joe.
Thin Ice
Winter was Inspector Zinc Chandler’s favorite season.
Most adults, the Mountie knew, loathed the winter months. To them, exile to Siberia would be no worse than suffering through a deep freeze on the prairies. How many folks died from heart attacks while shoveling snow? How many homeless men and women froze to death? How many drivers trapped in snowbound cars asphyxiated while running the engine for heat? Did you hear about the guy who crawled out of his trapped vehicle and made it to a phone booth? While he was talking to his wife, telling her not to worry, a snowplow passed in the whiteout and buried him alive.
Ah yes, winter in the Great White North!
Zinc, however, still saw winter through the eyes of a bundled-up schoolboy. Two pairs of socks in thermal boots, two pairs of mitts tethered by a string around his neck, long johns beneath a flannel shirt and jeans inside a snowsuit. His mom would throw open the door of the farmhouse in Rosetown, Saskatchewan, and let in a blast as cold as Jack Frost’s breath. No sooner would Zinc step outside than he’d have to pee.
Brrrrr …
People who weren’t from Saskatchewan didn’t know snow. Spraying the yard produced a personal skating rink. Freezing a snowdrift made a slide. Burrowing under the surface created a maze of tunnels and caves. Zinc could glide on the frozen sloughs or play hockey on the road. Lash the toboggan behind a horse and off he’d go. Drifts became forts for snowball fights. Easter egg dye gave him snow churches with stained-glass windows. On flat days bled of color, snow would fall, and Zinc, facing skyward, would capture flakes on his tongue. Once, he’d stuck his tongue to a piece of cold metal, learning a lesson to last a lifetime.
Ouch!
When he came in from the blizzard, he’d be struck by a wave of heat. Standing by the wood-burning stove in a cocoon of warmth, Zinc would peer out at the white world, stark and eerie, through an overlay of reflected Christmas lights. The next morning, he’d draw faces in the rime on the pane.
Winter …
Now that boy was a man on the cusp of forty. Transplanted to the gray blahs of Lotusland, where the rain, rain, rain replaced the requisite white, Zinc was forced into the mountains to enjoy his favorite season. Luckily, this year the Olympics had moved him up to Whistler, so the back of his Range Rover was stocked with all his winter gear: downhill and cross-country skis, snowboard, toboggan, and skates. That afternoon, he was slated to meet with Robert DeClercq, which had severely limited his options for outdoor exercise. That’s why he was seated on an icy bench beside frozen Alpha Lake, lacing up his blades, when the Latvian Iceman slit Jenna’s throat.
* * *
A spurt of blood arced across the falling snow, its warmth melting the flakes into drops of red rain. The skater completed his slashing spin with a reverse check that left him facing the carnage. His toe pick gouged a crimson hole in the ice.
“Mommy!”
The shriek of raw horror raised the hackles on Zinc’s neck. Out of the snowfall emerged a girl on wobbly skates, obviously circling the rink for Mom’s praise. Eyes wide and mouth agape, the child was transfixed by the spewing blood. Her howl of anguish shattered the brittle air.
Ka-boom!
* * *
The explosion was loud enough to reverberate off the heights of Whistler Valley, setting off avalanches that could be heard but not seen. The Latvian Iceman nodded, for that meant the other Icemen had launched their assaults, too.
Once professional soldiers trained in the tactics of winter warfare, the Icemen had been hand-picked for this work, the money from which would provide each killer
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