Way of Escape by Ann Fillmore Page B

also.
    â€œProbably the Johannsons, my lord, exercising their Belgians.”
    Sture nodded. “Bloody big beasts to keep in shape this time of year. Can you imagine the feed alone…” he ducked into the warm front passenger seat “…not to mention the combing and brushing and hoof trimming and stable cleaning,”
    Krister nodded, taking the driver’s seat, “and it’s every day of every month. Where are we going, min herre ?”
    â€œTo Norrkoping, to Person’s office.”
    â€œRight, my lord.”
    The Saab slid forward into the murky darkness and the special snow tires caught on the gritty drive. They were on their way. It was a little over six miles to the gathering of shops and schools called Ostby. They passed skiers, shoooshing along the lane and eventually, passed the four-in-hand huge brown Belgian horses pulling a large sleigh with the bright crystal lamps lit. Old Mr. Johannson was driving and Sture lowered his window to wave. The Belgians were dancing with energy, their breath sending clouds of steam along their backs. Their stable mate, a giant wolfhound romped alongside, seeming to enjoy the sub-zero chill.
    Near the Ostby ICA food store, the only place for miles and miles where the local residents could buy supplies, Sture lowered his window again and Krister slowed the car.
    â€œ Hej da! ” he shouted.
    The very pretty Katrina, all bundled up in polypro and wool, paused in her long ski strides and her eyes, the only visible part of her body, smiled at him. Her Great Pyrenees dog, massive and white, bumped his muzzle into her. Sture could hear the old dog grumble as the sled he was pulling hit his hind legs. She patted the massive head and said something kind to him that was indistinguishable to Sture. She looked up at the Saab. “Come skiing with me this afternoon!”
    â€œI must return to Stockholm!” Sture shouted back.
    Her gloved hand waved a hopeless gesture at him. “You study too much, Sture Nojd!”
    â€œNext week, Katrina, I will ski with you next week!” Sture assured her and let the window slide back up. The Saab moved along the lane, careful to avoid other skiers and dogs with sleds on their way to the ICA store.
    â€œYou should be more attentive to that young lady,” Krister admonished him gently, “or she’ll surely find another young man, my lord.”
    Sture laughed. “You are quite right, but when will I ever get five spare minutes’ time?”
    The lane ended at the intersection with the slightly larger road which led to Norrkoping and from there to the big highway which went east, skirting the shore of Lake Malaran, to Stockholm and west, up into the rolling hills, to Dalarna parish. From this point on, they could travel faster and the ten kilometers to Norrkoping would go quickly.
    Traffic was fairly heavy once they reached the suburbs of Norrkoping and within a mile of the city boundary, the snow on the road vanished. The entire small city, all the buildings, under the streets, throughout the plazas, was heated by the steam exhaust from the big central electric facility on the tip of Lake Malaran about two miles south of the city. This warmth and lack of snow seemed a wonderful idea at the outset and certainly in the long run it was a lot cheaper than snowplows and individual heating units, but it brought a nuisance none of the planners had counted on—the drunks.
    From all over central Sweden, the alcoholics who didn’t want to be shut up in care facilities, to which they were entitled, would arrive in Norrkoping along with the freezing weather and first snows. The police would get after them, though without much success because the vagrants would simply move from plaza to park to alleyway gratings.
    Sture noted four men and a woman sitting, huddled, just barely visible in the pale lights of the steaming fountain in front of the attorney’s office. How, he wondered to