This is one of my stories from Suppose: Drabbles, Flash Fiction, and Short Stories.

A serial killer has already murdered four civilians and a cop. Always with a .45. Always during a snowstorm. Looks like the Iceman is at it again.

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Two blood-soaked bodies slumped in the front seat of a car, their faces frozen in terror. A bullet hole peered from the center of each forehead, like a crimson eye socket. Two corpses: no longer men, but grotesque monsters with black pockmarks and singed hair.

The car’s motor still idled, its wheels stuck in the deep snow on the shoulder. A downed power line snaked across the road a short distance away, its end buried in the snow.

State Trooper Della Redmond cursed. Guess I gotta stop. Her fingers gripped the steering wheel in a white-knuckled embrace. I can’t ignore a front seat full of DBs. An involuntary shudder sent heat to her ears and neck, even though the rolled-down window had cooled the air to below freezing. A fist of fear seized her stomach in its frosty grip.

The Iceman had already murdered four civilians and a cop. Always with a .45, close-range, between the eyes. Always with cigarette burns and blackened hair. Always during a snowstorm.

She radioed for help and cursed again. It’s gonna be dark soon. She scrutinized the power line. Better be careful. Wouldn’t want to step on the danged thing.

Rather than chance driving forward and getting stuck, she put the squad car in reverse for a few feet. Then she angled it so the headlights illuminated the lifeless vehicle. This left the driver’s door tight against a snowbank.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. The Poe quote slithered into Redmond’s thoughts. A flush of adrenaline bathed her in sweat.

She clambered over a pile of library books, squeezed out the passenger door, and waded through the snow, snapping photos with her cell phone as she neared the victims. Her ears burned. Ice crystals frosted her eyebrows.

Click. Click. Click. [CLICK]

Redmond knew the click of her camera. She also knew the click of a cocking .45. She dropped into the deep snow and drew her SIG. She waited, quivering and nauseated. None of the Iceman’s victims had ever lived long enough to identify him. Would she be another one of his playthings, tortured and discarded like a dead mouse?

Her mind raced as she struggled to formulate a plan. She was alone. How long would it take for backup to arrive? How long could she stay out of —

A voice whispered from somewhere nearby. “Nothing’s as dangerous as resting when you’re walking in the snow. You doze off and die in your sleep.”

Redmond recognized the Wittgenstein quote. And something about the voice seemed vaguely familiar. A moment seemed like hours as she tried to figure out where she’d heard the man before.

She twisted toward him and replied, “We build statues out of snow and weep to see them melt.”

Footsteps crunched closer. “Hmph. A Walter Scott lover. A scared little, namby-pamby, girl-cop Walter Scott lover. You think you’re going to melt me with your heater, cop? I see your tracks, but you can’t see me.”

The voice edged even closer as it mouthed another quote. “Those who cannot understand how to put their thoughts on ice should not enter into the heat of debate.”

Redmond heard an intense buzzing sound. Saw a dazzling flash of light. Smelled the nauseating reek of electrocuted flesh. The power line?

She shivered while she waited and listened.

Silence. Cold. Darkness.

When she heard the whine of approaching sirens, she stood and shone her flashlight at the heap in the snow. So the Iceman is the town librarian. Wonder if he was murdering book borrowers with overdue fines.

She lowered her SIG. “Paradise was made for tender hearts; hell, for loveless Icemen. Voltaire and Redmond, 2015.”

She cursed.

—

You’ll find more short fiction like this in Suppose: Drabbles, Flash Fiction, and Short Stories.

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