He raised the gun until the barrel was pointing at my face.

My mind became a satellite dish—five hundred channels. I surfed through them all, holding no image long, never finishing a thought, until finally a stillness settled in me, the screen empty. I closed my eyes and braced myself for the impact of bullets.

Another shout.

“Hey.”

I opened my eyes and saw Testen pivoting toward the voice, the gun still pointed at me.

Greg Schroeder stood next to Mallinger’s prone body, her Glock cradled in his two hands. He was sighting down the barrel.

“Don’t shoot me,” Testen cried.

Schroeder killed him anyway.

It happened in slow motion.

Testen seemed to lean forward, crouching like he was about to spring into a dive. The bullets—there were four of them—hit him high in the chest and straightened him out. Some of the bullets went through him, and a spray of blood splattered both the snow and me. The force of the bullets lifted Coach up and away. His arms spread wide and then his legs, and when he splashed backward into the snow and came to a rest he looked like a man who was making angels.

A moment later, it was real time. Schroeder was standing next to me, the Glock resting against his thigh. He glanced at Coach Testen’s body for a moment, then back at me. He opened my jacket, examined the bullet wound, grunted “hmmpf,” like it was nothing to get excited about.

“How you doin’, pal?” he asked as he helped me to my feet.

“Is he dead?”

“If he’s not, he never will be. Are you all right?”

I heard him; I couldn’t answer. I didn’t know if I was all right or not. I felt my body shaking, yet that could have just as easily been the cold. I was so very cold. I stared at Testen’s body, couldn’t seem to pull my eyes away. Should you laugh or cry or what? my inner voice asked.

“McKenzie? Look at me!”

I looked.

“Are you all right?” Schroeder repeated.

“It was just a walk in the park, Greg.”

Together we trudged back to Mallinger. The Chief was kneeling in the snow, her right hand clutching her left armpit. Schroeder opened her jacket to examine the wound. Over his shoulder I could see that Mallinger was much worse off than I was. She had lost an enormous amount of blood. I eased past Schroeder. I pulled my handkerchief from my pocket and pressed it into the bullet hole in the muscle between Danny’s arm and her chest, trying to check the bleeding. She winced in pain, but said nothing.

Schroeder held out the Glock by the barrel.

“Take it,” he told the Chief.

Mallinger seemed dazed. She stared at Schroeder for a moment like she was waiting for something to happen. When it didn’t, she reached for the gun with her bloody hand, took it by the grip, and looked at it like she didn’t know what it was.

“Screw it up and God knows how it’ll end, Chief. If you play it smart and take the credit—Look at me.” Mallinger looked. “Take the credit and you’ll be a hero. Work it right and you’ll be chief of police for as long as you want the job.”

Schroeder patted my back. Maybe he winked at me, I couldn’t tell in the darkness, although I was sure there was a smile.

Then he was gone.

15

Huge trucks and SUVs, their headlights blinding, came at me from the oncoming lane. They passed with a loud snatching sound, ripping the air around the Audi, creating tremors that I felt in the steering wheel. I was driving well beyond my headlights along State Highway 60, heading toward Mankato. I hadn’t felt my fatigue until I started driving, and now it threatened to overwhelm me. I played all the tricks—slapping my face, powering down the window to let the frozen air do it for me, chewing gum, singing. I even poked my side, hoping the shock of pain would help keep my eyes open. Above all, I avoided staring at the white stripes, refusing to let them hypnotize me into an accident. Probably I should have stopped and rested. But I had to get shy of Victoria. I had to get home.

After I went to Mankato.

According to the Mankato phone directory, G. Monteleone, the only Monteleone in the book, had a house on Floral Avenue near the Minnesota State University campus. It was nearly ten P.M. when I knocked on the door. A light flicked on above my head. The door opened and Monteleone peered out. She saw my face, which I suppose looked frightening, and the dried blood on my jacket and slacks, which must have looked worse. A fearful expression formed on her face.

“Do you remember me?” I asked.

“What are you doing here?”

“I need to ask a few questions.”

“I only conduct business at school. If you call tomorrow . . .”

“It’s about your son.”

Monteleone held tighter to the door.

“What is this about, Mr., Mr. . . . ?”

“McKenzie. You told me your grandson was a Sagittarius, like his father.”

Monteleone hesitated.

“Yes,” she said.

“That means he was born between November 22 and December 21, like his father.”