The Iceman pushed his faceplate up, sat and listened. The artificial blue of a yard-light burrowed through the falling snow, and he eased the sled up onto the bank and cut the engine. He almost hit the lake's west bank as it came down from the house, white-on-white, rising in front of him. Six hundred yards, compass bearing 270 degrees… ![]() Twenty seconds later, its weather-bleached trunk appeared in the snowmobile headlights, hung there for a moment, then slipped away like a hitchhiking ghost. At six minutes on the luminous dial of his dive watch, he began to look for the dead pine. The Iceman followed the creek down to the lake, navigating as much by feel, and by time, as by sight. Needle-point ice crystals rode it, like sandpaper grit, carving arabesque whorls in the drifting snow. ![]() ![]() The thin naked swamp alders and slight new birches bent before it. The wind whistled down the frozen run of Shasta Creek, between the blacker-than-black walls of pine.
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