Iceman Read Online Free Page A

about her dog, which they let run, and this was the girl's idea of payback.
    It turned out that the Bailey girl hadn't really seen anything—it was clearly a kid trying to run a shuck on the cops. By nine-thirty Eichord had cut her loose, and was going through the motions of finding 1458 1/2 South Utica.
    Eichord found the trailer court with some difficulty, tucked away off a low-rent side street in South Blytheville. It would be a long time before he ceased to be haunted by the image of his first impression, each time he saw a yellow dead end sign peppered with good ole country-boy buckshot.
    Each yard was filled with cultural castaways: cars on blocks; a three-wheeler with For Sale sign; a trio of plaster leprechauns, one headless, peering out over a domain of plastic herbicide buckets and empty milk jugs strung together with wire; a rusting import towed into someone's yard, now put to work as a rubiginous garbage can.
    The last driveway on the left of the field with its ventilated Dead End sign, a gravel slope running up between two rows of sad tin boxes, announced the presence of The Sunshine Trailer Court.
    Eichord was reminded of the obligatory trailer-park TV-news shot, the one you saw after every major tornado, cyclone, hurricane, or earthquake. He doubted if even acts of God could tip these rustbuckets over. Rip the roofs off? Sure. But the aged, rectangular, and bullet-shaped living quarters that squatted here appeared to be growing out of the earth. Surely not even a force majeure could make these mobile homes.
    He got out of the car and was moving toward what appeared to be the manager's office, according to a mailbox adorned with the peeling decal OFFI E , but he saw the old man and changed direction.
    “How-doo,” the man said, his voice loud and startling.
    “Howdy,” Eichord said. “Would you know where I might find Mr. Hillfloen?"
    “If you're seeking Owen Hillfloen, I might."
    “He's the one.” Eichord smiled.
    “I be he.” The old guy smiled back, friendly as all get-out. He could have been anywhere from forty-eight to seventy-eight, with one of those weather-whipped, windburnt country faces you can never picture in your mind when they're out of sight.
    When Eichord thought of the man's image, later, his memory would conjure up the sign, then the head first, as he scanned—top to bottom—for something that set him apart.
    The hair: wind-touseled, midlength. Mr. Hillfloen looked like the kind of man who awoke, plunged his face under icy water, pushed his wet hair back with his hands in a single push, and left it that way. No brush or comb had touched it. He would not indulge his vanities in a mirror.
    The face: wrinkle city. But the hard work and toughness wasn't all that was there. Something else showed. A gaunt, indefinable harshness that one could see on the faces of derelicts, on some of the elderly forgotten in nursing homes, and—sometimes—in the faces of the insane. Eyes deep-set in the outdoor face. A couple of teeth missing in the easy smile. The look all the more unsettling for its inexplicability.
    The body: slim and sinewy in an old-fashioned barber's work shirt buttoned at the throat.
    “And I know you ."
    “Is that so?” Eichord had his ID case in hand but hadn't flashed it yet.
    “Dollars to donuts."
    “Hmm?” The oddity of his words, the loud, booming voice, and his appearance gave off disconcerting vibes, and it was this image that would stay with him. That was the instant Eichord thought the man Owen Hillfloen might not be sane.
    “Dollars to donuts either you are the tax man or you are the law. Which is it, pray tell?"
    “Yes, sir,” Eichord said, showing his identification. “We're investigating the death of two children.” He pulled the police circular out and handed it to the man. “Do you recognize them?"
    “Lordy. Well...” He took the photo circular and made a show of getting glasses out of his shirt pocket and putting them on the tip of his nose, holding