Free Snow Blind by P.J. Tracy Page B

longer feel above the snow, then stop to breathe and cough and then do it all over again with the other leg. He stopped counting at five, because he couldn’t remember the number that came next. And that’s when he saw it.
    Such a dim, tiny light, barely visible in the distance through the falling snow, maybe a mirage, but maybe not. He started counting steps again.
    It wasn’t exactly the kind of shelter he’d been hoping for, but it was out of the wind, a few degrees warmer than the outside, and by God it was going to save his sorry life, and the truth was that for the first time in a long time, he had a lot to live for.
    Payback, he thought, stumbling around on half-frozen feet, feeling his way in the darkness with half-frozen fingers until he found what he needed to survive the night.

C HAPTER 9
    I RIS R IKKER HADN’T BEEN UP BEFORE THE SUN IN TEN years, and she didn’t like it. By the time she stumbled her way through the dark bedroom to the wall switch, she’d cracked her elbow on the dresser and stepped in a fresh pile of cat vomit.
    â€œShit. Shit.”
    The offending cat materialized when the light came on. She was sitting near her little surprise, blinking her startled pupils down to pinheads.
    â€œPuck, you puke,” Iris muttered, then hopped on one bare foot into the bathroom and stuck the other one in the sink.
    The water was freezing. Iris sucked air through her teeth when it hit her foot. It would take long minutes for hot water to rise two floors from the ancient heater in the basement, and she didn’t have extra minutes this morning. New water heater. It was first on the list of home improvements she might be able to afford now. That was something, at least.
    Even the sound of running water couldn’t drown out the breathy wail of the wind around this north corner of the old farmhouse. Icy pellets of sleet dived out of the dark to tap at the bathroom window, where a layer of frost had built up on the inside wooden sash again. New windows. Maybe that should be first.
    She scowled at the sleet hitting the window as she dried her foot, thinking about moving to California, or Siberia—anywhere she could count on the weather to be reasonably consistent. Two days ago she’d ridden her bicycle the quarter-mile to her mailbox; yesterday the mailbox had disappeared under a foot of snow; this morning a new storm front was adding a coating of ice to the mix, just for openers.
    The cat waited until Iris was sitting on the toilet, then came into the bathroom and simply stood there, staring at her.
    â€œVoyeur. Puking voyeur.”
    Puck blinked at her, then came over to rub against her legs. Iris chose to interpret this as a kitty apology, and stroked the thinning black fur. The cat was fifteen this spring, and probably shouldn’t be blamed for the occasional uproar of an aging digestive system. “Poor Puck. Don’t you feel good?”
    The cat began to purr, then promptly threw up on Iris’s other foot.
    It was six a.m. and still dark when Iris finally went downstairs to the kitchen. She wore the clothes she’d laid out the night before after an agonizing hour of indecision. Black slacks, white pullover, and a black blazer waiting, draped over the back of her chair. She had purplish smudges under her eyes this morning, and makeup wasn’t helping.
    She was in the middle of her first cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal when the phone rang.
    â€œIs this Iris Rikker?” a male voice asked.
    â€œYes, who is this?”
    â€œLieutenant Sampson. We’re down at Lake Kittering, public landing, you know where that is?”
    â€œUh…”
    â€œNorth shore, just past the courthouse, right next to Shorty’s Garage. We’ve got a body.”
    Iris stood absolutely still, connected to a brand-new world by the length of a phone cord. She took a breath. “I can be there in half an hour.”
    â€œNo, you can’t. The roads