The Alex King Series, A BATEMAN [good books for high schoolers .TXT] 📗

bluff with and ran across the clearing to where they had both parked the snowmobiles. He started the engine and adjusted his goggles, then powered away, turning hard and traversing the edge of the clearing to come out on the other side. The terrain was bumpy and ridged with ice shelves, but after a few minutes, he found flat ground and headed down onto the frozen lake. He thumbed the throttle and found the tracks the other snowmobiles had made. He could already see the snowmobile on its side and he slowed and took out the Walther, moved it to his left hand, riding steadily with just his right hand on the handle grip and his thumb feathering the throttle.

There was no sign of the man. He could see that there were more tracks. The other snowmobile had come back for him in the time it had taken King to get to his snowmobile. He eased forwards, then got off the machine and walked over to the ruined snowmobile. King noted there was no blood on the ground. He could see smoke coming out of the snowmobile’s fairing. There was the noxious smell of fuel, too. He could no longer hear the snowmobile’s engine in the distance. He could track it easily, but he had only just realised how dark it was getting. As he surveyed the scene, he realised that most of the light came from the ambience of the snow on the ground.

King felt in a quandary. He could well follow, but if they stopped and took cover, then they would both hear and see him coming. They still had a rifle and local knowledge of the terrain.

King called it. He was still alive, and he intended to keep it that way. He walked back to his snowmobile and checked the compass and fuel gauge. He turned the machine around on the opposite heading they had ridden from and made his way back across the lake to town.

14

 

The town was in darkness. The streetlamps lining the main strip were sporadic in both number and layout and only illuminated the base of the lamps. The snow, as always, creating enough ambient light to make out the road, the sidings and the houses that had been cleared of snow and ice. King wondered how dark the place would be in the spring and summertime, but then he remembered that it would be daylight for most of the time. At least for the eight weeks of summer. It really was a strange place in which to contemplate living.

King parked the snowmobile outside the police station, next to his truck. There were no lights on within the building. He took off his gloves, opened the zipper to his jacket and tucked the gloves inside. He took out the Walther, switched over magazines, and with the already chambered round, this gave him eight in total and a further six in the other magazine, which he tucked into his left jacket pocket. He would have preferred to carry a different weapon, one with more power and capacity, but the Walther was a solid piece, both reliable and easily concealed. Its fixed barrel, though old in design, provided a solid base in these temperatures and the action would not be prone to contracting and this limited the potential for feed stoppages and jams. He reflected that it had been chosen well.

King took the steps cautiously and opened the door. He looked for a light switch, found a bank of them on his right and flicked them on. The corridor lit up, and the light above his head flickered and illuminated the foyer and desk in front of him. The door was locked, so King went behind the desk and looked for a release. Standard in law enforcement buildings around the world. He found it on the underside of the desk, pressed it and the door buzzed. He stepped back out around the desk and pushed the door inwards.

The office at the other end of the corridor was empty, but he suspected it would be. He made for the door at the other end of the office and tried the handle. Locked. He could see the keypad on the doorframe. He wouldn’t be able to bypass it without tools and time. He didn’t have either. He still had the .300 rifle strapped to his back. He took it off, released the safety and stood back. He aimed at the door hinge, or at least where he estimated it should be, eight-inches down from the top of the door. He chose the area on the jamb, rather than the door. If the bullet met resistance from the metal hinge, then it would deform and take out a large amount of wood and metal. King didn’t aim, simply held the muzzle where he wanted the bullet to go and squeezed the trigger. The shot, in the confined of the office, was deafening. Time was now a factor. He didn’t have much of it before someone would become curious. Or maybe the building would deaden it altogether? It was heavily insulated after all. He wouldn’t take the chance though.

King had no more rounds left for the rifle. He propped it against a desk, picked up the Walther and aimed a kick at the door. It pivoted and spun in the frame, and after two more kicks, the bottom hinge broke out of its fixings and the entire door crashed onto the floor inside an area of cells and equipment lockers.

The room was warm. Well-insulated and heated. It was a holding cell, after all. And King could already smell a familiar odour. He didn’t have to look to know there was a body in here. Maybe more. But he would have to look, have to confirm. Or maybe there was a morbidity to seeing, to linking the smell from olfactory to visual senses.

The female police