The Big Thaw

Book 3: Carl Houseman

by Donald Harstad

Genres: Police Procedurals; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

A killer is placing his cross hairs over the American heartland....

The pair of frozen corpses were found under a tarp in the machine shed of an empty farmhouse. Two males -- brothers -- both killed by bullets from a Russian automatic fired at close range. The cops have a suspect: a man Deputy Sheriff Carl Houseman busted five years earlier and the county's lead suspect in a series of recent robberies.

Houseman knows they have the wrong guy. He also knows they've got something bigger than a burglary gone bad ... especially when the FBI starts showing up in Maitland. The brutal double homicide is just the tip of the iceberg in a case where a killer's trail keeps disappearing like footprints in freshly fallen snow, and where one bad break can send a good cop into a deep freeze.

Release date: August 19, 2009

Publisher: Bantam

Print pages: 416

Sample

Monday, January 12, 1998, 2309

About a minute after I got settled in bed, I heard a faint scratching sound. It took me a second to realize that I'd left my police walkie-talkie on. It was sitting in its charger, about fifteen feet from the bed. I thought about getting up and turning it off, but there were several reasons I didn't. First, Sue was already asleep beside me, and I didn't want to wake her by moving around some more. Second, the intermittent transmissions by the bored dispatcher were kind of soothing, in a distant way. I could hear her talk, but the volume was set so low, I couldn't make out the words. Perfect. Third, I was just too damned tired to get up.

I was getting to that presleep stage, when the pitch of the dispatcher's voice began to rise. After a moment, she began to speak rapidly, excitedly to cars that were apparently too far away for me to hear. I sat up, and listened for a moment. Still couldn't make out the content, and now I just had to find out. I swung my legs off the bed, got up, and padded over to the little radio. Just in time to be able to make out the Maitland car, which was within a quarter mile of me, asking a question.

"Comm, Twenty-five, what's going on?"

"Twenty-five, Five and Nine are in pursuit of a burglary suspect, out on the old Grange road."

I knew what was coming, and was reaching for the phone when it rang.

"They want some assistance, and Lamar said to call you, since it might involve a burglary investigation. They started the chase about five minutes ago down by Hellman's curve, and they've been going up..."

"Okay..." I interrupted, "just let me get dressed ... give me directions after I'm in the car..."

"Ten-four..." She was new, and newbies had a tendency to use ten codes over the phone.

"Wear your long johns, it's getting really cold."

"Yeah..." as I hung up the phone.

"Who was that?" mumbled Sue.

"Gotta go ... they're chasing a guy and need help." I reached into my drawer and pulled out my long underwear. I pulled it on, and put on two pair of socks.

"Dress warm..." came a mumbled caution from Sue, who was going back to sleep.

"Yep..." I pulled on my uniform trousers, which had the utility belt attached, and were hanging next to the bed. On with the laced Gore-Tex boots, stand, slip on the turtlenecked jersey shirt, grab the uniform shirt, pull the pants up, tuck everything in, pull the "woolly-pully" sweater over my head, and I was heading down stairs less than three minutes after the phone had rung. On the way to the back door, I grabbed my handgun out of the drawer, and inserted a magazine. I pulled back the slide to chamber a round, pressed the hammer drop, and shoved it into my holster. I pulled my little walkie-talkie out of its charger, and grabbed my recharging flashlight from the shelf by the door as I left the house. When I opened the door, it was like walking into a wall of cold air.

"Boy," I breathed to myself. Marsha's "really cold" hadn't done it justice. I used my sweater sleeve to protect my hand as I opened the car door. Even in the garage, it wasn't smart to touch metal in this weather. I turned the key, and the engine took right off. Back out of the car, unplugging the engine heater, then hit the button to open the door.

In the car, turned on the defroster, set the temperature to high, turned on the headlights, dropped the rechargeable flashlight into its charger on the dash, rear-window defroster to "on." I turned on my flashing headlights and red dash and rear-window lights as I backed out. Then the police car radio.

"...onto Willims road, but not sure..." came blasting over the speaker. Sounded like Five's voice.

I waited a beat to make sure the radio traffic was clear, then picked up the mike and told the office that I was back at work. "Three's ten-eight. Comm," I said, "where you want me?" Hopefully I would be able to get ahead of the chase from here in Maitland, and not end up following the pack.

"Stand by, Three," crackled the voice.

She had no choice, but I was already at the main intersection leading out of Maitland, so I had to stop and wait to be told which way to turn. Frustrating, but not a lot could be done about it. I fastened my seat belt and shoulder harness.

"Five," she asked, "where do you want Three to go?"

As luck would have it, he was close enough for me to hear his transmissions, so Marsha wasn't going to have to rebroadcast everything we said.

"Tell him to head north, toward the Whiskey 6 Victor intersection, then west toward the County Line road..."

"Three's direct," I snapped, saving Marsha and the rest of us a little time.

"Three, Five, I've been behind this idiot for almost eight miles. New snow, can't see him anymore, but I'm following the tracks and the cloud of snow." Nine struggled.

"Ten-four." Been there. With new snow, the first thing you lose in a chase is the taillights of the vehicle you're chasing. Snow packs up on the rear of the suspect vehicle, and they just fade out. Quickly. Then, if the car you're chasing is moving fairly fast, they throw up a rooster tail of snow, and you don't even get to see the reflections from their headlights. The good news is that the tracks they leave make it virtually impossible to lose their direction of travel. It's just that you can't be sure how far ahead they actually are. So, to avoid running into the back of them at a high rate of speed, you tend to get a little cautious. Because of that, they tend to lengthen their lead.

"Any idea how far up he is on you?" I asked.

Five answered. "Probably not more than a mile. I'm doing about sixty, and it's really hard to stay on the road. His tracks look like he's fishtailing a lot on the curves, so he's probably about sixty too."

"Ten-four, and where's Nine at?"

"Ah just tried to cut 'em off and missed..." came Nine's familiar drawl. "Ah'm behind Five somewhere, I think..."

Out of the picture, in other words. Damn.

"You think I can get to the intersection by Ullan's farm, Five, before the suspect gets there?"

"Close..." he said. "Could be close."