She loved him.

Her old man had moved away two years before, driven out by Rosie and her mom, six months before the cancer had killed her mom. All her old man had ever given her were black eyes-and once he'd hit her in the side, just below her armpit, so hard that she almost couldn't breathe for a month and thought she was going to die.

He was worse with Rosie: he tried to fuck Rosie and everybody knew that wasn't right; and when Rosie wouldn't fuck him, he'd given her to Russ Harper for some tires.

When he'd started looking at the yellow-haired girl-started showing himself, started peeing with the bathroom door open when he knew she'd walk by, when he came busting in when she was in the shower-that's when Rosie and her mom had run him off.

Not that they'd had to.

Her old man had worn shapeless overalls, usually covered with dirt, and old-fashioned sleeveless undershirts that showed off his fat gut, hanging from his chest like a pig in a hammock. She couldn't talk to him, much less look at him. If he'd ever come into her bedroom after her, she'd kill him.

Had told him that.

And she would have.

This man was different. His voice was soft, and when he touched her face he did it with his fingertips or the backs of his fingers. He never hit her. Never. He was educated. Told her about things; told her about sophisticated women and the things they had to know. About sophisticated love.

He loved her and she loved him.

The yellow-haired girl tiptoed into the back of the double-wide and looked into the bedroom. Rosie was facedown on the bed, asleep, a triangle of light from the hallway crossing her back. One leg thrust straight down the bed and was wrapped from knee to ankle with a heavy white bandage. The yellow-haired girl eased the door shut, pulling the handle until she heard the bolt click.

He was climbing the stoop when she got to the door, a sack of groceries in his arms. There was a puddle of cold water on the floor and she stepped in it, said, "Shit," wiped her foot on a rag rug and opened the door. His heavy face was reddened with the cold.

"Hi," she said. She lifted herself on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek: she'd seen it done on television, in the old movies, and it seemed so… right. "Rosie's asleep."

"Cold," he said, as though answering a question. He pushed the door shut and she walked away from him into the front room, hips moving under her padded housecoat. "Is Rosie still hurting?"

"Yeah, she bitches all day. The doctor was back and took the drain out, but it'll be another week before she takes out the stitches… stunk up the whole house when she took the drain out. Bunch of gunk ran out of her leg."

"Nasty," he said. "How was the birthday party?"

"Okay, 'cept Rosie was so bitchy because of her leg." The yellow-haired girl had turned fourteen the day before. She looked at the cake ring on the floor. "Mark ate most of the cake. His friend had some weed and we got wrecked."

"Sounds like a good time." His cheeks were red like jolly old St. Nick's. "Get anything good? For your birthday?"

"The fifty bucks from you was the best," she said, taking his hand, smiling into his eyes. "Rosie gave me a Chili Peppers t-shirt and Mark gave me a tape for the Walkman."

"Well, that sounds pretty good," he said. He dumped the groceries on the kitchen table.

"There was a cop at school today, one I never seen before," the yellow-haired girl said.

"Oh, yeah?" He took a six-pack of wine coolers out of the sack, but stopped and looked at her. "Guy looks like an asshole, a big guy?"

"He was kinda good-looking but he looked like he could be mean, yeah," she said.

"Did you talk to him?"

"No. But he had some kids in the office," she said. "Lisa's friends."

"What'd they tell 'em?" He was sharp, the questions rapping out.

"Well, everybody was talking about it in the cafeteria. Nobody knew anything. But the new cop took John Mueller home with him."

"The taxidermist's kid?" His thin eyebrows went up.

"Yeah. John rode on the bus with Lisa."

"Huh." He dug into the grocery sack, a thoughtful look on his face.

"The cop was talking to the doctor," she said. "The one who takes care of Rosie."

"What?" His head came around sharply.

"Yeah. They were talking in the hall. I saw them."

"Were they talking about Rosie?" He glanced down the hall at the closed door.

"I don't know; I wasn't that close. I just saw them talking."

"Hmm." He unscrewed the top of one of the wine bottles, handed it to the yellow-haired girl. "Where's your brother?"

Jealousy scratched at her. He was fond of Mark and was helping him explore his development. "He's over at Ricky's, working on the car."

"The Pinto?"

"Yeah."

The man laughed quietly, but there was an unpleasant undertone in the sound. Was he jealous? Of Ricky, for being with Mark? She pushed the thought away.

"I wish them the best," he said. He was focusing on her, and she walked back to the couch and sat down, sipping the wine cooler. "How have you been?"

"Okay," she said, and wiggled. She tried to sound cool. Okay.

He knelt in front of her and began unbuttoning her blouse, and she felt the thickness in her chest again, as though she were breathing water. She put down the wine cooler, helped him pull the blouse off, let him reach around her and unsnap the brassiere; he'd shown her how he could do it with one hand.

She had solid breasts like cupcakes, and small stubby nipples.

"Wonderful," he whispered. He stroked one of her nipples, then stood up and his hand went to his fly. "Let's try this one."

She was aware of him watching, of his intent blue eyes following her; he pushed her hair out of her face.

Behind him the blonde woman on "Wheel of Fortune" was turning around the last of the letters.

Two Minute Warning, the sign said.

When the Iceman left, he drove out to the county road, to the first stop sign, and sat there, smoking, thinking about John Mueller and Weather Karkinnen. So many troubling paths were opening. He tried to follow them in his mind, and failed: they tangled like a rats' nest.

If the photograph turned up, and if they identified him, they'd have him on the sex charge. That's all he'd wanted to stop. When Harper called and said Frank LaCourt had the photo but didn't know who was in it, all he'd wanted was to get it back. Get it before the sheriff got it.

Then he'd killed Claudia too quickly and hadn't gotten the photo. Now the photo would mean they'd look at him for the killings. More than that: when they saw the photo, they'd figure the whole thing out.

He was in a perfect position to monitor the investigation, anyway. He'd know when they found the photo. He'd probably have a little time: until Weather saw it, anyway.

He'd been crazy to let the kid take the picture. But there was something about seeing yourself, contemplating yourself at a distance. Now: had John Mueller seen? Did he have a copy or know where it came from?

If they found the photo, they'd have a place to start. And if they showed it to enough people, they'd get him. He had to have it. Maybe it had burned in the fire. Maybe not. Maybe the Mueller kid knew.

And Weather Karkinnen. If she saw the photo, she'd know him for sure.

Dammit.

He rolled down the window a few inches, flipped the cigarette into the snow.

He'd once seen himself in a movie. A comedy, no less. Ghostbusters. Silly scene-a jerk, a nebbish, is possessed by an evil spirit, and talks to a horse. When the cabriolet driver yells at him, the nebbish growls and his eyes burn red, and the power flares out at the driver.

Good for a laugh-but the Iceman had seen himself there, just for an instant. He also had a force inside, but there was nothing funny about it. The force was powerful, unafraid, influential. Manipulating events from behind the screen of a bland, unprepossessing face.