In that state you are no longer a human being, you are a malfunction—an engine without oil, grinding itself to pieces in its las futile effort to complete its last meaningless task.
I heard a car approach and turn off into the clearing. I turned my head imperceptibly to watch from the corner of my eye, keeping myself hidden in the trees and recognized Crowley’s white Buick. The drifter got out first and stared darkly at the lake, until the other door opened and Crowley coughed.
“I haven’t been ice fishing in an age,” said the stranger, glancing back at Mr. Crowley. "Thanks again for letting me tag along."
"Not a problem at all," said Mr. Crowley, walking back to the trunk. He handed the stranger a fishing pole and a bucket full of tools, nets, an ice auger, and a pair of folding stools, then closed the trunk. He was carrying a pole of his own, and a small cooler. "I keep two of everything, just in case," he said, smiling.
"There's enough hot chocolate in here to keep us both warm and happy."
"That lunch filled me right up," said the drifter, "don't worry about it.”
"Out here we're partners," said Crowley, "what's mine is yours, and yours is mine." He grinned.
"What's yours is mine," said the stranger, and I felt the sense of danger rise. What was Mr. Crowley doing? Picking up a drifter like this could be deadly, even if you didn't bring them out alone into the middle of nowhere—even if there wasn't a psycho killer on the loose.
I looked at the drifter's hands for any evidence of claw-like weapons, but they were normal. Maybe he wasn't the killer after all. Either way, I was dying of curiosity—if he was the killer, I wanted to see how he did it.
I frowned then, wondering at myself. Was I really more interested in watching the killer than in saving Crowley's life? I knew I shouldn't be—if I were a normal, empathetic person,
I'd jump up and save Crowley's life. But I wasn't.
So I watched.
Mr. Crowley began walking carefully down the slope to the shore, and the stranger followed closely. I shrank back into my shelter of trees, quietly, trying to stay as small and as hidden as possible.
“Wait up a minute," said the stranger, "that coffee is finally catching up to me. I need to take a leak." He set down his bucket and balanced the pole carefully across it. "Won't be a minute." He fled back up the slope and I cringed, terrified that he would come to my trees to pee, but he went to the other stand on the far side of the car.
My bike was right there. Surely he would see it.
The man delayed just long enough in choosing a good spot that I started to get suspicious. I glanced at Crowley, and guessed that he was suspicious, too. Nervous lines creased his face, and he glanced back out at the ice as if it were a giant clock, and he was late for something. He coughed painfully.
I expected any minute for the drifter to see my bike and call out, or to pull a chain saw out of the trees and leap down the bank with a howl, but nothing happened. He found a spot he liked, stood still, and after a long pause, zipped up and turned around.
He must have been practically tripping over my bike. Why didn't he say anything? Maybe he'd seen it, and knew I was here, and was biding his time carefully until he could kill Crowley and me together.
"I gotta say again that this is awfully nice of you," said the drifter. "I'm mighty indebted to you, sir, and I don't Icnow how I can ever repay you." He laughed. "Nicest thing I have is this hat, and you're the one who bought it."
"We'll think of something," said Crowley, and took off his glove to scratch the stubble of his beard. "If nothing else, I'll just claim credit for all the good fish." He smiled broadly, then coughed again.
"That cough sounds like it's getting worse," said the stranger,
"Just a little problem with my lungs," said Crowley, turning back to the frozen lake. "It'll clear up soon." He took a step onto the ice, probing it with one foot. ,.
The drifter reached the bottom of the slope, and stood for n moment by his bucket of tools. He reached down to pick it up, then stopped, glanced quickly back at the road, and reached his hand into his coat. When he pulled it back out he had a knife— not a switchblade or a hunting knife, just a long kitchen knife covered with dirt and rust. It looked like he'd stolen it from a junkyard.
"I'm thinking we ought to head out that way," said Crowley, pointing northeast. "Wind's just as bad everywhere, but that's the deepest part of the lake, and not too far from the head of the river. We'll get a little more current underneath us, and that makes for better fishing."
The drifter stepped forward, his right hand tight around the knife and his left hand out to the side for balance. He was just an arm's length from Crowley's back; another step and he could strike a killing blow.
Crowley scratched his chin again. "I'd like to thank you for coming out here with me." Cough. "We'll make a good team, you and I."
The drifter took a step closer.
"You have no family," said Crowley, "and I can barely breathe." Cough. "Between the two of us, I figure we make just about one whole person."