It's the dead of winter, and a killer like no other is turning a small Wisconsin town into a death trap in this #1 New York Times bestselling series Lucas Davenport has tracked killers in cities across America. But the woods of rural Wisconsin are as dark and primal as evil itself. The winters are harsher and colder. And in the heart of every mother and father, there is fear ... While spending the winter at his rural cabin, Davenport is enlisted to investigate a brutal crime in the small town. In his race to uncover the murderer, he learns that the killer's identity isn't the only secret in town. Praise for John Sandford’s Prey Novels   “Relentlessly swift...genuinely suspenseful...excellent.”— Los Angeles Times   “Sandford is a writer in control of his craft.”— Chicago Sun-Times   “Excellent...compelling...everything works.”— USA Today   “Grip-you-by-the-throat thrills...a hell of a ride.”— Houston Chronicle   “Crackling, page-turning tension...great scary fun.”— The New York Daily News   “Enough pulse-pounding, page-turning excitement to keep you up way past bedtime.” —Minneapolis Star Tribune   “One of the most engaging characters in contemporary fiction.”— Detroit News   “Positively chilling.”— St. Petersburg Times   “Just right for fans of The Silence of the Lambs .”— Booklist   “One of the most horrible villains this side of Hannibal.” —Richmond Times-Dispatch    “Ice-pick chills...excruciatingly tense...a double-pumped roundhouse of a thriller.” —Kirkus Reviews John Sandford is the pseudonym of Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist John Camp. He is the author of the Prey novels, the Kidd novels, the Virgil Flowers novels, The Night Crew , and Dead Watch. He lives in New Mexico. 1 The wind whistled down the frozen run of ShastaCreek, between the blacker-than-black walls of pine. Thethin naked swamp alders and slight new birches bentbefore it. Needle-point ice crystals rode it, like sandpapergrit, carving arabesque whorls in the drifting snow. The Iceman followed the creek down to the lake, navigatingas much by feel, and by time, as by sight. At six minuteson the luminous dial of his dive watch, he began tolook for the dead pine. Twenty seconds later, its weather-bleachedtrunk appeared in the snowmobile headlights,hung there for a moment, then slipped away like a hitchhikingghost. Now. Six hundred yards, compass bearing 270 degrees. . . Time time time . . . He almost hit the lake’s west bank as it came down fromthe house, white-on-white, rising in front of him. Heswerved, slowed, followed it. The artificial blue of a yardlight burrowed through the falling snow, and he eased thesled up onto the bank and cut the engine. The Iceman pushed his faceplate up, sat and listened.He heard nothing but the pat of the snow off his suit andhelmet, the ticking of the cooling engine, his own breathing,and the wind. He was wearing a full-face woolen skimask with holes for his eyes and mouth. The snow caughton the soft wool, and after a moment, meltwater begantrickling from the eye holes down his face beside his nose.He was dressed for the weather and the ride: the snowmobilesuit was windproof and insulated, the legs fitting intohis heavyweight pac boots, the wrists overlapped by expeditionski mitts. A heavyweight polypropylene turtleneckoverlapped the face mask, and the collar of the suitsnapped directly to the black helmet. He was virtually encapsulatedin nylon and wool, and still the cold pried at thecracks and thinner spots, took away his breath . . . A set of Bearpaw snowshoes was strapped behindthe seat, on the sled’s carry-rack, along with a corn-knifewrapped in newspaper. He swiveled to a sidesaddle position,keeping his weight on the machine, fumbled a miniaturemilled-aluminum flashlight out of his parka pocket,and pointed it at the carry-rack. His mittens were too thickto work with, and he pulled them off, letting them danglefrom his cuff-clips. The wind was an ice pick, hacking at his exposed fingersas he pulled the snowshoes free. He dropped them onto thesnow, stepped into the quick-release bindings, snapped thebindings and thrust his hands back into the mittens. They’dbeen exposed for less than a minute, and already felt stiff. With his mittens on, he stood up, testing the snow. Thelatest fall was soft, but the bitter cold had solidified the layersbeneath it. He sank no more than two or three inches.Good. The chimes sounded in his mind again: Time. He paused, calmed himself. The whole intricate clockworkof his existence was in danger. He’d killed once already,but that had been almost accidental. He’d had toimprovise a suicide scene around the corpse. And it had almost worked. Had worked well enough to eliminate any chance thatthey might catch him. That experience changed him, gavehim a taste of blood, a taste of real power. The Iceman tipped his head back like a dog testing forscent. The house was a hundred feet farther along the lakeshore.