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　　the power tool. Then， with one curved arm half pressing
　　against， half supporting her belly， she takes slow， gingerly
　　steps down the slope， through the deep snow， through the
　　trees angling toward the cabin and the source of the
　　grinding noise.
　　
　　She slogs from tree to tree， letting each one support her
　　downhill-leaning weight for a moment before slogging to the
　　next.
　　
　　The roar grows louder. Marge stands panting by one tree，
　　her breath vaporizing out of her snorkel hood. She squints
　　down toward the cabin’’s back lot.
　　
　　A tall man with his back to us， wearing a red plaid quilted
　　jacket and a hunting cap with earflaps， is laboring over a
　　large power tool which his body blocks from view.
　　
　　Marge advances.
　　
　　The man is forcing downward something which engages the
　　roaring power tool and makes harsh spluttering noises.
　　
　　The man is Grimsrud， his nose red and eyes watering from the
　　cold， hatflaps pulled down over his ears. His breath steams
　　as he sourly goes about his work， both hands pressing down a
　　shod foot， as it if were the shaft of a butter churn.
　　
　　The roar is very loud.
　　
　　Marge slogs down to the next tree， panting， looking.
　　
　　Grimsrud forces more of the leg into the machine， which we
　　can now see sprays small wet chunks out the bottom.
　　
　　Marge’’s eyes shift.
　　
　　A large dark form lies in the snow next to Grimsrud.
　　
　　Grimsrud works on， eyes watering. With a grunt he bends
　　down out of frame and then re-enters holding a thick log.
　　He uses it to force the leg deeper into the machine.
　　
　　Marge is advancing. She holds a gun extended toward
　　Grimsrud， who is still turned away.
　　
　　Grimsrud rubs his nose with the back of his hand.
　　
　　Marge closes in， grimacing.
　　
　　Grimsrud’’s back strains as he puts his weight into the log
　　that pushes down into the machine.
　　
　　The dark shape in the snow next to his side is the rest of
　　Carl Showalter’’s body.
　　
　　Marge has drawn to within twenty yards. When she bellows it
　　sounds hollow and distant， her voice all but eaten up by the
　　roar of the power tool.
　　
　　MARGE
　　Stop! Police! Turn around and
　　hands up!
　　
　　Startled， Grimsrud scowls. He turns to face her.
　　
　　He stares.
　　
　　Marge bellows again:
　　
　　MARGE
　　…… Hands up!
　　
　　Conscious of the noise， she shows with a twist of her
　　shoulder the armpatch insignia.
　　
　　MARGE
　　…… Police!
　　
　　Grimsrud stares.
　　
　　With a quick twist， he reaches back for the log， hurls it at
　　Marge and then starts running away.
　　
　　Marge twists her body sideways， shielding herself.
　　
　　No need - the heavy log travels perhaps ten yards and lands
　　in the snow several feet short of her.
　　
　　Grimsrud pants up the hill - slow going through the deep
　　snow.
　　
　　Behind him:
　　
　　MARGE
　　…… Halt!
　　
　　She fires in the air.
　　
　　She lowers the gun and carefully sighs.
　　
　　MARGE
　　…… Halt!
　　
　　She fires.
　　
　　Grimsrud still slogs up the hill - a miss.
　　
　　Marge sights again.
　　
　　MARGE
　　…… Halt!
　　
　　She fires again.
　　
　　Grimsrud pitches forward. He mutters in Swedish as he
　　reaches down to clutch at his wounded leg.
　　
　　Marge walks toward him， gun trained on him as her other hand
　　reaches under her parka and gropes around her waist.
　　
　　It comes out with a pair of handcuffs， which she opens with
　　a snap of the wrist.
　　
　　MARGE
　　…… All right， buddy. On your
　　belly and your hands clasped
　　behind you.
　　
　　THE CRUISER
　　
　　Marge drives. Grimsrud sits in the back seat， hands cuffed
　　behind him.
　　
　　For a long moment there， he is quiet - only engine hum and
　　the periodic clomp of wheels on pavement seams - as Marge
　　grimly shakes her head.
　　
　　MARGE
　　…… So that was Mrs. Lundegaard
　　in there？
　　
　　She glances up in the rear-view mirror.
　　
　　Grimsrud， cheeks sunk， eyes hollow， looks sourly out at the
　　road.
　　
　　Marge shakes her head.
　　
　　At length: