Driving a sled at night in the snow is always a challenge. Without the benefit of a helmet or goggles, it constitutes cruel and unusual punishment. I find myself squinting through crusted eyelashes to lessen the sting. My ears are numb. My cheeks are burning.

But at least I’m on a road, albeit an unpaved one. The skis make a god-awful racket, and the lugs churn up buried gravel. This is as far from a joy ride as you can have on a snow machine, but I have no other choice.

I’m looking for a house, preferably inhabited. But the first one I encounter is a darkened ranch with an unplowed drive and a general air of vacancy. The vibe I get from the place isn’t of snowbirds gone to Florida but of old people who have disappeared into a nursing home forever.

Lights appear as pinpoints in the mirror. I cast a glance over my shoulder and see that one of my pursuers has managed to avoid the pile-up. They are hundreds of yard behind, but gaining steadily.

When I turn back, I see another set of headlights—larger, brighter—approaching through the storm. Since we’re on a collision course, it’s hard for me to gauge the vehicle’s speed, but I have the impression it’s crawling. It doesn’t seem to be traveling in a straight line either.

Chances are the driver will have a cell phone to call 9–1–1. And hopefully the presence of a witness will make the Dillons think twice about gunning down a law enforcement officer. I flash my headlights.

Without warning, a cleared field opens to my right, a gentle hillside sloping into darkness.

When I refocus on the road, I see that the driver hasn’t slowed, stopped, or pulled over. He has to see my lights. So what is he doing? Trying to engage me in a game of chicken I can only lose?

As I’m about to turn into the field, the strangest thing happens.

The vehicle—which I see now is a van—begins to sway as if blown by a tremendous gust of wind. It loses its grip on the road and goes sliding off into the field almost in slow motion and somehow without flipping over. While I watch, the errant van manages to find the single pile of fieldstones in the field. It plows into the ancient cairn, sends rocks tumbling, and stops dead.

A voice in my head that sounds a lot like my dead father’s speaks to me.

“Keep going,” it whispers. “Don’t be an idiot.”

Instead I brake and pull hard on the right handlebar. I almost spin 180 degrees around so that I am looking at the sled chasing me, a quarter of a mile behind and a closing.