door, lie down, and go to sleep. It was cold, and you closed your eyes and relaxed, and bit by bit you got numb all over. Go ahead, shut the door and die.

But he left the wedge where it was. No rush, he thought. There was plenty of time for dying.

He walked to the wall, leaned against it. This was the better way. In the morning they would find him frozen to death, and they would figure logically enough that the wedge had slipped and he had frozen to death. Vicki would cry over him and bury him, and the insurance policy would pay her a hundred thousand dollars. He had fifty thousand dollars of straight life insurance with a double indemnity clause for accidental death, and this could only be interpreted as an accident. With that kind of money Vicki could get a decent income for life. She was young and pretty, they didn’t have any kids, in a few years she could remarry and start anew.

Fine.

The pain came, and this time it was sharp. He doubled over, clutching at his chest. God, he hoped the doctor would keep his mouth shut. Though it would still go as accidental death. It had to. No one committed suicide by locking himself in a cold bin. They jumped out of windows, they slashed their wrists, they took poison, they left the gas jets on. They didn’t freeze themselves like a leg of lamb. Even if they suspected suicide, they had to pay the claim. They were stuck with it.

When the next stab of pain came he couldn’t stand any longer. It had been hell trying not to wince, trying to conceal the pain from Vicki. Now he was alone; he didn’t have to hide it. He hugged both hands to his chest and sank slowly to the floor. He sat on a slab of bacon, then moved the slab aside and sat on the floor. The floor was very cold. Hell, he thought, it was funny to sit in the cold bin. He’d never spent much time there before, just walked in to get some meat or to hang some up. It was a funny feeling, sitting on the floor.

How cold was it? He wasn’t sure exactly. The thermostat was outside by the door; otherwise the suicide wouldn’t have been possible, since he could have turned up the temperature. The damn place was a natural, he thought. A death trap.

He put his hand to his forehead. Getting cold already, he thought. It shouldn’t take too long, not at this rate. And he didn’t even have the door closed. He should close the door now. It would go a little faster with the door closed.

Could he smoke a cigarette? Sure, he thought. Why not?

He considered it. If they found the cigarette they would know he’d had a smoke before he froze to death. So? Even if it were an accident, a guy would smoke, wouldn’t he? Besides, he’d make damn sure they’d think he tried to get out. Flail at the door with the cleaver, throw some meat around, things like that. They wouldn’t make a federal case out of a goddamn cigarette.

He took one out, put it between his lips, scratched a match and lighted it. He smoked thoughtfully, wincing slightly when the pain gripped his chest like a vise. A year of this? No, not for him. The quick death was better.

Better for him. Better for Vicki, too. God, he loved that woman! Too much, maybe. Sometimes he got the feeling that he loved her too hard, that he cared more for her than she did for him. Well, it was only natural. He was a fatheaded butcher, not too bright, not much to look at. She was twenty-six and beautiful and there were times when he couldn’t understand why she had married him in the first place. Couldn’t understand, but remained eternally grateful.

The cigarette warmed his fingers slightly. They were growing cold now, and their tips were becoming numb. All he had to do was flip the wedge out. It wouldn’t take long.

He finished the cigarette, put it out. He was on his way to get rid of the wedge when he heard the front door open.

It could only be Vicki, he thought. No one else had a key. He heard her footsteps, and he smiled quickly to himself. Then he heard her voice and he frowned.

“He must be here,” she was saying. Her voice was a whisper. “In