''Hold on, hold on,'' he screamed, and he ran back to the phone and dialed 911 and shouted into it-was told later that he shouted. He remembered himself talking coldly, quietly, and so he listened to the tape and heard himself screaming…
LACHAISE WAS BLEEDING.
He drove the truck, looking at himself in the rearview mirror. Shrapnel cuts on the face, agony in his side. He was holding his side with his hand, and when he looked at his hand, it was wet with blood. ''Motherfucker…'' he groaned.
A spasm of fear seized his heart. Was he dying? Was this how it would end, with this pain, in the snow?
A cop car went screaming past, lights blazing, then another, then an ambulance.
Hit somebody, he thought, with a thread of satisfaction. God, it hurt…
The man must have been Capslock himself; and he was fast with a gun, blindingly fast. And what had he screamed? He'd screamed LaChaise…
So they knew.
LaChaise looked into the rearview mirror.
He was bleeding…
EIGHT
LUCAS WAS ON THE WEST SIDE OF MINNEAPOLIS, PUSHING the Explorer up an I-394 entrance ramp, when a dispatcher shouted, ''Somebody shot Capslock's wife,'' and a second later, Del patched through: ''LaChaise shot Cheryl.''
''What?'' Lucas was on the ramp, moving faster. To his right, an American flag as big as a bedsheet fluttered in the gloom. ''Say that again.''
''LaChaise shot Cheryl…'' From behind Del's voice, Lucas could hear a jumble of noise: voices, highway sounds, a siren. Del seemed to be out of breath, gasping at his radio.
''Where are you?'' Lucas asked.
''Ambulance. We're going into Hennepin.'' Now the words were tumbling out, like a coke-fired rap. ''I saw him, man. LaChaise. I shot at him. I don't know if I hit him or not. He's gone.''
''What about Cheryl?''
''She's hit, she's hit…'' Del was shouting; several words came through garbled, then he said, ''It's our wives, man; he's going after the families. Eye for an eye…''
Weather.
She'd be in the clinic, doing minor patch-up work on postop patients. The fear caught Lucas by the throat; Del said something else, but he missed it, and then
Del was gone.
The dispatcher blurted, ''We lost him, he closed down.''
''I'm going to the U Hospitals. I want Sherrill, Franklin, Sloan and Kupicek on the line now,'' Lucas said. He fumbled a cellular phone out of an armrest box and punched the speeddial button for Weather. A secretary answered, then transferred him to the clinic, where another secretary, bored, said Weather was busy with a patient.
''This is Deputy Chief Lucas Davenport of the Minneapolis Police Department and this is an emergency and I want her on the line immediately,'' Lucas shouted.
''GET HER.''
Then Franklin came back through Dispatch: he was in the office.
''Get your wife and kid and go someplace until we know what's happening,'' Lucas said.
''The kid's in school…''
''Just get them,'' Lucas said. ''Have you seen Sloan?''
''I think I just saw him goin' in the can…''
''Tell him. Get his wife, get out someplace. Anywhere. Get lost, but stay in touch…''
''You think…'' ''
Move it, goddamnit.'' Lucas was stomping the gas pedal, trying to get more speed out of the Explorer.
Weather came up: ''I'm on my way there,'' Lucas said. He took fifteen seconds to tell her what had happened: ''Get out of the clinic and stay away from your office,'' he said. ''Tell the secretary where you'll be. I'll stop and see her when I get there.''
''Lucas, I've got things to do, I've got a guy with a skin cancer
…''
''Fuck the clinic,'' he snapped, his voice a rasp. ''Gosomeplace where you're not supposed to be, and wait there. If the guy comes after you, he might start killing your patients, too. Everybody can wait an hour or two.''
''Lucas…''
''I don't have time to chat, goddamnit, just do it.'' He cut off a white-haired guy in a red Chevy Tahoe and could see the guy pounding the steering wheel as he went by.
Sherrill was working an ag assault in a bar off Hennepin, drunk college kids beating a black guy with bar stools until he stopped moving. He still wasn't moving, but he wasn't quite dead, either. Sherrill called, and Lucas gave her the word on Del.
''Oh, my God, I'm going over there,'' she said.
''No. Call Mike, tell him to take a walk. Tell him to go sit in a restaurant until you get to him. We want everybody where they shouldn't be until we figure out what's going on.''
Dispatch came back: ''Del hit LaChaise-there's blood on the sidewalk, going out to where a truck was parked. All the hospitals know, we're covering the emergency rooms…''
Kupicek came up. He and his kid were at a peewee hockey match. ''Call your wife, you all go out to eat somewhere on the department, catch a movie,'' Lucas said.
''Check with me before you go home. Look in your rearview mirror, stay on the radio.''
''How's Del's wife?'' Kupicek asked.
''I don't know: we've got people on the way to Hennepin.''
''Keep me tuned, dude,'' Kupicek said.
Thirty seconds later, the dispatcher came back, and asked Lucas to switch over to a scrambled command frequency. ''What?'' he asked.
''Oh, God.'' The dispatcher sounded as though she were weeping, a sound Lucas hadn't heard from Dispatch. ''
Roseville called: Danny's wife's been shot. She's dead. In the store at
Rosedale.''
Lucas felt the anger rising, building toward a black frenzy: ''Don't put this on the air, don't tell anyone outside the center… when did this happen?''
''The call came in at five-seventeen, but they think she might have been shot about five-twelve.''
''When was Del?''
''About five-fifteen.''
So there had to be more than one shooter. How many?
''Who'll tell Danny?'' the dispatcher asked.
''I will,'' Lucas said. ''Does Rose Marie know?''
''Lucy's on the way to her office.''
Lucas called Kupicek back. ''Danny, where are you?''
''Hennepin and Lake. Looking for a phone.''
''Change of plans: We got Roseville with your wife, we need you at the emergency entrance to Hennepin General. Right now. You gotta light with you?''
''Yeah.''
''Light it up and get it in there…''
''I got the kid.''
''Bring him: he'll be okay.''
When Kupicek was gone, Lucas got back to Dispatch: ''Check Danny's file: he's got a sister named Louise Amdahl and they're tight. Get her down to Hennepin
General. Send a car and tell them to move it, lights and sirens all the way.''
And he thought about Sherrill and Weather. He punched up the phone again, caught
Weather, told her about Kupicek's wife: ''I'm not coming. But you gotta hide out and I'm not bullshitting you, Weather, I swear to God, you gotta get out of sight, someplace where I can get you. The guy could be in the hospital right now.''
''I'm going,'' she said.
''Take care, please, please, take care,'' he said. And he got Sherrill: ''Did you reach Mike?''
''No, Lucas, they can't find him.'' Her voice was high, scared. ''He's supposed to be there, but they can't find him. I'm going there.''
''I'm sending a squad.''
''Lucas, you don't think…?'' Her marriage had been on the rocks for a while.
''We don't know what to think,'' Lucas said. Sherrill didn't know about Danny's wife. He didn't tell her. ''Get on up there.''
Back to Dispatch: ''Two cars, get them up there. You gotta beat Sherrill up there…''
LUCAS WENT STRAIGHT THOUGH THE CITY TRAFFIC, not slowing for any light, green, yellow or red, his foot on the floor: driving the Explorer was like driving a hay wagon, but he beat Kupicek by two minutes, pulling in a car length behind
Rose Marie Roux. The chief was pale,
nearly speechless: She said, ''This…'' and then shook her head and they ran inside, Lucas banging the doors out of the way.
Del, covered with blood, stood in the hallway, talking to a doctor in scrubs:
''Sometimes she gets stress headaches in the afternoon and she takes aspirin.
That's all. Wait, she drinks Diet Coke, that's got caffeine. I don't know if she took any aspirin this afternoon…''
He saw them coming, Lucas and Rose Marie, and stepped toward them.
''He hit her hard,'' he said. He seemed unaware that tears were running down his seamed face: his voice was absolutely under control. ''But if there aren't any complications, she'll make it.''
''Aw, Jesus, Del,'' Lucas said. He tried to smile, but his face was desperately twisted.
''What happened?'' Del said. He looked from one of them to the other. ''What else happened?''
''Danny's wife's been shot; she's dead. And we can't find Mike Sherrill.''
''The motherfuckers,'' Del rasped.
Then Danny Kupicek banged through the entryway, a kid tagging along behind, still in his hockey uniform, wearing white Nikes that looked about the size of battleships, a shock of blond hair down over his eyes. He seemed impressed by the inside of the hospital.
''Del,'' Kupicek said, ''Jesus, how's Cheryl? Is she okay?''
''Danny…'' said Lucas.
Ten minutes later, they found Mike Sherrill. Marcy Sherrill arrived just in time to see the cops gathering around the Firebird, and thrust through them just in time to see the door pop open, and look straight into her husband's open eyes, upside down, dead.
She turned, and one of the uniforms, a woman, wrapped her up, and a moment later she made a sound a bit like a howl, a bit like a croak, and then she fell down.
LACHAISE WAS THE FIRST TO GET BACK TO THE HOUSE. Martin had called from a pay phone and LaChaise sent him to get Butters.
''You bad?'' Martin had asked, his voice low, controlled.
''I don't know, but I'm bleeding,'' LaChaise told him. ''Hurts like hell.''
''Can you breathe?''
''Yeah. I just don't want to,'' LaChaise said.
''Can you get in the house?''
''Think so. Yeah.''
''Get inside. We'll be there in fifteen minutes.''
LaChaise hurt, but not so bad that he couldn't make it to the house. That encouraged him. Except for the burning pain, which was localized, he didn't feel bad. There was no sense of anything loose inside, anything wrecked.
But when he got in the house, he found he couldn't get the jacket off by himself. When he lifted his arm, fire ran down his rib cage. He slumped on the living-room rug, and waited, staring at the ceiling.
Martin came in first, Butters, stamping snow off his sleeves, just behind him.
''Let's take a look,'' Martin said.
''You get yours?'' LaChaise asked.
Martin nodded and Butters said, ''Yep. How about you?''
''I got somebody, there were ambulances all over the place…''
They helped him sit up as they talked, and LaChaise told them about making the call, and then Del popping up behind his wife. ''And the fucker recognized me. .. careful, there…''
They peeled the parka off, then the vest, then the flannel shirt, each progressively heavier with blood. His undershirt showed two small holes and a bloodstain the size of a dinner plate.
''Better cut that,'' Butters muttered.
''Yeah.'' Martin took out his knife, and the Jockey T-shirt split like tissue paper. ''Roll up here, Dick…''
LaChaise tried to roll onto his left side and lift his arm; he was sweating heavily, and groaned again, ''Goddamn, that hurts.''
Martin and Butters were looking at the wound. ''Don't look like too much,''
Butters said. ''Don't see no bone.''
''Yeah, but there's an in-and-out…''
''What?'' LaChaise asked.
''You just got nicked, but there's a hole, in-and-out, besides the groove. Maybe cut you down to the ribs, that's the pain. The holes gotta be cleaned out.
They'd be full of threads and shit from the coat.''
''Get Sandy down here,'' LaChaise said. ''Call her-no, go get her. I don't know if she'd come on her own… She can do it, she used to be a nurse.''
Martin looked at Butters and nodded. ''That'd be best, she might have some equipment.''
''Some pills,'' Butters said.
''Get her,'' LaChaise moaned.
NINE
THE SANDHURST WAS A YELLOW-BRICK SEMIRESIDENTIAL hotel on the west edge of the business district. The building was three stories higher than anything else for two blocks around, and easily covered. The clients were mostly itinerant actors, directors, artists and museum bureaucrats, in town visiting the Guthrie Theater or the Walker Art Center.
Lucas and Sloan brought Weather in through the back, down an alley blocked by unmarked cars. Two members of the Emergency Response Team were on the roof with radios and rifles.
''… everything I've been trying to do,'' Weather was saying. Lucas's head was going up and down as he half-listened. He scanned each face down the alley.
His hand was in his pocket and a. 45 was in his hand. Sloan's wife was already inside.
''It won't be long,'' Lucas said. ''They can't last more than a couple of days.''
''Who? Who can't last?'' Weather demanded, looking upat him. ''You don't even know who they are, except this LaChaise.''
''We'll find out,'' Lucas said. ''They're gonna pay, every fuckin' one of them.'' His voice left little doubt about it, and Weather recoiled, but Lucas had her arm and marched her toward the hotel.
''Let go of my arm,'' she said. ''You're hurting me.''
''Sorry.'' He let go, put his hand in the small of her back, and pushed her along.
The two hotel entries, front and back, met at the lobby: Franklin and Tom Black,
Sherrill's former partner, sat behind a wide rosewood reception desk, shotguns across their thighs, out of sight. The largest cop on the force, a guy named
Loring, read a paperback in one of the lobby's overstuffed chairs. He was wearing a pearl-gray suit and an ascot, and looked like a pro wrestler who'd made it small.
In the entry, a uniformed doorman turned and looked at them when he saw movement down the back hall. Andy Stadic raised a hand, and Lucas nodded at him and then they were around a corner and headed down toward the elevators.
''You know, anybody could find out where we are,'' Weather said.
''They can't get in,'' Lucas said. ''And they can't see you.''
''You said they were Seed people, and Seed people are supposed to be in these militias,'' Weather said. Weather was from northern Wisconsin, and knew about the Seed. ''What if they brought one of those big fertilizer bombs outside?''
''No trucks are coming down this block,'' Lucas said. ''We got the city digging up the streets right now, both sides.''
''You can't hold it, Lucas,'' Weather said. ''The press'll be here, television. ..''
Lucas shook his head: ''They'll know you're here, but they won't get inside. If they try, we'll warn them once, then we'llput their asses in jail. We're not fucking around.''
He took her up to the top floor, and down the hall to a small two-room suite with walls the color of cigar smoke; the rooms smelled like disinfectant and spray deodorant. Weather looked around and said, ''This is awful.''
''Two days. Three days, max,'' Lucas said. ''I'd send you up to the cabin but they know about us, somehow, and I can't take the chance.''
''I don't want to go to the cabin,'' she said. ''I want to work.''
''Yeah,'' Lucas said distractedly. ''I gotta run…''
FOR TWO HOURS AFTER THE KILLINGS, ROSE MARIE Roux's office was like an airport waiting room, fifty people rolling through, all of them weighed down with their own importance, most looking for a shot on national television. The governor stopped, wanted a briefing; a dozen state legislators demanded time with her, along with all the city councilmen.
>
Lucas spent a half hour watching Sloan and another cop interrogate Duane Cale, who didn't know much about anything.
''But if Dick is here, I'd get my ass out of town,'' Cale said.
The interrogation wouldn't produce much, Lucas thought. He locked himself in his office with Franklin, away from the media and cops who wanted to talk about it.
Sloan came in after a while, and started making calls. Then Del wandered in, his clothes still dappled with his wife's blood.
''How's Cheryl?'' Lucas asked.
Del shook his head: ''She's out of the operating room, asleep. They put her in intensive care, and won't let me in. She'll be there until tomorrow morning, at least.''
''You oughta get some rest,'' Lucas said.
''Fuck that. What're you guys doing?''
''Talking to assholes…''
Between them, they called everyone they knew on the street who had a phone.
Lucas tried Sally O'Donald a halfdozen times, and left word for her at bars along Lake Street.
A little more than two hours after the killings, Roux called:
''We're meeting with the mayor at his office. Ten minutes.''
''Is this real?'' Lucas asked.
''Yeah. This is the real one,'' Roux said.
A minute later, O'Donald called back.
''Can you come down and look at some pictures?'' Lucas asked. ''The guy you thought might be a cop?''
''I can't even remember in my head what he looked like,'' O'Donald said. ''But
I'll come down if you want.''
''Talk to Ed O'Meara in Identification.''
''Okay-but listen. I talked to my agent…''
''Your what?''
''My agent,'' O'Donald said, mildly embarrassed. ''She said she might get five thousand dollars if I talked to Hard Copy.''
''Goddamnit, Sally,'' Lucas said. ''If you screw me and Del.. .''
''Shut up, shut up, shut up,'' O'Donald said. ''I'm not going to screw anybody.
What I want to know is, are you gonna take LaChaise off the street?''
''Yeah. Sooner or later.''
''So if I talk, he won't be able to get at me?''
Lucas hesitated, then said, ''Look, I'll be honest. If you talk, and then you bag outa here for a few days, he'll be gone. He won't last a week.''
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