And he was restless. He hadn't wanted Weather to come back to the house-one more night in the hotel, he'd said, just until we find their trail again-but she'd insisted. She wanted to sleep in her own bed. She was in it now, and sleeping soundly.
Lucas was sitting up with a pistol and a twelve-gauge Wingmaster pump. He looked at a clock: four in the morning.
He picked up a TV remote, pointed at a small TV in the corner of the room, and called up the aviation weather service. All day, the weather forecasters had been talking about a huge low-pressure system that was pinwheeling up from the southern Rockies. Snow had overrun all of the southwestern and south-central parts of the state, and now the weather radar showed it edging into the metro area.
If they were coming back, he thought-if this thing was no more than a shuck-and if they'd fallen behind the snow line, they might be stalled for a day. If they'd stayed ahead of it, they'd be coming into town about now.
Nobody thought they'd be coming back. The network TV people were getting out of town as fast as they could pack up and find space on an outgoing plane. Nobody wanted to be stuck out in flyover country the week before Christmas, not with a big storm coming.
The cops were the same way: going home, filing for overtime. Lucas called Kansas City cops, and the Missouri and Kansas highway patrols every hour, looking for even the faintest sniff of LaChaise. Nobody had gotten one: they'd vanished.
Just as if they'd taken country roads east and north, instead of west and south, where the search was focused, Lucas thought. He looked out the window again, then selfconsciously went and closed the wooden blinds.
After killing the TV, he wandered through the dark house, moving by touch, listening, trailing the shotgun. He checked the security system, got a drink of water and went back to the living room where he dropped on a couch. In a few minutes, he eased into a fitful sleep, the.45 in a belly holster, the shotgun on the coffee table.
THEY STAYED AHEAD OF THE SNOW.
They drove through southern Iowa in the crackling cold,millions of stars but no moon, following the red and yellow lights of the freighter trucks heading into Des Moines, and after Des Moines, up toward Minneapolis-St. Paul. They stopped once at a gas station, the bare-faced LaChaise pumping the gas and paying a sleepy attendant, the hood of his parka covering his head, a scarf shrouding his neck.
``Colder'n a witch's left tit,'' the attendant said. He looked at a thermometer in the window. ``Six below. You want some Heat to put in the gas?''
``Yeah, that'd be good,'' LaChaise said. A compact television sat in a corner, turned to CNN. As the attendant was ringing up the sale, a security-camera videotape came up, replaying the Kansas City robbery.
``What's that shit?'' LaChaise asked.
The attendant glanced at the TV. ``Ah, it's them assholes that were up in the Cities. They're making a run for Mexico.''
``Good,'' LaChaise said.
``Wisht I was going with them,'' the attendant said, and he counted out the change.
As they continued up I-35, the nighttime radio stations came and went, playing Christmas music. Clouds began to move in, like dark arrows overhead; the stars winked out.
``Christmas, four days,'' Sandy said, sadness in her voice.
``Don't mean a fuckin' thing to me,'' LaChaise said. ``My old man drank up our Christmases.''
``You must of had a few,'' Sandy said.
LaChaise sat silent for a moment, then said, ``Maybe a couple.'' He thought about his sister and her feetsie pajamas.
Martin said, ``We had a couple of good ones, when my old man was alive. He got me a fire engine, once.''
``What happened to him?'' Sandy asked.
``He died,'' Martin said. ``Throat cancer.''
``Jeez, that's awful,'' Sandy said. ``I'm sorry.''
``Hard way to go,'' Martin said. ``Then it was me and myma, and we didn't have no Christmases after that.''
LaChaise didn't like the subject matter and fiddled with the radio: the scanner locked on ``O Holy Night.''
``I know this song; my old man used to sing it,'' Martin said.
And he sang along in a creditable baritone,
O holy night, the stars are brightly shining, this is the night of the birth of Our Lord.
Sandy and LaChaise, astonished, glanced at each other: then Sandy looked out the windows, at the thin snowflakes now streaking past, and felt like she was a long way from anywhere.
They drove in silence for a long time, and Sandy slept off and on. She woke with the sense that it was much later, sat up, and looked out. They'd slowed: the snow was now coming at the front of the car like a tornado funnel, but they were passing through a bridge of light.
``Where are we?'' she asked.
``Just south of the Cities,'' Martin said. ``We'll be in town in twenty minutes.''
``Lots of snow.''
``Started hard about ten minutes ago,'' Martin said. He looked at LaChaise.
``What do you think?''
``Let's do it. Get back, drop Sandy and do it.'' He looked out the window. ``This storm is perfect. We won't get a better shot than this.''
``What?'' Sandy asked.
LaChaise looked back over the seat. ``We're gonna take the hospital.''
LACHAISE CAME TO HIM IN A DREAM. LUCAS WAS ON THE couch, struggling to wake up, but he couldn't. He was too tired, and whenever he tried to open his eyes, he'd immediatelyfall back into a deep sleep-and then struggle out again. He had to wake up, because LaChaise and Martin and Darling were sneaking through the garage, coming up to the kitchen door, guns in their hands, laughing, while Lucas struggled to wake...
``Lucas. Lucas...''
He bolted up, and Weather jumped back. ``Whoa,'' he said. ``Sorry.''
``That's okay. You wanted me to wake you...''
``Time to go?''
She was dressed in slacks and a long-sleeved blouse, operating clothes, and was carrying a plastic bag with one of her simple black Donna Karan suits from Saks. Faculty meetings. ``Pretty soon. I'll put some coffee on. It's snowing like crazy out there.''
MARTIN SKETCHED OUT THE LAYOUT OF THE EIGHTH Street entry of the Hennepin County Medical Center, from the earlier recon.
``Two doors: the main emergency room is locked. We could fake that we're hurt, and they'd let us in, but there'll be a bunch of people there...'' He tapped the second door. ``This one leads back to the main lobby, right past the emergency room-the emergency room is off to the left, down this hall. There's a guard desk just inside. If we was hurt, he'd let us in, I seen hurt people come in that door. But we'd have to take him out...''
``No problem.''
``... Then we go on down the hall and the elevators are over to the left. We want the second-floor surgical care...''
They worked through it: get the room numbers at the front desk, get up, hit the place, get out.
Martin said, ``It's six blocks or so: if we really got in trouble, we could run back here in five minutes, on foot. Thatsnow'd help: can't see shit in the snow, not until dawn. We got almost two hours yet.''
``Let's do it.''
Sandy didn't want to hear about it. She paced in the bedroom, stared at the walls: but not dumbly. Her mind was a torrent, a jumble of suppositions and possibilities. She looked at the window and thought, I should have jumped.
In the front room, Martin and LaChaise geared up-each with two pistols and an AR-15, each wearing a bulletproof vest. ``Wish I could take the bow,'' Martin said.
``Makes no sense,'' LaChaise grunted.
``What about Sandy?'' Martin asked, dropping his voice. ``Chain her up again?''
``If we don't, she'll split,'' LaChaise said.
``Which wouldn't be that terrible, if she didn't tip off the cops.''
``She would,'' LaChaise said. ``She's been thinking about how to get out-how to save her ass.''
Martin nodded. ``Yeah. Well. We could do her.''
LaChaise said, ``Yeah, we could.''
``Can't take her with us,'' Martin said.<
br />
LaChaise pulled on his long winter coat, slipped his arm out of one sleeve, and held the AR-15 beneath it. ``How do I look?'' he asked Martin.
``Okay, as long as you're a little ways off.''
``Huh.'' LaChaise turned the weapon in his hands, looked back toward the bedroom and said, ``If you want to do her, you could. Or we could just chain her up again.''
Martin thought for a minute, and said, ``If we do this right-if we faked them out-we could be coming back. We might need her.''
``So we chain her up,'' LaChaise said.
``Well-unless you really want to do her.''
LACHAISE CAME INTO THE BEDROOM AND SAID, ``WE'RE gonna have to chain you up again.''
``Dick, for God's sakes...''
``Hey, shut up. Listen. We can't let you go to the cops. And you would. So we're gonna chain you up. It's either that, or...'' He shrugged.
``You shoot me.''
``Probably wouldn't shoot you,'' he said.
The way he said it chilled her. Probably wouldn't shoot her. Probably kill her with a knife, she thought. Martin liked the knife.
``So put your coat on...''
She put her coat on, afraid to say anything at all. She was standing on a knife edge. She went ahead of LaChaise, down the stairs, where Martin was waiting like Old Man Death. He was holding the chain.
``Sorry about this,'' he said, but he didn't sound sorry.
They'd put the chair back next to the post, and they chained her into it again, snapping the padlocks. ``You'll be okay,'' LaChaise said.
``What if you don't come back?'' she blurted.
He said, ``You better hope we do-you'd have to get pretty damn skinny to get out of that chain.'' He grinned at his own wit, then said, ``We'll leave the keys over on the steps.''
He dropped the keys on the steps, far out of reach, and then they got in the car, ran the garage door up, backed out, and dropped the door, Sandy disappearing behind it.
``Glad we didn't do her,'' LaChaise said.
``Yeah?''
``When we do her, I want to fuck her first. She always sorta treated me like I wasn't... good enough.''
LUCAS FOLLOWED WEATHER TO A PARKING RAMP A block from the University Hospitals, a slippery slog throughthe heavy, wet snow. On the way, he checked with Del, who was staying at the hospital, to see if he was awake yet.
``Just barely,'' Del said. ``I'm thinking about brushing my teeth.''
``Cheryl's still asleep?''
``Like a baby.''
``I'm heading into the office,'' Lucas said. ``I'll walk over later.''
``Is it snowing yet?''
``Look out the window,'' Lucas said. ``It's gonna be a nightmare.''
Lucas followed Weather into the parking ramp, waited until she'd parked her car, then drove her back out of the ramp to the hospital entrance, and saw her as far as the front desk.
``This is a little ridiculous,'' she said.
``I'll feel funny about it when I hear LaChaise is dead,'' he said.
Inside, he said, ``Call me before you head home.'' She waved a hand as she headed toward the elevators, turned the corner out of sight.
Lucas headed back to the car. He'd had the shotgun between the seats, and now he put it on the floor in front of the backseats, out of sight. He had to use the wipers to clear the window, and he horsed the Explorer out of the parking circle and headed toward the office.
TWENTY-THREE
LACHAISE LOOKED AT MARTIN: ``THIS IS IT, DUDE.''
Martin nodded. ``Could be.'' ``We could drive north up to Canada, run out of the snow, head west...''
Martin said, ``The Canadians got computers at the border. We'd set them off like a skyrocket.''
LaChaise was silent for a minute: ``Probably couldn't get out of the snow anyway.'' They slowed at a cross street, and a single orange plow truck, its blade raised off the roadway, went banging by: ``Look at that asshole. Doing nothing, probably getting overtime.'' LaChaise's mouth was running: ``You scared?''
Martin seemed to think for a minute. ``No,'' he said.
``Tense?''
``I'm... thinking.''
``Somebody ought to,'' LaChaise joked.
``We gotta be ready to ditch the car,'' he said. ``I don't think we'll get in and out without running into somebody- we can take them if we're fast enough, that won't be a problem,but in maybe two or three minutes, we'll have cops coming in from the outside, ready for us. If we've got them hot on our trail, you go left and I'll go right. But remember, they can track us: try to stay in the street where you can. That'll slow them down...''
``That's just if we have trouble.''
``Yeah.''
LUCAS CROSSED THE MISSISSIPPI ON THE WASHINGTON Avenue bridge, rolled through a couple of turns in Cedar-Riverside and eased the Explorer into the loop. He could make thirty miles an hour, but even in four-wheel drive, the truck's wheels kept breaking loose. The driver's-side windshield wiper, which had never worked right, left a frozen streak just at his eye level. He had the radio going, and the morning show guy on 'CCO said there'd be a foot of snow on the ground when the storm ended.
``We've got school closings all over southwest and eastcentral Minnesota, and the Minneapolis and St. Paul systems will be making a call in the next ten minutes. The governor'll probably shut down state government, since he does it every time somebody sees a snowflake... don't get me started on that, though...''
A cop car was pulling out of the driveway at the medical center when LaChaise and Martin arrived. They coasted to the curb and sat for two minutes, letting the cop get well clear, then Martin said, ``You're the hurt one. Pull your hat down.''
``I'm good,'' LaChaise said. He was breathing through his mouth again, gulping air. ``My fuckin' heart feels like it's gonna explode.''
Martin took the car into the emergency entrance drive: ``You won't notice when we get inside.''
``This is a fuckin' war, man,'' LaChaise said. ``This is like fuckin' 'Nam.''
``Especially the snow,'' Martin said.
MARTIN STOPPED OUTSIDE THE FIRST OF THE TWO doors and left the car running. If they made it back, it'd be quicker. If they didn't, who cared what happened to the car?
LaChaise got out of the driver's side, and limped toward the door to the lobby. Martin ran around the front of the car and caught him, slipped an arm around him, and they hobbled to the entrance. The door was open, all right, and just like Martin said, a security guard was looking at them from a phone-booth-sized security room just inside the entrance.
``Little help,'' Martin grunted at the guard. ``He's hurt.''
The guard didn't even hesitate, but went out a small door on the side of the room into a hall and walked up to them and said, ``What's the...''
And saw the guns.
``Turn around,'' Martin said quietly, pointing the AR-15 at the guard's chest. ``We don't want to hurt you.''
``Aw, shit.''
``Yeah, shit,'' LaChaise said. ``Turn around.''
The guard wavered and then said, ``Naw. Fuck you.''
``Fuck me?'' Too quickly to see, Martin struck the guard in the face with the butt of the eight-pound rifle, a horizontal stroke that caught the man in the forehead with the force of a small sledge. The guard jerked back into the wall and slid to the floor.
``Go,'' Martin said, but LaChaise was already moving, heading down the hall to the lobby.
Visiting hours didn't start until midmorning, so only seven people turned to look at them when they walked into the lobby: a woman and two children; two young men who sat together; a teenaged girl who curled on a chair, reading aromance novel; and the woman behind the reception desk, who said, ``Great God Almighty.''
They did it like a bank job: LaChaise faced the people waiting in the lobby chairs, and made his little speech: ``Don't anybody move...''
Martin focused on the woman behind the counter: ``We want the room numbers for Capslock and Franklin in surgical care. If you don't give them to us quick, we'll kill you.''
``Yes, sir.'' She called up the names on the computers and read off the room numbers. LaChaise could see them over her shoulder.
``Where are those numbers? When we get off the elevators.''
``You turn to your right going down the hall...'' She drew a line on the desk with her index finger. Martin nodded.
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