Lucas Davenport Novels 6-10

by John Sandford

  “He was going to kill us,” Andi said numbly.

  Lucas said, “You did right.” And he laughed, and said, “Goddamn, I’m proud of you.” And he lifted his hand to pat her shoulder, and remembered, and turned instead toward Peterson. “You gonna handle this?”

  The deputy nodded: “We can.”

  “Do it, then,” Lucas said. “I’d like to help out. He just shot a friend of mine.”

  Peterson nodded. “We heard. But, you know…take care.” He meant, Don’t murder him.

  “I’m fine,” Lucas said, and Peterson nodded. To Andi: “Miz Manette, if you guys would like to ride down to the road, a helicopter will be picking you up.”

  “Got media coming,” a deputy called from the last car down.

  “Keep them out,” Lucas said.

  “Block them out at the corner,” Peterson called. “And get Hank to call the FAA, keep the TV choppers out of here.”

  “Thank you,” Andi Manette said to Peterson. And to her daughter, “Come on, Grace.”

  Grace said, “Genevieve?”

  “We’ll look for her,” Andi promised.

  Lucas walked with them toward the last of the sheriff’s cars. “I’m sorry it took so long,” he said. “He isn’t stupid.”

  “No, he isn’t,” Andi said. A deputy opened the back door of his car. Andi helped Grace into the backseat, then turned to say something else to Lucas. Her eyes reached up toward his face, then stopped, looking past his shoulder. Lucas turned to see what she was looking at, his hand dropped toward his pistol. Had she seen Mail? Then she brushed past him, took three quick steps, and suddenly was running toward the house.

  Lucas looked at the deputy, said, “Watch the kid,” and started after her, walking quickly, and then, when he saw where she was going, broke into a run, shouting, “Mrs. Manette, wait, please wait, wait…”

  Peterson was on the radio, but he dropped the microphone when he saw Andi Manette running toward the house, and he hurried after her.

  She was running toward a six-foot square of weathered wood set on a six-inch-high concrete platform. Lucas, forty feet behind her, shouted, one last time, “Don’t, wait,” but she was already there. She stooped, caught the edges of the old cistern cover, and heaved.

  Lucas had to stop her, because he’d realized what Andi Manette knew by instinct: this was where Genevieve was. The doll in the oil barrel was the girl in the cistern; a watery grave.

  When Lucas had still been in uniform, he’d worked a kidnapping case where the child had been shot and thrown in a creek. The body had washed up on the bank, and he’d been with the group of searchers that had found it. He’d seen so much death in his years on the force that it no longer affected him, much. But that child, early in his career, with the white, pudding flesh, the absent eyes…he still saw them sometimes, in nightmares.

  THE COVER ON the cistern was too heavy for Andi Manette. There was no way that she could lift it. But she got it up a foot, staggered, and as Lucas reached her, slipped it sideways and heaved, opening the hole.

  Lucas grabbed her, wrenched her away as she screamed, “No,” and Lucas, turning, looked down and saw…What?

  Nothing, at first, just a bundle of junk on the side of the hole, above the black water at the bottom.

  Then the bundle moved, and he saw a flash of white.

  Peterson had wrapped his arms around Andi Manette, pulling her away, when Lucas, eyes wild, waved at him, shouted, “Jesus Christ, she’s alive.”

  The cistern was perhaps fifteen feet deep, and the bundle hung just above the water. It moved again, and a face turned up.

  “Get something,” Lucas screamed back at the cars. “Get a goddamn rope.”

  A uniformed cop was pulling Andi Manette away; Andi was fighting him, crazy. Another cop popped the trunk on a patrol car, and a second later was running toward them with a tow rope. Lucas peeled off his shoes and jacket.

  “Just belay the end, get a couple of guys,” Lucas yelled. There were cops running at them from all over the yard.

  Andi Manette was pleading with the cop who held her; Peterson shouted into the swarm of men now around the cistern, “Let her come up, but hold her, hold her.”

  Lucas took the end of the rope and went over the side, feet against the rough fieldstone-and-concrete wall. The cistern smelled like new, wet earth, like early spring, like moss. He went down, passed the bundle on the wall, lowered himself into the water.

  The water was three feet deep, coming up just to his hip joint; and it was cold.

  “Genevieve,” he breathed.

  “Help me,” she croaked. He could barely make out her voice.

  Some kind of mechanism—a secondary pulley, perhaps—had once been mounted about three feet above what was now the water line. Whatever it was, was gone: but there were two metal support fixtures on either side of the cistern, and Genevieve had managed to crawl high enough up the rocks to spear the bottom of her raincoat over one of the fixtures.

  With the coat buttoned, she had created a sturdy cloth sack hanging on the side of the cistern, above the water, like a cocoon. She’d crawled inside and hung there, legs in the sleeves, for nearly a hundred hours.

  “Got you, honey,” Lucas said, taking her weight.

  “He threw me in…he threw me in,” she said.

  Peterson shouted down, “What do you want us to do? You need somebody else down there?”

  “No. I’m gonna leave her in the coat, I’m gonna hook the rope through this hole. Take her up easy.”

  He hooked it up, and Genevieve groaned, and Lucas shouted, “Easy.”

  And Genevieve went up into the light.

  35

  HALF-BLIND, HIS EARS ringing with the blast of the shotgun, Mail crawled down the rows of corn, the field as dense as a rain forest. He couldn’t see very well; he didn’t really understand why, he just knew that one eye didn’t seem to work. And every time his weight came down on his hand, pain shot through his abdomen.

  But part of his mind still worked: fifty feet into the field, he went hard to his right, got to his feet, and running in a crablike crouch, one hand carrying the shotgun, the other pressed flat against his stomach, he headed downhill toward the road. Any other direction would lead to an open field, but if he could somehow get across the road, there was another mile-long cornfield, coming up to a farmhouse. The farmhouse would have a car.

  And a culvert crossed under the road.

  It wasn’t large—maybe not even big enough to take his shoulders—but he remembered seeing the rust-stained end of it sticking out into a small cattail swamp in the ditch. If he could make it that far.

  He was breathing hard, and the pain was growing, beating at him with every step. He fell, caught at the cornstalks with his free hand, went down. He lay there for a moment, then turned, rocked up on his butt, looked down at his stomach, and saw the blood. Lifting his shirt, he found a hole two inches below his breastbone, and a cut; blood was bubbling out of the hole.

  The whole sequence, from the time he’d opened the door of the cell, through the shooting in the yard, was a shattered pane of memories, flashes of this and that. But now he remembered Andi Manette coming into him, and the bite of pain as she stabbed him with something.

  Jesus. She’d stabbed him.

  Mail’s face contorted, and his shoulders lifted and he shuddered, and he began to sob. The cops would kill him if they found him; Manette had stabbed him. He had nowhere to go.

  He sat, weeping, for fifteen seconds, then forced it all back. If he could get out of the field, if he could get through the culvert, if he could get a car and just get away from these people, just for a while; if he could rest, if he could just close his eyes—he could come back for Manette.

  He would come back for her: she owed him a life.

  Mail put his head down and began to crawl. Somewhere, he lost the shotgun, but he couldn’t go back for it; and the pistol still rode in his belt. He looked back, once; there was nobody behind him, but h
e could see a thin trail of blood, winding down through the corn to where he lay.

  LUCAS LAY ON his back on the long grass next to the cistern, catching his breath. The cops who’d pulled him out were walking away, coiling the tow rope. Peterson hurried up. “Another chopper’s coming. Be here in a minute.”

  Lucas sat up. He was soaked to the waist, and cold. “How’s the kid?”

  Peterson shook his head. “I don’t know. She’s not good, but I’ve seen worse that made it. Are you all right?”

  “I’m tired,” Lucas said. A chopper was coming in, and cops were down at the road, waving it in. He could see two other cops, walking along the road, and more were forming around the edges of the field.

  Lucas pulled on his shoes and jacket, and said to Peterson, “Tell your people I’m going into the field. I’m only going in a few feet.”

  “He’s got a shotgun,” Peterson objected.

  “Tell them,” Lucas said.

  “Look, there’s no point…”

  “He’s not waiting for us to do something,” Lucas said, looking out over the field. “I know how his head works, and he’s running. He won’t set up an ambush and go down shooting. He’ll always try to get out.”

  “We’ll have a couple more choppers here in a few minutes, knock down that field…”

  “I just want a peek,” Lucas said, walking away from the house, toward the fence where Mail had gone over. “Tell your guys.”

  Lucas crossed the fence line, his city shoes filling with plant debris. Sand burr hung from his damp socks, cutting at his ankles. Just inside the field, the sweet smell of maturing corn caught him; the fat ears hung off the stalks, dried silk like brown stains at the top of the ears. He worked slowly along the weedy margin until he saw the fresh foot-cuts in the soft gray dirt.

  He slipped his pistol out, stooped, turned, and duckwalked into the field. And here was a flash of blood, more scuffs in the dirt, more blood. Mail was hurt. Lucas stopped, listened, heard a few leaves rustling in the light wind, the sound of car engines, distant sirens, the beat of a chopper. A ladybug crawled up a corn leaf, and he duckwalked a little farther into the field, following the sights of his .45.

  At knee-level, the cornfield was incredibly dense, and Lucas could see almost nothing, except straight up. Mail’s track went straight into the field; Lucas followed it for two minutes, and then the trail turned sharply to the right and disappeared down a corn row. Lucas couldn’t see anything at all up ahead. Mail was apparently shifting between rows; following him would be suicidal.

  Lucas stood up and looked in the new direction the trail had taken. From where he was, he could see the phone poles along the road. Moving slowly, carefully, he worked his way back to the edge of the field, and recrossed the fence.

  Peterson was waiting. When he saw Lucas coming back, he put a handset to his face, said something, and then, to Lucas: “See anything?”

  “Not much,” Lucas said. “He might be tending down toward the road.”

  “We’ll have ten guys there in five minutes, but there’s no way he could get across,” Peterson said. “I’m more worried about that damn bean field. We don’t have enough people down there—if he could get into one of those rows, he could crawl a good way.”

  “He’s hurt,” Lucas said. “There’s quite a bit of blood. Manette and the kid both stabbed him, and it could be bad.”

  “We can always hope the sonofabitch dies,” Peterson said. “That’d be some kind of justice, anyway.”

  MAIL REACHED THE end of the field. The nearest cops were standing on top of a squad car three hundred yards away, but he could hear sirens, all the sirens in the world. In a few minutes, they’d be elbow-to-elbow.

  The pain in his stomach was growing, but tolerable. He crawled sideways through the corn, careful not to disturb the stalks, then low-crawled to the fence. The cattails were now between him and the deputy, and he could see the open end of the culvert. A thin, keening excitement gripped him: it wasn’t big, but he thought it would do. This just might be possible. Just barely. He’d slip these cocksuckers after all, Davenport and his thugs.

  He lay on his back and edged under the lowest strand of barbed wire, then slid down the side of the ditch into the swampy patch. The cop turned his head, looking the other way, and Mail gained three feet, into the cattails, and stopped. If anybody walked down the shoulder of the road now, they’d look right down at him. But looking from down the road—from where the deputy stood, scanning the field with binoculars—he was covered. He found himself holding his breath, watching the deputy through a half-inch opening between blades of the cattails, and when the deputy turned his head again, he made another two feet, the water now almost covering him, like an alligator in wait.

  The culvert was only ten feet away.

  “CHOPPERS COMING IN—the medevac one and a federal one. They say they’ve got some plate in the floor, they can get right down on the deck with it,” Peterson said.

  Lucas nodded. “I’m gonna walk out along the road.”

  “Okay,” Peterson nodded. “We’ll flush him.”

  Lucas watched as Andi Manette, Grace, and Genevieve were loaded into the medical helicopter, Genevieve as an unrecognizable bundle of blankets. Andi Manette stared blank-faced at him as the chopper lifted off. In a few seconds, it was a speck in the northern sky. At the same time, another machine, larger, powered in from the north. The feds, Lucas thought.

  He walked down the road, slowly, a step or two at a time. There were only three deputies along the whole length of the road: the visibility was so good that Peterson was routing newcomers to the other edges. But Mail had come this way.

  The corn waved in the light breeze, ripples running through it like wind fronts on a lake. Nothing jerky, nothing too quick. Lucas came up to the first deputy, a chunky blond with mirrored sunglasses and a shotgun on his hip.

  “Was that the kid there in the well?” he asked as Lucas came up.

  “In the cistern, yeah,” Lucas said. “She’s gonna make it. See anything at all?”

  “Nothing. There’s just enough wind that the corn’s moving, and you can’t see much.” He pointed his nose into the wind and sniffed, like a hunting dog, and Lucas continued down the road, studying the field.

  Two-thirds of the way to the next deputy, he saw the culvert poking through under the road. It wasn’t more than eighteen inches in diameter, he thought, maybe too small.

  But this was where Mail was headed.

  In fact…

  A thin vein of water led from the fence to the shallow puddle near the end of the culvert pipe. Could he already be inside?

  Lucas stepped carefully down the embankment.

  And saw the grooves in the mud heading to the culvert. Thighs and shoe tips. And there…a speck of blood, almost black on the green grass. The culvert was small, and he risked a quick peek inside. He could see only a tiny crescent of green on the other side. As he watched, the crescent vanished. Mail was pulling himself through. The space was tight, but he was moving.

  Lucas climbed the bank, walked to the other side, and looked over the edge. The pipe emptied into another cattail swamp on the opposite side, with a little mud delta leading away from the pipe itself. The delta was undisturbed and Lucas again let himself down the bank. He could hear Mail, possibly halfway through, scraping along, struggling.

  And what did Mail’s file say? That he was a frantic claustrophobic?

  MAIL HAD GONE headfirst into the pipe, his shoulders tight against the corrugated sides. There was mud in the bottom of the pipe, and halfway through, the pipe itself was more than half-blocked by a rotten wooden board and a clump of dead weeds. But on the other side of the blockage, he could see a disk of light. If he could get that far…

  He pulled the board and the weeds away with his hands, passing them down the length of his body, then kicking them back with his feet. He had barely enough room to maneuver his arms, and his breath came harder. He kicked, found one foot held tight; he
kicked again, and still was stuck.

  Now the claustrophobia seized him, and he began tearing frantically at the mud, whimpering, spitting, grunting, his breath coming harder and harder…and he broke free. Twenty feet from the end, fifteen feet. Pain burned through his stomach, and he had to stop. Goddamn; he touched his shirt, pulled his hand away; he couldn’t see it, but he could smell it. He was bleeding worse. When he tried to move, he found he was stuck again, and he kicked frantically at whatever held him; splashed water, where part of the pipe had corroded away. Heard a noise. A rat?

  Was there a rat in here with him?

  Close to panic, he bucked down the pipe, the pain tearing at him. But could see green at the end of the pipe.

  Okay. Okay. He pushed the panic back: he’d have to be careful now. He’d have to make himself move slowly, even with the impulse to dash into the cornfield. If he could get in undetected, he could do this. He’d never really thought there was a chance, but now…

  A heavy clump of something—dirt, sod—dropped into the circle of light at the end of the pipe, half-blocking it. Then another clump.

  Mail, shocked, froze.

  And a familiar voice said, “Is it wet down there, John?”

  THE EMBANKMENT HAD been seeded with some kind of heavy, thick-bladed grass. The recent rain had softened it, and by grabbing clumps of the grass by the base, Lucas found he could pull up a foot-square clump of sod. He pulled out a half-dozen clumps, then sat down on the embankment above the pipe. When Mail was close enough, he dropped the first of the clumps into the mouth of the culvert.

  “Is it wet down there, John?”

  There was no answer for a moment, then Mail’s voice, low, desperate. “Let me out of here.”

  “Nah,” Lucas said. “We found the little girl in the cistern. She was alive, but not by much. How in the fuck could you do that, John? Throw the kid in the hole?” He dropped another clump of grass into the entrance of the culvert.

  “Let me out of here, I’m hurt,” Mail screamed.