“So we got a cop with a source in Personnel,” Roux said.
Lucas shook his head: “Something like this, you might get one bad guy, but not two. Unless . . . any of the women in Personnel married to a street cop?”
Anderson shrugged. “I can find out.”
“Do that,” Roux said grimly.
“But, uh . . .” Anderson seemed reluctant.
“What?” asked Lucas.
“Personnel has been raided a few times. You know that. Guys want to look at their files, want to look at test scores or salaries. There’d be more than a few guys around here who could get inside, and who probably know enough about computers to pull up the insurance records.”
“But when you think about how many, I bet it wouldn’t be that many,” Lucas said. “So make a list. We’ll show mugs to O’Donald.”
“If there’s a cop in on this, we’re gonna get hurt,” Roux groaned.
“But why would a cop line up with LaChaise? LaChaise is a goner,” the mayor said.
“Blackmail,” said Lucas. He looked at Anderson. “When you figure out the computer stuff, let’s talk about who’s got the shaky rep. Somebody LaChaise might get to.”
“If it’s a cop, he’s dead,” Roux said to the mayor.
The mayor pushed away from the windowsill. “I don’t want to hear that,” he said.
“I don’t even want to think about it—but somebody would put him down, given the chance. I guarantee it.”
THE CHIEF OF surgery took Weather aside and asked, “Are you going to be okay?”
“Sure. I mean, heck, my own secretary can’t track me down. I don’t think some hillbilly gunman’s gonna get me.” She flashed a grin at him. “Don’t worry about it, Loren. If I thought it’d be a problem, I wouldn’t be here.”
14
LUCAS FOUND WEATHER and another woman in a thirteenth-floor laboratory, looking at skin grafts on a white rat. Weather was surprised when he poked his head in the door: “We need to talk,” he said gruffly.
The other woman looked at Weather as though Weather should be insulted. But Weather nodded: “Sure . . .” And when they got out in the hall, she asked,
“How mad are you? You look kind of white around the eyes.”
“Don’t joke about it,” he said, his voice suddenly rasping. “We have a tape of a phone call and they were talking about you.”
“About me?”
“Yeah. They want to get you, because you’re with me. I’m out there busting my balls running these assholes down, and now I’ve got to spend a half hour looking for you because you’ve run off someplace . . .”
“Hey,” she said sharply. “I did not run off. I went to a hospital, where I work.”
“And told everybody you really didn’t want to talk to me, so when we get this phone call, I wind up having to ditch the investigation to find you.”
“I didn’t ask you to do that,” she said.
He stopped talking for a second, then said, “Listen, just what the fuck do you think is gonna happen if one of these people shows up here with a machine gun? You think they’re gonna ask for you, and take a number? Or you think maybe they’ll shoot a couple of your friends to make the point, then ask where you’re at. You’re not just risking your life. You’re risking theirs. There are already six people dead from this thing.”
“Eight,” she said. “Don’t forget the two women at the credit union.”
MARTIN DROVE DOWN I-35W to Burnsville, then, by memory, took them through a rat’s-nest of suburban streets, and finally to a blue rambler, where a snow-packed driveway led to a double garage. Martin parked in the street. “Hope he’s home,” Martin said, leaning across Sandy to look out the side window. “He is, most days.”
“Want me to wait?” she asked. She’d run, once Martin was out of sight.
“Better come along,” Martin said.
“I was so scared in the store, that somebody would recognize me,” Sandy said.
“I don’t think Dave’ll recognize you,” Martin said. “He doesn’t watch much TV. And he’s a little shy.”
Martin rang the doorbell, waited, rang it again and the door opened. Dave—Martin hadn’t mentioned his last name—was an older man with thick glasses, wearing a Patagonia pullover. He pushed open the storm door, saw Sandy behind Martin and blushed.
“How y’ doing, Dave?”
“Bill, come on in.” Dave pushed the door wider. “You on a trip?”
“Yeah, I am—heading out to the Dakotas.”
“You heard about the trouble we’re having?” Dave glanced sideways at Sandy and blushed again.
“On the radio,” Martin said.
Dave said, “And they want to take the guns away from the good people. I can’t believe these guys in government.” He shook his head.
Dave took them to the lower level, where a row of Remington gun safes lined one wall. He didn’t have any ARs, AKs, ranch rifles or anything else that Martin was interested in, but he did have a rack of beautiful bolt-action hunting rifles—“Hunting’s coming back in with the yuppies, I’ve been selling used Weatherbys like hot-cakes. You see any Weatherby Mark V’s in three hundred Mag or less, in good shape, think about me.”
“I’ll do that,” Martin said. He was looking at another rack, short little rifles, and said, “What’re all the Rugers for?”
Dave shrugged. “Just regular demand . . . jump-hunting deer. Can’t hardly find them anymore.”
“How much you get?”
“Upwards of four-fifty, for a good one,” Dave said.
“Jeez, they only cost half of that, new.”
“Well, they haven’t made them for ten years. If Ruger doesn’t come out with them again, I’ll make a mint . . .”
They talked more guns for a while, Sandy standing silently behind them, and Martin finally bought two used .45s for seven hundred dollars.
“Wish I could help you more,” Dave said, as they left.
To Sandy, Martin said, “Two more stops.”
At the first stop, a sporting goods store, he bought four green-and-yellow boxes of .45 ammo, a Browning Mantis bow, two dozen Easton aluminum arrows, two dozen Thunderhead broadheads, an arrow rest, a fiber-optic sight, a release and a foam target like the one they’d left in the Frogtown house. They waited while the guy at the store cut the arrows to thirty and one-quarter inches, and seated inserts in the tips, so Martin could screw in the Thunderheads.
Martin looked at a Beretta over-and-under twenty-gauge while they waited, then sighed, put it back, and said, “Not today.”
At the second stop, he bought six more boxes of .45 ammunition.
“Do you know where all the gun stores are?” Sandy asked.
“Most of them,” he said. “Most of them from . . . well, from the Appalachians to the Rockies . . . and Salt Lake and Vegas and Reno. I don’t know the coasts. Well, some in Florida, if that’s a coast.”
And a moment later, she asked, “Have you thought about getting out of this?”
Martin looked at her. “Have you?”
She shook her head: “No. I’m stuck with Dick, I guess. I just think we oughta move on. Mexico. I really don’t want to die.”
“Huh.” Martin didn’t relate well, but for the first time since she’d known him, he started to talk. “I’m like Butters,” he said. “Running out of time. All the people like us are: they’re coming to get us, there’s no way we can win. We just make a stand, and go.”
“Who’s they?”
He shrugged. “The government—all of the government, the cops, the game wardens, the FBI, the ATF, all of them. And the media, the banks, liberals, whatever you want to call them. The Jews . . . They’re all in it together. City people. They don’t all want to do us harm—they just do.”
“The blacks?”
“Ah, the blacks are more like . . . poker chips,” Martin said. “The government’s just playing a game with the blacks. I mean, they might use the blacks to get us, but the blacks themselves
won’t get anything out of it. Never have, never will.”
“That’s pretty bleak,” Sandy said.
“Yeah. Well, you know, the people who run things, they want power. And they get power by writing laws and making you depend on them. They can do anything they want to old people, because old people gotta have Social Security and Medicare and all that. And if you try to be independent, they get you with laws. Like Dick. No way he was ever gonna be able to run that bike shop. He screwed up one time with his taxes, and they came after him forever. Never let him go. Makes a man crazy.”
“You think Dick is crazy?”
He grinned and said, “We’re all crazy. You can’t help it. I was thinking about it the other day—you know how you used to burn leaves in the fall? In all the small towns? And how good it smelled, the burning leaves in the air. Can’t burn leaves anymore, because they won’t let you. No reason for it, in the small towns anyway. You ain’t polluting nothing . . . They just make the law to train you. I mean, it starts with the small stuff, and it goes all the way up to the big stuff, like lettin’ the Mexicans in, so people like us can’t get good jobs no more . . .”
Sandy nodded. “Okay.”
“I used to love the smell of burning leaves in the autumn,” Martin said, looking out the window at the snow.
SANDY GOT INTERESTED in the disguises.
She got LaChaise to sit on a stool in the bathroom, ran her fingers through his thick, stiff hair. “Can’t just layer over your natural color, ’cause it’s too dark,” she said, half to herself. She got the bleach and LaChaise said, “You sure about this?”
“I see it done all the time, up at Pearl’s,” she said, and she started working the bleach in. When she was done with his hair she said, “The bleach might be too harsh for your face . . . maybe you oughta shave.”
“Try it,” he said. She worked it in; the fumes were bad, but LaChaise, eyes closed, sat it out.
When she was finished, bleach had turned LaChaise’s normally dark hair and beard to a thin, watery yellow, the color of corn silk. The delicate color contrasted oddly with the harsh contours of his face. “Holy shit, I look like some kind of fag,” he said, staring at himself in the bathroom mirror. “Maybe I oughta leave it like this.”
“Too weird,” Martin said. “You want people to look away from you, not stare at you.”
They did the color next, and when he looked again, LaChaise was impressed. With the gray beard, he looked as though he might be seventy. “Get your back humped, nobody’ll give you a second look,” Martin said.
LaChaise looked at Sandy: “You done really good,” he said.
Sandy had been enjoying herself: now it went away, and under her breath, as she turned way, she said, “Fuck you.”
LaChaise said to Martin, “Your turn.”
ANDERSON HAD PHOTOS of Bill Martin. “We’ll put them out at the afternoon press conference,” he said. “We’ve got a line on his truck and license tag, and we’re putting that on the street right now.”
“All right—have you seen Stadic?”
“Yeah, he was through here. We sent him home. I think he’s kind of messed up.”
“He’s never shot anyone before,” Lucas said. He yawned and said, “He saved my bacon this morning . . . Jesus, I got to get some sleep.”
“Go get it,” Anderson said. “There’s nothing going on . . . what happened with Weather and Jennifer?”
“Jen should be okay—they’ve got armed security at the station, and the kids are gone. But I want to find a couple of cops who’ll stick by Weather on an off-duty basis. I’ll pay them. She’s getting bitchy, she won’t stay put.”
“You should have got her some knitting stuff,” Anderson said. “You know, so she’d have something to do over there at the hotel.”
“I don’t think . . .” Lucas started. Then he looked at Anderson, whose face was resolutely stuck in neutral.
“I just don’t want them hurt, that’s all,” Lucas said.
“Yeah, I know, you don’t want them to take the risks you’re taking . . . as much fun as they are.”
Lucas looked sideways at him: “Whose side are you on?”
Anderson shrugged. “Theirs.”
“A traitor to his sex,” Lucas said, and he yawned again. “Listen, I’m gonna grab a few hours. If you need me, I’m at home.”
“We’ll call,” Anderson said.
Lucas said, “Goddamn women.”
LA CHAISE STARTED LAUGHING when he saw Martin, and made Martin link arms with him and shuffle around the apartment. Martin joined in, almost as though he’d stepped outside his dour personality.
“Don’t quite look old,” Sandy said. “You look old, but you move young.”
“We need some practice,” LaChaise said. And then, a spark in his eyes, “Let’s go on out to this big fuckin’ mall. What do they call it—the Mall of America?”
Sandy was appalled by the idea: “Dick, you’re nuts.”
His smile vanished. “You never fuckin’ say that,” he said.
She shut up: Dick, she thought, was losing it. Play to him, look for a chance. Try not to be in the way when the shooting started.
MARTIN TOOK THE truck, and Sandy and LaChaise followed behind in the Continental. Martin left the truck in a neighborhood north of the airport. He patted it once, like he might a horse, looked it over, then got in the Continental.
“Makes you want to cry,” LaChaise said.
“Damn good truck,” Martin said, looking back at it as they drove away. “You know, it was perfect, mechanically. New engine, new tranny—new about everything. I could go anyplace, and nobody’d give it a second look. Good thing, too, when you’re dealing guns.”
“Where’re we going?” Sandy asked, still behind the wheel.
“The mall,” LaChaise said.
“We oughta take care of some business first,” Martin said.
“Yeah? What’s that?”
Martin had a map of the downtown area. “I want to go look up the hospital where they’re taking these people . . . Hennepin General. Then I want to go over to this other one, where Davenport’s old lady works. Just a recon, to see where it is.”
“All right,” LaChaise said. “I’m just glad to be out.”
The first hospital, as it turned out, was only six or eight blocks from Harp’s apartment. There were cop cars parked by the entrances.
“That’d be tough,” Martin said.
“But we could get to it on foot, if we had to,” LaChaise said. “If that big storm comes in . . .”
The other hospital was farther away, but easy to get to—straight down Eleventh to Washington, right, a couple of natural turns, across the river and up the hill past a building that looked like it had been built from beer cans—and there it was.
No cop cars.
“This one would be simpler,” Martin said.
“But it’s big,” said LaChaise. “Finding her could be a problem—even knowing for sure that she’s in there could be a problem.”
“We could work it out,” Martin said.
Sandy drove, listening; she was shocked by the coolness of the discussion. They’d done robberies, she was sure: Candy and Georgie hadn’t started on their own. Still, she was reluctantly impressed by the cool appraisal of the targets.
“Now: out to this mall,” LaChaise said. He stretched out in back, favoring his side. The wound was tightening up. “Feel like I’m being held together by banjo strings,” he grumbled. But he sat up as they approached the mall.
“Looks like Uncle Scrooge’s money bin,” he said.
“You ain’t far wrong,” Martin said.
Sandy found a parking spot in the ramp, and they went inside. The mall was packed, but nobody gave them a second look. And LaChaise was fascinated.
“Goddamnedest thing I ever seen,” LaChaise said, as they stopped outside the Camp Snoopy amusement park. A gang-banger dragged by, looked them over—two old guys with beards and long black coats. They looked
like cartoons. The gang-banger smirked, kept going.
LaChaise took them on a circuit of the mall, browsing through the stores, checking out the women, dragging Sandy along.
“We gotta get out of here,” Sandy said, after the first circuit.
“We just got here,” LaChaise said, enjoying himself.
“Dick, please . . .”
“Tell you what, let’s catch a movie.”
“We can see a movie back at the apartment, he’s got HBO. Please.”
“Then let’s get a pizza, or something. God, is that cinnamon rolls I smell?”
The gang-banger went by again, this time from the other direction—they’d both made a circuit of the second level—but this time, after he passed, he turned and followed them.
There was something not quite right here, the banger thought. There was something wrong with the old guys, and the blond was nervous. Her nervousness gave the whole trio a sense of vulnerability. The feel of vulnerability brought him in, like a mosquito to bare flesh. Victims . . .
There may have been ten thousand people in the mall, but there were also dead spots. One of them was next to an automatic teller machine. The banger watched as the trio bought cinnamon rolls and Cokes, then sat on a bench next to the ATM.
Nobody real close. The banger put on a grin and wandered up, put his hand in his pocket and dropped the blade on a butterfly knife.
“How’s it going, folks,” he said to LaChaise. LaChaise bobbed his head, didn’t look up, but the banger could see the smile. The victims usually smiled, at first, trying to pretend that the contact was friendly. “Whyn’t you just give it up? A few bucks,” the banger said.
Now LaChaise looked up at him, his voice soft. “If you don’t go away, I’m gonna take that fuckin’ blade and cut your nuts off.”
The banger took a step back. “I oughta . . .”
“Fuck oughta. You want to do something, do it, pussy,” LaChaise said. The banger looked at Martin, and the pale eyes fixed him like a bug.
Lucas Davenport Novels 6-10 Page 84
