Lucas Davenport Novels 6-10

by John Sandford

  LUCAS SAID TO the handset, “Tell everybody to cease fire. Cease fire, for Christ’s sakes, you’re gonna kill me. I got him if you can make them cease fire.”

  Three seconds later, he heard yelling on the other side of the street, and the fire diminished. He peeked at the corner again. Martin had reloaded, and was about to pop up again, to hose down the line of cars.

  Lucas shouted, “Freeze!”

  Martin turned, and his mouth dropped open. He posed like that for an instant, looking at the shotgun, then said, “Fuck you,” and the AR came around. Lucas waited for a microsecond longer than he should have, then shot Martin in the head.

  27

  LUCAS YELLED, “GOT him,” stepped out and waved, and a line of cops broke toward him. He stepped through the snow and down the steps to the body. Most of the top of Martin’s head was gone, but his face looked almost placid, his eyes closed, his lips turned up in a not-quite smile.

  There was little point to it—he was dead—but out of reflex Lucas patted the body, felt the solidity of the body armor under the coat. And something else. A pistol, Lucas thought, but when he touched it, it was rectangular and he slipped it out of Martin’s pocket just as Stadic arrived at the top of the stairs.

  “He’s dead?”

  Lucas said, “Yeah,” and stood up, a cell phone in his hand. Where’d they get it? Probably a street buy. He frowned at the phone, then stepped up the stairs toward Stadic: “Watch the muzzle,” he said. Stadic’s shotgun muzzle had drifted toward him as Stadic peered down the stairwell to Martin. “One down, one to go.”

  “One?” Stadic asked. “What about the woman?”

  “She’s been talking to us. We’re not sure about her status,” Lucas said.

  “Okay.” Stadic nodded, and he thought: Shit. They’re gonna talk with her.

  Lucas brushed past him on the way up the stairs and said, “So let’s find them.”

  The line of cops arrived and Lucas shouted, “There’re two more. They’re headed up the street toward the dome . . .”

  A PATROL LIEUTENANT trotted over and they began talking search techniques, and whether they should put it off until light: Lucas wanted to keep the pressure on. Stadic watched them as they talked. Lucas still had the phone in his hand, then unconsciously stuck it in his coat pocket. Had to get it. Stadic stared at the pocket. Had to get it, had to get it, had to get it . . . the chant rang through his mind like a mantra.

  “Come on,” Lucas called to him. Stadic, jolted back to the present, said, “I’m here,” and Lucas clapped him on the back and led the way back behind the building. He was six feet ahead, unsuspecting. Stadic had the shotgun: and there were more cops everywhere. But the temptation . . . an accident.

  Nobody would believe it.

  Had to get him alone. He had a piece-of-shit Davis .380 in his pocket. A piece of shit but it’d do the job, but he had to have him alone. Alone with either LaChaise or the woman would be best . . . But Christ, who knew what would happen in that chase?

  Davenport was electric, animated, and if you didn’t know what was going on, you might think Happy. Stadic thought about the arrows coming out of the snow, silent razors in the dark, the whack in the chest. If it’d been eight inches higher, it’d have carved a hole right through his throat and he’d be lying in the street with a plastic bag over his face. He shuddered, and followed Davenport.

  THE SEARCH GOT under way. Groups of cops swept the streets, parking lots and yards inside a perimeter thrown up in the first few minutes after finding LaChaise’s location. Any house that showed fresh tracks was approached, the door banged on, the occupants asked and warned. But there were few of them this early in the day.

  Lucas stayed along Eleventh, the billowing top of the dome a few blocks straight ahead, like the Pillsbury Doughboy’s butt. Then a uniformed cop who’d lost his hat and gloves, his blond hair soaked with snow, his hands white as ice, ran up and said, “We’ve f-f-f-found a line of t-t-t-tracks. Small tracks, a woman or a kid, and whoever it was kept stopping behind b-bushes and around c-corners . . .”

  “That’s her,” Lucas said. “Show me the way.”

  They ran off together, Stadic a few steps behind. Four uniformed guys with flashlights and shotguns were leapfrogging up the track, which wandered through the maze of old houses, apartments, small brick businesses and parking lots. They were moving quickly, but nervously: everybody’d heard about the arrows. They were staying out of the trail, and Lucas stopped, just a moment, to look at it. “Looks the same,” he said to Stadic.

  “Yeah, gotta be her,” Stadic said.

  They ran harder, caught up with the uniforms. Lucas said, “Listen up, guys, this woman has been talking to us. She actually called in and left the phone off the hook so we could follow it in to the apartment. We gotta be a little careful, but I don’t think she’s dangerous.”

  “G-g-g-good,” chattered the bareheaded cop. “I’m f-f-fuckin’ freezing.”

  “Well, Jesus, go get some clothes on,” Lucas said. And to the others, “Come on . . .”

  They ran along the track, and as they approached a cross street, saw cops ahead. A spotlight beam broke down toward them, and the uniforms waved their flashlights.

  “She broke the perimeter before we set up,” Lucas said. “That means LaChaise probably did, too.”

  He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out first the cell phone, then his handset, and said into the handset, “The woman’s outside the perimeter . . . we’ve got to spread it. The woman’s outside for sure, LaChaise probably.”

  He thrust the phone and handset back in his pocket and they ran along again, the cop cars behind them squealing in circles and then heading out to new positions. The larger the square got, the thinner the cops would be: but cops were pouring in from everywhere, from Hennepin County, from St. Paul. No ordinary dog hunt.

  As they followed on the trail, Lucas said, “You know what? She’s going to the dome.”

  “You think?” Stadic asked.

  “She’s trying to find a phone,” Lucas said. He took the handset out again, and relayed the idea to Dispatch. “Get her through to me if she calls.”

  The streets were getting wider as they got closer to downtown, and then they lost the track: she’d turned into a cleared-off street.

  “Still bet it’s the dome,” Lucas said. “Tell you what,” he said to Stadic and two of the uniforms, “you guys go that way, we’ll go this way, push both sides of that apartment. But I bet she headed for the dome. I’ll see you on the other side and we’ll go on over.”

  “All right.”

  They split up, and Lucas and the other uniform headed off to the left. As they approached the apartment, Lucas thought of the cellular phone, took it out, then the handset and called Dispatch. “Get somebody at the phone company. I need a number I can call where they can trace a cell phone. I’ll call them on the cell phone, and I want them to figure out the number, and then give me a list of calls billed from the phone . . . who’s at the numbers. Got that?”

  “Got it.”

  They pushed around the apartment, found nothing but pristine snow. Stadic was waiting on the other side, and they all looked over at the dome.

  “Let’s go,” Lucas said, but as he was about to step off the curb, Dispatch called. “That was fast,” he said.

  “Lucas, Lucas . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “LaChaise . . .” The dispatcher was sputtering. “LaChaise is at the University Hospitals.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  Lucas look around wildly, spotted a cop car, waved at it, started running toward it, barely heard the dispatcher, “Got your wife . . .”

  “What?” he yelled into the handset. And to Stadic: “Stay with her, stay with Darling.”

  He ran toward the squad car, and as the car stopped and the window came down, Lucas shouted, “Pop the back door, pop the back.”

  The driver popped the back door and Lucas dove inside and shouted, “University Hospitals, go,
go . . .” And to the handset, “What about Weather? What about Weather?”

  “They think he might . . . have her.”

  28

  THE KID BEGAN to cry as they passed the Metrodome, and when LaChaise yelled at him, told him to shut up, he simply cried harder, holding on to the top of the steering wheel with both hands, tears pouring down his face.

  LaChaise finally pushed himself up into the seat beside him and pointed the way: down to Washington, right, around a curve to a lighted sign that said several things, but concluded with “Jesus Saves,” down a ramp and onto a covered bridge.

  “Shut up, for Christ’s sakes, you do this right, I won’t hurt you.”

  “I know you,” the kid said, “you’re gonna kill me.”

  “I ain’t gonna fuckin’ kill you if you do right; I got no quarrel with you.”

  But the kid started up again and LaChaise said, “Jesus Christ,” in disgust, and they rolled off the bridge past the beer-can building, up the hill to Harvard Street.

  “Turn,” LaChaise said. The kid stopped weeping long enough to get around the corner, and before he could start again, LaChaise said, “Go straight ahead to that turnaround and then stop.”

  “You gonna kill me there?”

  “I’m not gonna fuckin’ kill you, unless you get smart,” LaChaise said. “Just stop there and let me out, and go on your way.”

  There were a half-dozen people on the street, coming and going from the hospital, slip-sliding down the side-walks. Operations took place early in the morning. LaChaise had had two operations himself, for an appendix and to get a skin patch put over a bad case of road rash, and both times, they’d woken him up at dawn for the trip down to the operating room.

  “Right there,” he said, “behind that red Chevy.”

  The kid pulled in behind the Chevy, and LaChaise eased himself out, the backs of his legs on fire. The kid was looking at the gun and LaChaise grinned at him and dug into his jeans, found the remnant of the cash they’d taken from Harp, pulled out the wad of bills and threw it on the passenger seat. A couple of thousand dollars, anyway. “Thanks for the ride,” he said, and he stepped away from the car and slammed the door, and walked up to the hospital entrance.

  He felt like a cowboy.

  He carried his own pistol, the ’dog .44, in his right hand, and pulled Martin’s pistol out of his left pocket, and pushed through the doors using his elbows.

  An information counter was just inside the doors to the right. A security guard sat behind the desk, watching a portable television. Three more people, two women and a man in a white medical jacket, were scattered around the lobby chairs, the women reading, the man staring sightlessly at the wall, as though he’d made an unforgivable error somewhere.

  LaChaise walked over to the guard, who looked up only at the last minute, a smile dying a sudden death. LaChaise pointed the two guns at the guard’s chest and said, “Walk me up to the operating rooms or I’ll kill you.”

  The guard looked at the guns, then at LaChaise, and then, slowly, stupidly, at the television: “They’re looking for you,” he said.

  “No shit. Now get out of there and walk me up to the operating rooms. You got five seconds, then I kill you.”

  “This way,” the guard said. He came out from behind the desk, his hands held at shoulder height. He was unarmed. The three people in the lobby were looking at them, but nobody moved from their seats. “There’s another guy coming in, in one second,” LaChaise said to the room in general. “If anybody’s moving, anybody’s standing up, he’ll kill you. Sit tight and you’ll be okay. I’m Dick LaChaise, that you seen on TV, and I’m here on business.”

  The sound of the line pleased him; it sounded cowboy-like. They walked a few feet down a corridor, around a corner to the right, to a bank of elevators. The guard pushed the elevator button and the doors slid open. “Three,” he said, as they got inside. “You gonna kill me?”

  “Not if you do what I tell you,” LaChaise said. “When we get to three, you stay in the car and ride until you get to the top.” LaChaise pushed all the buttons higher than three, and a bell rang and the door opened, and LaChaise waved the gun at the guard and said, “I’ll stand here until the doors are closed. If you get off before the top, somebody’ll shoot your ass. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir,” the guard said, as the doors closed.

  AT THE END of the hall, double doors led to the operating suite. To his right, an elderly man sat in a chair reading Modern Maturity. He looked up, sucked on his teeth, and looked back at the magazine. LaChaise had the odd impression that he hadn’t noticed the guns.

  Nobody else in sight. LaChaise went to the double doors, pushed through, found himself in a nursing station. Two nurses were looking at a clipboard, and one of them was saying, “. . . must be stealing scrubs again. They’re all his size, and it’s only the new ones . . .”

  They both looked up at the same time. LaChaise was there in his heavy dark coat, dripping water from the melting snow, his eyes dark and two guns in his hand. He said, “Ladies, I need to see Dr. Weather Karkinnen.”

  The taller and younger of the two nurses said, “Oh, shit,” and the older, shorter one shook her head and said, “You can’t. She’s operating.”

  “Then let’s go down to the operating room and see her.”

  “You’re not authorized,” the older woman said.

  “If you don’t show me, I’m going to kill one of you, and then the other one will show me, I bet. Who do I kill?” He pulled back the hammer on the ’dog, and the catches ratcheted in the silence. The two nurses looked at each other, then the older one began to sniffle, the way the boy in the car had; and the younger one said, finally, “I’ll show you.”

  She led the way through another set of doors, stopped outside of a single wide door, stood on tiptoe to look through a window and then stepped back and said sadly, “In there.”

  “If she’s not, I’ll be back,” LaChaise said, holding her eyes. The woman looked away, and LaChaise bumped through the door.

  WEATHER HAD HER eyes to the operating microscope while her hands made the delicate loops that produced square knots in the nearly invisible suture material. She’d just said, “If you actually listen to The Doors you start to laugh; listen to the words of ‘L.A. Woman’ sometime and tell me they’re not . . .”

  The door banged open and she almost jumped, and everybody turned and, without looking up, she said, “Who in the fuck did that?”

  “I did,” LaChaise said.

  Weather finished the knot and then looked up from the scope, blinked and saw him there, with the two pistols.

  “Who’s Weather Karkinnen?”

  “I am,” Weather said. He pointed a pistol at her and she closed her eyes.

  “Come out of there.”

  She opened her eyes again and said, “I can’t stop now. If I stop now, this little girl will lose her thumb and she’ll go through life like that.”

  LaChaise took a mental step back, confused: “What?”

  “I said, if I quit now . . .”

  “I heard that,” he snapped. “What’re you doing?”

  “I’m hooking up an artery. She had a benign tumor and we removed it and now we’re hooking up the two ends of the artery to get the blood supply going again.”

  “Well, how long will it take?”

  Weather looked back through the operating microscope. “Twenty minutes.”

  “You’ve got five,” he said. And he said, “You’re really short for a doctor.”

  Weather looked away again, and asked, “Are you going to kill everybody in here?”

  “Depends,” LaChaise said.

  “If I get another doctor in here, he could finish for me.”

  “Get him.”

  “Not if you’re going to hurt him, or the others.”

  “I won’t hurt him if he doesn’t fuck with me.”

  Weather looked at the circulating nurse and said, “Betty, go down and ask Dr. Feldman to s
tep in here, if he would.”

  LaChaise looked at the nurse and said, “Go. And if you fuck with me . . .”

  Weather went back to the microscope and they all waited, silently, her hands barely moving, for two or three minutes, when a man in an operating gown bumped hip-first into the room, his hands at chest level. “What’s going on?”

  LaChaise pointed one of the guns at him, and Weather said, “We’ve got a gentleman with a gun. Two guns, in fact. He wants to talk with me.”

  “The police are coming,” the new doctor said to LaChaise. In the sterile operating theater, LaChaise looked like a rat on a cheesecake.

  “They’re always coming,” LaChaise said.

  “However this works out, we’ve got to finish this,” Weather said to Feldman, her voice steady. “Could you take a look?”

  The operating scope had two eyepieces, and Feldman, his hands still pressed to his chest, stepped to the operating table opposite Weather and looked into the second eyepiece. “You’re almost done.”

  “I need to put in two more knots, and then it’s a matter of closing . . .”

  She gave him a quick brief on the operation, and finished one of the two knots. “One more,” she said.

  “I’ve got to go down and back off mine,” Feldman said.

  “How far are you in?” Weather asked.

  “Not in,” Feldman said. “We were just getting the anesthesia started . . . I’ll be back.”

  He went with such authority that LaChaise let him go without objection. Weather was working in the incision again, and one of the nurses said, “If I stay here, I’ll pee my pants.”

  “Then go,” Weather said. “Everybody else okay?”

  They were okay. The nurse who thought she might pee her pants decided to stay with them.

  Feldman returned: “Where are we?”

  “Just finishing,” Weather said calmly. “See?”

  Feldman looked through the scope and said, “Nice. But I think you might need one more, at . . .”