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.''
``Yo
u 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.''
``That's what I wanted to know,'' O'Donald said.
``But you gotta tell me when you're going on,'' Lucas said.``We'll put a guy on your house-in your house, maybe- just in case LaChaise comes looking.''
``Jeez,'' she said. There was a minute's silence. ``You put it that way... maybe I won't. I don't want to fuck with Dick.''
``Either way, let me know,'' Lucas said. He glanced at his watch. The meeting was about to start. ``Come in, talk to Ed...''
``Wait a minute, wait a minute. I thought of something else you might want to know.''
``Yeah?''
``You ought to look at the ownership of that laundromat.''
``Why don't you just tell me?'' Lucas asked.
``I understand that it belongs to Daymon Harp.'' The name hung there, but Lucas didn't recognize it.
``Who's he?''
``Jeez, Davenport, you gotta get back on the streets a little more. He's a dealer. Pretty big time...''
``A Seed guy?''
``No, no, never. He's a black guy; good-looking guy. Ask Del. Del'll know who he is.''
``Thanks, Sally.''
``You talk to sex?''
``I'll talk to them tonight.''
When he got off the phone, he said to Del, ``Daymon Harp?''
``Dealer-semi-small-time. Careful. Reasonably smart. Came over from Milwaukee a few years back. Why?''
``Sally O'Donald says he owns the laundromat where she saw LaChaise.''
Del frowned, shook his head. ``I don't know what that means. I can't see Harp running with the Seed guys. That's the last combination I could imagine.''
``Might be worth checking...''
Del looked at Sloan. ``Want to run it down?''
Lucas interrupted. ``Why don't you get cleaned up first? Sloan and Franklin can stay with the phones. When I get back, we'll all go down.''
LUCAS WAS THE LAST ONE IN THE DOOR. THE MEETING included Roux, the mayor and a deputy mayor; Frank Lester, head of investigations; Barney Kittleson, head of patrol; Anita Segundo, the press liaison; and Lucas.
Rose Marie was talking to Segundo when Lucas eased through the door. She asked, ``How bad?''
``CBS, NBC, ABC, CNN and one or two of the Fox cop shows all have people on the way. Nightline is doing a segment tonight. They're talking about LaChaise and his group being militia. Ever since the federal building was blown up in Oklahoma City, that's a hot topic.''
`` Are they militia?'' the mayor asked. ``Do these media guys know something?''
``The FBI says LaChaise was on the edge of things, but they don't show him really involved,'' Lester said. ``He knew some of the Order people back in the eighties...''
``Didn't the Order kill that radio guy in Denver?'' the mayor asked.
Lester nodded: ``Yes. But the feds took them out a little while later. LaChaise was a big guy in the Seed, and some of the militia people from Michigan were involved in the Seed back when it was a biker gang. And later on, some of the Seed people got involved with Christian Identity-that's sort of an umbrella group. And we know LaChaise used to sell neo-Nazi stuff in his bike shop: The Turner Diaries , and all that. Some people think the Seed got its name from a rightwinger who went on the radio and said it was too late to stop the movement, because there were Seeds everywhere. But that could be bullshit.''
``We gotta nail that down,'' the mayor said, jabbing a finger at Roux. ``If these are militia, we gotta start thinking in terms of bombs and heavy weapons.''
Roux glanced at Lucas, scratched her head and said, ``I don't think...''
She stopped, and the mayor's eyebrows went up. ``Yeah?''
``I don't think that's much of a possibility, Stan. I think we're basically dealing with some goofs, with guns. Three guys, psychos, who maybe rode together in a biker gang. And maybe messed around on the edge of the Nazi stuff.''
``Well, you're probably right,'' the mayor said. ``But if they blow up the fuckin' First Bank, I don't want to be standing there with my dick in my hand, trying to explain why we didn't know what was coming.''
Roux nodded. ``That's one thing: we're gonna need a very tight public relations operation, or we're gonna get run over,'' she said. ``We'll have cops gettin' paid off, we'll have reporters chasing witnesses...''
``The guy at Rosedale-the other clerk with Kupicek's wife, in the TV store-he's already signed up for Nightline ,'' Segundo said.
The mayor was an olive-complected, bull-shouldered man, with fine curly black hair just starting to recede. He looked at his deputy, then at Roux: ``Rose Marie, it's gonna be you and me.''
``Sounds like a hit song from the fifties,'' the deputy said, ``Rose Marie, it's you and me.''
Every
one ignored him.
``We lay down the law about cops talking to the press: if you do it, you better get a lot of money, 'cause you won't be working here anymore,'' the mayor said. ``We have four major press briefings every day: one early, to catch the morning shows; one just before noon; one just before five; and one at eight forty-five, to catch the late news. You'll have to coordinatewith your investigators-we should have a bone to throw them at every press conference. Doesn't have to be real, but it has to be satisfying...''