"You ready for a big noise?" Path asked Carpenter.
The chief said, "Don't talk like that. Do you mean that? Do you think?"
They all squatted behind cars, the wrecker rolled forward, and the lid flipped off like a beer cap. Nothing happened. Lucas could hear a plane droning down the river.
"Well, shit," Martinez said after a moment. He stood up. "Let's go look."
They walked slowly back to the barrel. From thirty feet away, Lucas could see that it was filled with water. When they got next to it, they looked carefully inside. A small body was at the bottom of the barrel, a pale oval face turned to look up at them. The water was cloudy with a sediment of some kind, and the body shimmered, out of focus, a white dress floating around it like gauze, black hair drifting around the head.
Martinez looked in the barrel and said, "No. I don't do this." And he walked away.
"Oh, shit. Who is it?" Carpenter asked, peering open-mouthed into the barrel.
The body was small. "Probably Genevieve Dunn," Lucas said. "Are we sure this is water?"
Path, looking in, put his face close to the surface and said, "Yeah. It's water. He could have a big chunk of white phosphorus in there, waiting for us to get rid of the water."
Lucas shook his head: "Nah. This is what he wanted me to see. A jack-in-the-box. The motherfucker is playing games… Is that the Medical Examiner down there?"
Carpenter nodded. "Yeah. I'll get him."
Lucas stepped away and looked down the hill, waiting. There should be something else—or Mail would call again, to gloat. Carpenter, standing beside him, said, "I'd pull the trigger on this guy. How can you kill a kid?"
Lucas said, "Yeah?" He remembered the line from a Vietnam vet, a street guy. How can you kill a kid? Just lead them a little less…
The Medical Examiner was a young man with a thin face, thin spectacles, and a large Adam's apple. He walked up, glanced in the barrel, and said, "What's the shit in the water?"
Nobody knew.
"Well, give me something I can fish around with, huh?" He was unselfconsciously cheerful, even for a Medical Examiner. "Give me one of those fire axes. I don't want to put my hand in there if we don't know what it is."
"Take it easy with the ax," Carpenter said.'
"Don't worry about it," the examiner said. He looked in the barrel again. "That's not a kid."
"What?" Lucas walked back.
"Not unless she had deformed hands and too big a head," he said confidently.
Lucas looked in the water again—it still looked like a child's body. "I think it's some kind of big plastic doll," the examiner said. A fireman came up with a long curved tool that looked like an oversized poker. "Here."
The Medical Examiner took it, grabbed the body, but it slipped away. "Anchored with something," he grunted. "Look, if this is just water, why don't we dump it?"
They did; the water spilled out on the grass, and the ME reached inside and pulled out a four-foot doll, plastic flesh, black hair, and paint-flaking baby blue eyes. Its feet were folded beneath it and tied to a brick to keep the doll from floating.
"Got the big sense of humor, huh?" said the examiner. A white plastic tag floated from the doll's neck. The examiner turned it. It said, in black grease pencil, "CLUE."
"I don't think he has a sense of humor," Lucas said. "I really don't think he does."
"Then what is this shit?"
"I don't know," Lucas said.
Lucas called in, then headed back toward Minneapolis. As he passed the refinery off Highway 61, Mail called again.
"Goddamn, you were fast, Lucas. Can I call you Lucas? How'd you like all those fire trucks? I drove by while you guys were up there. What were you doing? Somebody said they thought it was a bomb or something. Is that right? Did you have the bomb squad up there?"
"Listen, we think you might have some trouble, you know, making the world work right. And we think you might know it. We can get you help…"
"You mean I'm fuckin' nuts? Is that what you mean?"
"Listen, I personally had a bad episode of depression a few years back, and I know what it's like. The shit in your head is wrong, and it's not your fault…"
"Fuck that, Davenport, there's nothing wrong with my fuckin' head. There's something wrong with the fuckin' world. Turn on your TV sometime, asshole. There's nothing wrong with me."
And he was gone again.
The phone company was automatically tracing all calls to Lucas's cellular phone and alerting the Dispatch Department at the same time. Dispatch would start cars toward the phone. But when Lester called, two minutes after Mail hung up, he said, "He was too quick. He was on the strip near the airport. We had cars there in two minutes forty-five seconds after he rang you, but he was gone. We stopped seven vans, nothing going there."
"Damnit. He won't talk for more than ten seconds or so."
"He knows what he's doing."
"All right. I'm heading back."
"Sherrill came up with another problem case, a guy fooling around with children—he's been screwing ten-year-old girls at a playground. I don't know what's gonna happen, but if we get Manette back, she might wind up doing some time."
Lucas shook his head and looked at the phone, then said, "Frank, we're not secure here. This phone is a fuckin' radio."
Lester was waiting when Lucas got back.
"This Manette thing, the sex things," he said.
"Yeah?"
"An awful lot of people know. They know down in Sex, and they're pissed that they can't move. It's gonna get out, and it won't be long."
"Are we running the names of all these guys?"
"All of them."
"How about people they've abused? Could somebody be trying to get revenge on Manette?"
Lester shrugged. "So we plug in all the victims. We got more goddamned names, and nothing coming up. What do you make of that thing out at the water tower?"
"I don't know," Lucas said. "He says it's a clue, but what kind of a clue? Why was it full of water? Watery grave? Was it the barrel?"
Anderson came through, handed each of them a fat plastic binder with perhaps three hundred pages inside. "Everything we've got, except what might come out of the lab on the doll. And we're not getting anything from the feebs."
"Big surprise." Lucas flipped through the text.
"Any ideas?" Lester asked.
"Watery grave," Lucas said. "That's about it."
Nothing moved. Nobody called.
Lucas finally phoned Anderson: "There's an interview in your book with one of Manette's neighbors."
"Yeah?"
"She said there was somebody hanging around in a boat, in a spot where there aren't any fish. Maybe we ought to run boat licenses against the other lists."
"Jesus, Lucas, we got hundreds of names already."
Later, Lucas called St. Anne's College and asked for the psychology department. "Sister Mary Joseph, please."
"Is this Lucas?" The voice on the other end was breathless.
"Yes."
"We were wondering if you'd call," the receptionist said. "I'll go get her."
Elle Kruger—Sister Mary Joseph—picked up the phone a moment later, her voice dry: "Well, they're all in a tizzy around here. Sister Marple goes off to solve another one. And this one's a gamer, I hear."
"Yeah. And it's ugly," Lucas said. "I think one of the kids is dead."
"Oh, no." The wry quality disappeared from her voice. "How sure?"
"The guy who took them left a clue: a doll in an oil barrel filled with water. I think the doll was supposed to represent one of the kids."
"I see. Do you want to come over and talk?"
"Weather should be home around six. If you'd like to walk over, I'll cook some steaks."
"Six-thirty," she said. "See you then."
On his way home, Lucas took University Avenue toward St. Paul and stopped just short of the St. Paul city line. Davenport Simulations occupied a suite of offices on the first floor of a fac
eless but well-kept office building. Most of the offices in the building were closed. Davenport Simulations was completely lit up: most of the programmers started work in the early afternoon, and ran until midnight, or later.
Lucas smiled at the receptionist as he went by; she smiled and waved and kept talking on her phone. Barry Hunt was in his office with one of the techies, poring over a printout. When Lucas knocked, he gave a friendly, "Hey, come on in," while his face struggled to find an appropriate expression.
Hunt had been finishing his MBA at St. Thomas when Lucas started looking for somebody to take over the company. For ten years, Lucas had run it out of his study, writing war and role-playing games, selling the games to three different companies. Almost against his will, he got involved in the shift to computer gaming. At the same time, he'd been forced out of the department; he wound up working full-time, writing emergency scenarios for what became a line of police-training software. The software sold, and everything began to move too quickly: he didn't know about payroll, taxes, social security, royalties, worker's comp, operator training.
Elle had met Hunt in one of her psych classes and recommended him. Hunt took over the company operations and had done well, for both of them. But Hunt and Lucas were not especially compatible, and Lucas was no longer certain that Hunt was happy to see him drop by.
"Barry, I need to talk to the software guys for a minute," Lucas said. "I've got a problem. It's this Manette thing."
Hunt shrugged. "Sure. Go ahead. I think everybody's here."
"I swear, just a minute."
"Great…"
The back two-thirds of the office suite was a single bay, cut up into small cubicles by shoulder-high dividers, exactly the kind used in the Homicide office. Seven men and two women, all young, were at work: six at individual monitors, three clustered around a large screen, running a search-trainer simulation. Another man and a heavy-set young woman, both with Coke-bottle glasses, were drinking coffee by a window. When Lucas walked in with Hunt, the room went quiet.
"Hey, everybody," Lucas said.
"Lucas," somebody said. Faces turned toward him.
"You've all probably heard about the Manette kidnapping case. The guy who took her is a gamer. I've got a composite sketch, and I'd like you all to look at it, see if you recognize him. And I'd appreciate it if you'd fax it or ship it to everybody you can think of, here in the Cities. We really need the help."
He passed out copies of the composite: nobody knew the face.
"He's a big guy?" asked one of the programmers, a woman named Ice.
"Yeah. Tall, muscular, thin," Lucas said. "Crazy, apparently. Maybe medically crazy."
"Sounds like my last date," Ice said.
"Will you put it on the 'Net?" Lucas asked.
"No problem," Ice said. She was a throwback to the days of punk, with short-cropped hair, bright red lipstick that somewhat flowed out of the lines of her lips, and nose rings. Hunt said she wrote more code than anyone in the place. An idea began to tickle the back of Lucas's head, but he pushed it away for the moment.
"Good," he said. "Let's do it."
On the way out, Hunt said, "Lucas, we need to get together."
"Trouble?" Lucas feared the day that the IRS would knock on the door and ask for his records. Records? We don't got no steenking records.
"We need a loan," Hunt said. "I've talked to Norwest, and there won't be any problem getting it. You'd have to approve."
"A loan? I thought we were…"
"We need to buy Probleco," Hunt said. "They've got a half-dozen hardware products that would fit with ours like the last pieces in a puzzle. And they're for sale. Jim Duncan wants to go back to engineering."
"How much do you want to borrow? Maybe I could…"
"Eight mil," Hunt said.
Lucas was startled. "Jesus, Barry, eight million dollars?"
"Eight million would buy us dominance in the field, Lucas. Nobody else would be close. Nobody else could get close."
"But, my God, that's a lot of money," Lucas said, flustered. "What if we fall on our butts?"
"You hired me to keep us off our butts, and we are," Hunt said. "We'll stay that way. But that's why we've got to meet, so I can explain it all."
"All right; but we'll have to wait until after this Manette thing. And I'd like you maybe to come up with a couple of other options."
"I can think of one big one, right off the top of my head."
"What?"
"Take the company public. It's a little early for that, but if you wanted out, well… we could take the company public and probably get you, I don't know, something between eight and ten mil."
"Holy cats," Lucas said.
He'd never said that before, in public or private, but now it bleated out and Hunt jerked out a quick smile. "If we borrow the eight mil, and hang on for another five years, it'll be thirty mil. I promise."
"All right, all right, we'll talk," Lucas said, starting down the hall. "Give me a week. Thirty mil. Holy cats."
"Say hello to Weather," Hunt said. He seemed about to say something else but stopped. Lucas was halfway out the door before he realized what it was, and walked back. Hunt had just sat down in his office, and Lucas stuck his head in. "This Manette thing can't last for more than a couple of weeks, so set a meeting with the bank. And lay out the stock thing we talked about—the share plan."
Hunt nodded. "I've been meaning to bring it up."
Lucas said, "Now's the time. I told you if it worked, you'd get a piece of it. It seems to be working."
Weather.
Lucas toyed with the engagement ring: he should ask her. He could feel her waiting. But the advice was rolling in, unsolicited, from everywhere, and somehow, it slowed him down.
Women suggested a romantic proposal: a short preface, declaring that he loved her, with a more or less elaborate description of what their life together would be like, and then a suggestion that they marry; most of the men suggested a plain, straight-forward question: Hey babe, how about it? A few thought he was crazy for tying up with a woman at all. A park cop suggested that golf would be a complete replacement for any woman, and cheaper.
"Fuck golf," Lucas said. "I like women."
"Well, that's the other half of the equation," the guy admitted. "Women are also a complete replacement for golf."
"Anything?" Weather asked as soon as he came in the door. He could feel the ring in his pocket, against his thigh. "With the Manettes?"
"Bizarre bullshit," he said, and he told her about the oil barrel. "Elle's coming over at six-thirty; I promised her steak."
"Excellent," Weather said. "I'll do the salad."
Lucas went to start the charcoal and touched the ring in his pocket. What if she said no, not yet… ? Would that change everything? Would she feel like she had to move out?
Weather was bustling around the kitchen, bumping into him as he got the barbecue sauce out of the refrigerator. She asked with elaborate, chatty unconcern, "Do you think you and Elle would have gotten married, if…"
"If she'd hadn't become a nun?" Lucas laughed. "No. We grew up together. We were too close, too young. Romancing her just wouldn't have seemed… right. Too much like incest."
"Does she think the same way?"
Lucas shrugged. "I don't know. I never know what women think."
"You wouldn't rule it out, though."
"Weather?"
"What?"
"Shut the fuck up."
Sister Mary Joseph—Elle Kruger—still wore the traditional black habit with a long rosary swaying by her side. Lucas had asked her about it, and she'd said, "I like it. The other dress… it looks dowdy. I don't feel dowdy."
"Do you feel like a penguin?"
"Not in the slightest."
Elle had been a beautiful child, and still ran through Lucas's dreams, an eleven-year-old blonde touched by grace and merriment: and later scarred by acne so foul that she'd retreated from life, to emerge ten years later as Sister Joseph. She'd tol
d him that her choice was not brought by her face, that she had a vocation. He wasn't certain; he never quite bought it.
Elle arrived in a black Chevrolet as Lucas was putting the first of the steaks on the grill. Weather gave her a beer.
"What's the status?" Elle asked.
"One's dead, maybe; the others aren't yet," Lucas said. "But the guy is cracking open and all the gunk is oozing out of his head. He's gonna kill them soon."
"I know her—Andi Manette. She's not the most powerful mind, but she's got an ability to… touch people," Elle said, sipping the beer. The smell of steak floated in from the porch. "She reaches out and you talk to her. I think it's something that aristocrats develop. It's a touch."
"Can she stay alive?"
Elle nodded. "For a while—for longer than another woman could. She'll try to manipulate him. If he's had therapy, it's hard to tell which way he'll jump. He'll recognize the manipulation, but some people become so habituated to therapy that they need it, like a drug. She could keep him going."
"Like Scheherazade," Weather said.
"Like that," Elle agreed.
"I need to keep him talking," Lucas said. "He calls me on the telephone, and we try to track him."
"Do you think he was in therapy with her? A patient?"
"We don't know. We're looking, but we haven't found much."
"If he is, then you should go to his problem. Not accuse him of being ill."
"I did that this afternoon," Lucas said ruefully. "He got pissed… sorry."
"Ask him how he's taking care of them," Elle suggested. "See if you can make him feel some responsibility, or that you think he's shirking a responsibility. Ask him if there's anything you can do that would allow them to go free. Something he would trade. Ask him not to answer right away, but to consider it. What would he like? You need questions on that order."
Later, over the steaks, Lucas said, "We've got another problem. We're going through Manette's records. She was treating people for child abuse—and she hadn't notified anybody."