Daydreams.
THE REALITY WAS a couple of trucks and a rundown house in a near-slum.
LaChaise and Butters drove down to the Cities in Elmore’s truck, with Martin trailing behind. They needed two vehicles, they decided, at least for a while. Butters and Martin caught Elmore in the barn, while Sandy was out riding, and squeezed him for the truck keys.
“Just overnight,” Butters said, standing too close. “Martin’s got some warrants out on his car, if the cops check—nothing serious, but we gotta have some kind of backup. We won’t do nothin’ with it.”
“Guys, I tell you, we’re moving stuff today . . .” Elmore stuttered. Martin and Butters scared Elmore. Martin, Elmore thought, was a freak, a pent-up homosexual hillbilly crazy in love with LaChaise. Butters had the flat eyes of a snapping turtle, and was simply nuts.
Elmore tried to get out of it, but Martin put his hands in Elmore’s coat pocket, and when Elmore tried to wrench away, Butters pushed him from the other side. Martin had the keys and said, “We’ll get them back to you, bud.”
THE HOUSE WAS a shabby two-story clapboard wreck on a side street in the area called Frogtown. The outside needed paint, the inside needed an exterminator. Half the basement was wet and the circuit box hanging over the damp concrete floor was a fire marshal’s nightmare. Martin had brought in three Army-surplus beds, a dilapidated monkey-shit-yellow couch and two matching chairs, and a dinette set, all from Goodwill, and a brand-new twenty-seven-inch Sony color TV.
“Good place, if we don’t burn to death,” Martin said. The house smelled like wet plaster and fried eggs. “That wiring down the basement is a marvel.”
“Hey, it’s fine,” LaChaise said, looking around.
No web of sewer pipe, no Honda generators. No land mines.
That evening, Butters sat in one of the broken-down easy chairs, his head back and his eyes closed. Martin sat cross-legged on the floor with his arrows, unscrewing the field points, replacing them with hundred-grain Thunderheads, a can of beer by one foot. He would occasionally look at LaChaise with a stare that was purely sexual.
“We’re gonna do it,” LaChaise said. He had a half-glass of bourbon in his hand. “We’ve been talking for years. Talk talk talk. Now with Candy and Georgie shot to pieces, we’re gonna do it.”
“Gonna be the end of us,” Martin said. His beard was coppery red in the lamplight.
“Could be,” LaChaise agreed. He scratched his own beard, nipped at the bourbon. “Do you care?”
Martin worked for another minute, then said, “Nah. I’m getting crowded. I’m ready.”
“You could go up north, up in the Yukon.”
“Been there,” Martin said. “The goddamn Canadians is a bunch of Communists. Even Alaska’s better.”
“Mexico . . .”
“I’m a goddamn American.”
LaChaise nodded and said, “How about you, Ansel?”
Butters said, “I just want to get it over with.”
“Well, we got to take our time, figure this out . . .”
“I mean, everything over with,” Butters said. “I can take my time with this.”
LaChaise nodded again. “It’s the end for me, for sure. But I swear to God, I’m taking a bunch of these sonsofbitches with me.”
Martin looked at him uncertainly, then nodded, and looked away. They worked together, comfortable but intent, like they did in hunting camps, thinking about it all, drinking a little, letting the feeling of the hunt flow through them, the camaraderie as they got the gear ready.
They checked the actions on their weapons for the twentieth time, loading and unloading the pistols, dry-firing at the TV; the good smell of Hoppe’s solvent and gun oil, the talk of old times and old rides and the people they remembered, lots of them dead, now.
“If I lived,” LaChaise continued, “I’d do nothing but sit in cells for the rest of my life anyhow. Besides . . .”
“Besides what?” Martin asked, looking up.
“Ah, nothin’,” LaChaise said, but he thought, Mexico. He’d always planned to go, and hadn’t ever been.
“It cranks me up, thinking about it,” Butters said. His face was flushed with alcohol.
SANDY HAD BLOWN up when she’d come back from her ride, and Elmore had told her about the truck. She jumped in her van and went after them, but they were gone. She got to the St. Croix, realized the futility of the chase, slowed, turned around and went back.
“What were you thinking about?” she shouted at Elmore. “You shoulda swallowed the keys.”
That night, Elmore was in the kitchen making a pot of Rice-a-Roni with venison chunks, and she could smell the chemical odor of the stuff as she sat in front of the TV. She heard the rattling of the dishes, and finally, Elmore stood in the hallway behind her. She pretended to watch the sports.
He said, “We oughta talk to the cops.”
“What?” She pushed herself out of her chair. She hadn’t expected this.
Elmore’s voice rose to a nervous warble: “If we stick with this, only two things can happen. We get killed, or we go to jail for murder. That’s it: them two things.”
“Too late,” she said. “We gotta sit tight.”
Tears came to his eyes, and one dribbled down a cheek, and Sandy suddenly didn’t know what to do. She’d seen Elmore frightened, she’d seen him cower, she’d seen him avoid any serious responsibility, but she’d never seen him weep. “Are you okay?”
He turned his head toward her, the tears still running down her cheeks: “How’d this happen?” he said.
She’d thought about that: “My sister,” she said. “The whole of this is because of Candy. And because of your dad’s trailer. It’s because of nothing that means anything . . .”
“We’ve got to go to the police.”
“But what do we tell them? And why would they believe us?”
“Maybe they won’t,” he rasped. “But you saw all those guns and all that other shit that Martin had. How’re they going to Mexico with all that shit? How are they gonna get across the border with it? And if they do get across, what are they going to use for money? They ain’t going to Mexico. They’re gonna pull some crazy stunt.”
“No—no,” she said, shaking her head. “They’re out of here. Dick LaChaise is nobody’s fool.”
“Dick LaChaise is fuckin’ nuts,” Elmore said. “You want to know what’s gonna happen? We got two or three more days, and then we’ll be dead or in jail. Two or three more days, Sandy. No more horses, no more trail rides, no more going up to the store or running down to the Cities. We’re going to jail. Forever.”
They stared at each other for a moment, then she said, almost whispering, “But we can’t get out. If we talked to the cops, what would we give them? We don’t even know where Dick’s at. And there’re Seed guys all over the place—look what happened when that guy was going to testify against Candy. He got killed.”
“Maybe old John Shanks could tell us something,” Elmore said. John Shanks was a criminal attorney who’d handled Candy’s assault case. “See if he can cut us a deal.”
“I don’t know, El,” Sandy said, shaking her head. “This thing is all out of control. If they hadn’t stayed in the trailer . . .”
“We can clean up the trailer.”
“Sure, but if we turn against them, they’ll drag us in. How’d you like to be in the same prison with Butters and Martin?”
Elmore swallowed. He was not a brave man. “We gotta do something.”
“I’m gonna walk down the driveway,” Sandy said. “I’ll figure something out.”
SANDY PUT ON her parka and pacs, and her gloves, and stepped outside. The night was brutally cold and slapped at her skin like nettles; the wind was enough to snatch her breath away. She crunched down the frozen snow in the thin blue illumination of the yard light, thinking about it, worrying it. If she could only keep things under control. If only Dick would disappear. If only Elmore would hold on . . .
Elmore.
br /> Sandy had never really loved Elmore, though she’d once been very fond of him; and still felt the fondness at times. But more often, she suffered with the fact that Elmore clearly loved her, and she could hardly bear to be around him.
Sandy had grown up with horses, though she’d never owned one until she was on her own. Her father, a country mailman, had always wanted to ride the range—and so they rode out of the county stables on weekends, almost every weekend from the time she was three until she was eighteen, three seasons of the year. Candy hadn’t cared for it, and quit when she was in junior high; Sandy had never quit. Never would. She loved horses more than her father loved riding them. Walking down the drive, she could smell the sweet odor of the barn, manure and straw, though it was more than a quarter-mile away . . . She could never leave that; never risk it.
She’d gone to high school with Elmore, but never dated him. After graduation, she’d left for Eau Claire to study nursing, and two years later, came back to Turtle Lake, took a job with a local nursing home and started saving for the horse farm. When her parents died in a car accident—killed by a drunk—her half of the money had bought four hundred acres east of town.
Elmore had been working as a security guard in the Cities, and started hanging around. Sandy, lonely, had let him hang around. Made the mistake of letting him work around the ranch: he wasn’t the brightest man, or the hardest worker, but she needed all the help she could get, working nights at the nursing home, days at the ranch. Made the mistake of sleeping with him, the second man she’d slept with.
Then Elmore had fallen off a stairwell and wrenched his back: the payoff, twenty-two thousand dollars, would buy some stock and a used Ford tractor. And there wasn’t anybody else around. And she was fond of the man.
Sandy often walked down the drive when life got a little too unhappy, when Elmore got to be too much of a burden. The ranch, she’d thought, was the only thing she wanted in life, and she’d do anything to get it. When she’d gotten it—and when the breeding business actually started to pay off—she found that she needed something else. Somebody else. Even if it was just somebody to talk to as an equal, who’d understand the business, feel the way she did about horses.
Elmore was an emotional trap she couldn’t find a way out of. There was the man in Montana; he was married now, but she thought about him all the time. With somebody like that . . .
She brushed the thought away. That’s not who she had.
She turned, circling, crunching through the snow: prison for life. And she got around to the north, and saw the first slinky unfolding of the northern lights, watched as they pumped up to a shimmering curtain above the everlasting evergreens, and decided that she might have to talk to someone about Dick LaChaise.
“But not quite yet,” she told Elmore when she was back inside. “Just a couple of more days—we let it ride. Maybe they’ll take off. Anyway, we gotta build a story. Then maybe we talk to old John.”
ANDY STADIC WENT into the laundromat and sat down. The place smelled of spilt Tide and ERA and dirty wash water, and the hot lint smell of the dryers.
A woman glanced at him once, and again. He was just sitting there, a well-dressed white man, and had nothing to wash. She started to get nervous. He sat in one of the hard folding chairs and read a two-week-old copy of People. The woman finished folding her dry clothes, packed them in a pink plastic basket, and left. He was alone. He walked over to the door, turned the Open/Closed sign to Closed, and locked the door.
Stadic watched the windows. A blond-haired hippie strolled by, a kid who might have been the southern boy who’d jumped Daymon Harp. A minute later, a hawk-faced white man walked up to the door, stuck his head inside.
“You Stadic?”
“Yeah.”
“Sit tight.”
Damn right. He’d told them he wouldn’t go anyplace private. He’d told them Harp would be watching.
Another minute passed, and then a bearded man came around the corner, Pioneer seed-corn hat pulled low over his eyes. He walked like a farmer, heavy and loose, and had a farmer’s haircut, ears sticking out, red with the cold, and a razor trim on the back of his neck. The farmer took his time getting inside. Stadic recognized the eyes beneath the bill.
LaChaise.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Stadic said. He wanted to get on top of the guy immediately.
“Shut up,” LaChaise said. His voice was a tough baritone, and his eyes fixed on Stadic’s.
“You don’t tell me to shut up.” Stadic was on his feet, squared off.
LaChaise put his hand in his pocket, and the pocket moved. He had a gun.
“Go for your gun,” LaChaise said.
“What?” As soon as he said it, a temporizing word, uncertain, Stadic felt that he’d lost the edge.
“Gonna give me trouble, go for your gun, give me some real trouble. I already killed one cop, killing you won’t be nothing.”
“Jesus Christ . . .”
LaChaise was on top, knew it, and his hand came off the gun. “Where’re the records?”
“You gotta be nuts, thinking I’d give you those things.”
“I am nuts,” LaChaise said. His hand was back on the gun. “You should know that. Now, where’re the records?”
“I want to know what you’re gonna do with them.”
“We’re gonna scare the shit out of a lot of people,” LaChaise said. “We’re gonna have them jumpin’ through hoops like they was in a Russian circus. Now quit doggin’ me around: either give them to me, or tell me you don’t have them. You don’t have them, I’m gone.”
When they’d set up the meeting, by phone, LaChaise had said that if he didn’t bring the papers, the next call would be to Internal Affairs.
Stadic let out a breath, shook his head. “Scare the shit out of them? That’s all?”
“That’s all,” LaChaise said. He was lying and Stadic knew it. And LaChaise knew that he knew, and didn’t care. “Gimme the goddamned papers.”
“Jesus, LaChaise, anything else . . .”
“I’m outa here,” LaChaise said, turning toward the doors.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute . . .” Stadic said, “I’m gonna stick my hand in my coat.”
LaChaise’s hand went back to his pistol and he nodded. Stadic took the papers out of his breast pocket and held them out at arm’s length. LaChaise took them, didn’t look, and backed away. “Better be the real thing,” he said, and he turned to go.
“Wait,” Stadic said. “I gotta know how to get in touch with you.”
“We’ll get in touch with you,” LaChaise said.
“Think about it,” Stadic said, his voice tight, urgent. “I want you outa here—or dead. I don’t want you caught. Anything but that. If they figure out where you’re at, and they’re coming to get you . . . I oughta be able to call.”
“Got no phone,” LaChaise said. “We’re trying to get one of them cellulars.”
“Call me, soon as you get one,” Stadic said. He took an index card from his pocket, groped for a pen, found one, scribbled the number. “I carry the phone all the time.”
“I’ll think about it,” LaChaise said, taking the card.
“Do it,” Stadic said. “Please.”
Then LaChaise was gone, out the door, pulling the hat down over his eyes, around the corner. Harp came through the back door two minutes later.
“I think three is all of them,” Harp said. “I saw the cracker on the street, then a pickup pulls up and this peckerwood gets out—he’s new—and the pickup goes off; the driver was probably that other dude.”
“Get the plates?”
“Yeah. I did.”
“See anybody else? Anybody who looked like a cop?” Harp shook his head. “Just a couple of kids and some old whore.”
LACHAISE FLIPPED THROUGH a computer printout of the police department’s insurance program. Some of it was gobbledygook, but buried in the tiny squares and rectangles were the names of all the insu
red, their addresses and phone numbers.
“Modern science,” LaChaise said.
“What?” Martin turned to look at him.
“I’m reading a computer printout; I’m gonna get a cell phone,” LaChaise said. “You go along and things get easier.”
He started circling names on the printout.
6
WEATHER KARKINNEN WORE a white terry-cloth robe, with a matching terry-cloth towel wrapping her hair. Through the back window she was a Vermeer figure in a stone house, quiet, pensive, slow-moving, soft with her bath, humming along with a Glenn Gould album.
She got a beer from the refrigerator, popped the top, found a glass and started pouring. The phone rang, and she stepped back and picked it up, propped it between her ear and her shoulder, and continued pouring.
“Yes, he is,” she said.
Lucas was sitting in his old leather chair, eyes closed. He was working on a puzzle—a tactical exercise involving both a car chase and a robbery.
Lucas had once written strategy board games, had moved them to computers, then, pushed temporarily off the police force, had started a company doing computer simulations of police problems.
He’d made the change at just the right time: His training software did well. Now the company was run by a professional manager, and though Lucas still held the biggest chunk of the stock, he now worked mostly on conceptual problems. He was imagining a piece of software that spliced voice and data transmissions, that would layer a serious but confused problem beneath an exciting but superficial one, to teach new dispatchers to triage emergency calls.
Triage. The word had been used by the programmers putting together the simulation, and it had been rattling around his brain for a few days, a loose BB. The word had a nasty edge to it, like cadaver.
“Lucas?”
He jumped. Weather was in the doorway, a glass of dark beer in her hand. She’d brewed it herself in a carboy in the hall closet, from a kit that Lucas had bought her for her birthday.