Sudden Prey (16 page)

A moment later it came back: the truck was registered to an Elmore Darling, on a rural route in Turtle Lake, Wisconsin.

''Thanks for that . . .''

He looked through the window into Barney's. The cops inside hadn't heard their car number going out. He moved down the street, to a stop signal.

Now. One more call.

He brooded about the idea through the green light: the streets were empty, and he sat staring at nothing, the redyellow-green bouncing unseen across his face. He knew the phone number, all right. If he had the guts . . . but then, it was hardly a matter of guts anymore. It was a matter of urgent necessity. And he'd already set it up.

If Davenport thought LaChaise was going after his daughter, LaChaise was a dead man: and that's what he needed. Dead men. Stadic pulled himself together and punched in the number. Christ, if they recognized his voice . . .

The phone rang once, then Davenport's voice said, ''Yeah?''

''I don't want to say who this is--I don't want to get involved--but you gave me your card, once.'' He pitched his voice up, made it smooth, syrupy.

''OKAY,'' LUCAS SAID, AN EDGE OF IMPATIENCE IN HIS tone. He was staring at Sherrill, who was chewing on a cuticle. Lucas didn't need tips about loan sharks, cigarettesmuggling, credit card dealing, dope factories.

''I live down by Richard Small and Jennifer Carey.'' The voice was curiously soft. ''That's your little girl with Jennifer, right?''

There was a hard moment of silence, then Davenport said, ''Jesus.''

''There's been a truck driving around. I saw him twice when I was out walking my dog. Wisconsin plates. I thought I should call.''

And the caller was gone.

Lucas exploded out of the chair and ran from the office and through the building to Dispatch. The other four, not understanding, went after him.

A PATROL CAR SQUATTED IN FRONT OF THE HOUSE, EXHAUST curling up into the falling snow. Another was parked across the street, and the two cops from the car waited in the back of the house. Lucas arrived fifteen minutes after his dash to Dispatch, carrying his black wool overcoat and a briefcase. Del trailed a few steps behind, like a destitute bodyguard, watching the windows up and down the street. A cop met them at the door.

''We kept everybody away from the windows,'' the cop said. ''There's been nothin' on the street. Nothin' moving.''

''Good. And thanks. Keep an eye out,'' Lucas said.

Jennifer Carey and Richard Small waited for him in the dining room, the blinds pulled.

''Where's Sarah?'' Lucas asked, without preamble.

''Upstairs, in bed,'' Jennifer said. She was still the willowy blonde, but with a few more wrinkles than when Sarah had been conceived. Lucas had wanted--had offered, in any case--to marry her, but though she'd wanted the baby, she hadn't cared for the prospects of marriage to Lucas. Now she and Small, a vice-president at TV3's parent corporation, hadput together a family: Jennifer's daughter, his son. Jennifer looked past Lucas at Del, and a tiny smile caught her lips. ''How're you doing, Del?''

Del shrugged. ''Cheryl's gonna make it.''

''What's the threat level?'' Small asked. He was short, muscular, blunt, a onetime Navy pilot in Vietnam, and Lucas liked him.

''We don't know,'' Lucas said. ''The call was weird, but we can't take any chances. You're gonna have to move.''

''I can't quit working,'' Jennifer said. ''This is too large.'' Lucas said, ''That pushes the threat quite a bit higher.''

''We'll keep her behind security, inside the building,'' Small said. ''We'll make sure she doesn't leave at any expected time. We can use different cars.''

''That'll all help,'' Lucas said. ''But we still haven't figured out their capability. We know there are several of them, and we've only got the ID on LaChaise. The other two--we just don't know.''

Jennifer looked at Small. ''Do you think you could get off?''

Small shook his head: ''I'm not going anywhere; I gotta be here.'' He turned to Lucas. ''How safe is this hotel you're putting people into?''

''Safe,'' Lucas said. ''That'd be the best place. We don't really know how much these guys know about us. I don't know how they found out about Jen and Sarah . . .''

''Sloan's wife,'' Jennifer said.

Small and Lucas looked at her, and she said, ''Sloan's wife. She'd take care of the kids--she loves kids. And she's in the hotel, right?''

Lucas nodded. ''Give her a call.''

Jen headed for the phone, and Lucas turned to Small: ''If we can get you guys in the hotel tonight, we'd like to put a few guys in here . . . I'd be with them . . .''

''Use the house as a trap,'' Small said.

''Yeah.''

Small nodded: ''All right. So let's get the kids out.''

Jennifer came back: ''She says she'll be glad to take them.''

Small said, ''Pack a suitcase. You go with the kids for tonight. Lucas is gonna set up an ambush here . . . and I'm going to stick around. Make sure the cops don't steal anything.''

Del looked him over. ''You gotta gun someplace?''

Small nodded: ''Yeah. I do. I don't like people fucking with my kids.''

My kids . . .

Lucas never flinched, but as he stepped over to a telephone, he caught Jennifer's reflection in a windowpane. Behind his back, she'd brought a finger to her lips, and Small nodded. Lucas picked up the phone and called downtown: ''Sherrill and Franklin are around somewhere,'' he said. ''Get them on the line.''

A high-pitched voice said something from back in the house, and Jennifer hurried that way. Lucas stepped into the hall, and saw Sarah standing halfway down the stairs in her fuzzy pink pajamas, rubbing her sleepy eyes. Lucas cleared his voice and said into the phone, ''We're making some changes down here.''

SARAH WOULDGROW UP TO BE TALL ANDWILLOWYAND blond like her mother--like Lucas's mother--but with her father's tough smile and deep eyes. Jennifer let her go and she wandered over to Lucas and took his index finger in her hand, and when he dropped the phone back on the hook, said, ''What's going on?''

Lucas squatted, so he could look straight into her eyes. ''We have some problems. You have to stay at a hotel tonight.With Mom. And Mrs. Sloan will be there.''

''What kind of problems?''

''There are some really bad men . . .'' he was explaining when the phone rang. Small picked it up, then handed it to Lucas: ''It's Chief Roux. I'll take Sarah,'' he said.

Lucas nodded. ''Yeah,'' he said into the phone. ''

Nightline 's coming on: watch it,'' Roux said. Her words came in a spate. ''We picked up a thumbprint off that door in Roseville and damned if the FBI didn't come up with a name that fits. A man named Ansel Butters, from Tennessee, an old friend of LaChaise's. We've got a photo from Washington and we've released it, and it oughta be on Nightline in about a minute.''

''Anything on Butters? Local contacts?''

''Not as far as I know, but Anderson's working the computers,'' Roux said. ''Nothing happening down there?''

''Not yet,'' he said. ''I'll go turn on the TV.''

''The word's out about the money you put on the street, the ten thousand,'' Roux said. ''Channel Three has it, and if they've got it, everybody else will in an hour. I'm not sure it's a good precedent.''

''There aren't any precedents for this,'' Lucas said.

''All right. I hope it dredges something up,'' Roux said. ''By the way, this Butters--his nickname is 'Crazy.' Crazy Ansel Butters.''

''That's what I want to hear,'' Lucas said.

LUCAS, DELANDSMALLSTOODAROUNDTHETELEVISION while Jennifer packed the kids: The regular Nightline host was on vacation, and an anonymous ABC newsman fronted the show. He started with ''a significant bit of breaking news,'' and a black-and-white photograph of Ansel Butters filled the screen.

''If you have seen this man . . .''

A moment later, he launched into his prepared introduction, and said, ''Minneapolis, a city crouched in shock and terror this wintry night,'' and all three of them--Lucas, Del and Small--said ''Jesus'' at the same time.

JENNIFER LEFT WITH THE KIDS IN A THREE-CAR CONVOY. Neighbors were wakened, and cops installed in corner houses. The snow stopped at midnight, and Lucas, Small and Del, trying to keep the house looking awake, watched on the weather radar as the snow squalls drifted off to the northeast and into Wisconsin.

At 12:30, which Small said was their usual time, they began turning off lights and killed the television. Moving cars were scarce. They sat behind the darkened windows and grew sleepy.

''Maybe it was just a bullshit call,'' Small said.

''Maybe, but we've got nothing else working,'' Lucas said. ''Whoever it was had my card and my direct line. That says something.''

''Maybe somebody's jerking you around,'' Del said.

Lucas yawned. ''I don't think so. The guy knew something.''

''I hope they come in,'' Del said fervently, in the dark. ''I hope they come.''

Chapter
Ten.

WHILE LUCAS DASHED TO SMALL'S HOME, STADIC crossed the St. Croix at Taylors Falls and headed into the Wisconsin night on Highway 8. The going was slow: there were no lights, and at times, as he passed through the intermittent snow squalls, the highway virtually disappeared. A green sign--Turtle Lake 17--flicked past; and much later a John Deere sign, and then lights.

He was running on adrenaline now: only five hours since the attacks, and it seemed like a lifetime.

At Turtle Lake, he passed a hotel with a No Vacancy sign, and then the casino loomed out of the snow like an alcoholic hallucination. He turned into the lot and had to drive halfway to the back to find a parking space. The casinos were always full, even at midnight, even in a blizzard.

A uniformed security officer stood just inside the doors, eyes watchful. Stadic asked, ''Where's the phone?'' and the security man pointed down the length of the casino. ''Outside any of the rest rooms,'' he said.

The first phone, mounted on the wall between the men'sand women's rest rooms, was occupied by a woman who appeared to be in crisis: she had a handkerchief in her hand and she twisted it and untwisted it as she cried into the phone. Stadic moved on, found another one. The noise from the slots might be a problem, he thought, but he needed the phone. He cupped his hand around the receiver and dialed the fire station.

A sleepy man answered. Stadic, watching the casino traffic, said, ''This is Sergeant Manfred Hamm with the Minnesota Highway Patrol out of Taylors Falls, Minnesota. To whom am I speaking?''

The sleepy man said, ''Uh, this is Jack, uh, Lane.''

''Mr. Lane, you're with the Turtle Lake Fire Department?''

''Uh, yeah?''

''Would you by any chance cover a rural fire route, Mr. and Mrs. Elmore Darling?''

''Uh, yeah.'' Lane was waking up.

''Mr. Lane, we've got a problem here. Mrs. Darling has been involved in an automobile accident outside of Taylors Falls, and we need to send a man to speak to Mr. Darling. We don't know exactly where his house is, as all we have is a rural route address. Would you have a location on the Darling house?''

''Well, uh . . . Just a minute there.''

Stadic heard the fireman talking to somebody, and a moment later he came back: ''Sergeant Baker?''

''Sergeant Hamm,'' Stadic said.

''Oh, yeah, Hamm, sorry. The Darlings live at fire number twelve-eighty-nine. You stay on Highway 8, and you go a little more than a mile past the Highway 63 turnoff, and you'll see Kk going to the south. They're about a mile down that road . . . You'll see a red sign by the driveway, says, Township Almena and the number. Twelve-eighty-nine. Got that?''

''Yes, thank you,'' Stadic said, scribbling it down. ''We'll send a man.''

''Was, uh, the accident . . . ?''

''We're not allowed to say more until the next of kin are located,'' Stadic said formally. Then: ''Thank you again.''

THE SNOWFALL HAD EASED AS HE CREPT OUT KK, TRYING to stay in the middle of the road. Although the air was clear, the fresh snow flattened everything: he couldn't see the edge of the road, or where the ditches started. He crawled along, past the big rural mailboxes, hunting for the fire signs in the beam of a six-cell flashlight.

And he found it, just like the fireman had said he would.

The Darling house sat back from the road, and showed a sodium vapor yard light at the side of a three-car pole barn. The inverted mushroom shape of a satellite TV antenna sprouted at the side of the pole barn, pointing south. The house was two stories tall, white and neat. A white board fence led off into the dark and snow.

A fresh set of tire tracks led to the garage: with the snow coming down as it had been, there must have been a recent arrival. Stadic continued a half-mile down Kk to the next driveway, turned around and headed back.

LaChaise had given him a local phone number in the Cities, and another man had answered when he called. So at least two of them were down there--and after the fight, they were probably all three hanging together.