Sudden Prey (7 page)

SANDY DARLING WAS DIFFERENT.

She was a small woman, but came bigger than her size: her black dress was unconsciously dramatic, the silver-tipped black boots an oddly elegant country touch, both sensitive and tough.

She faced them squarely, her eyes looking into theirs, unflinching, her voice calm, but depressed.

Sandy had seen Lucas arrive with Sloan, had seen them talking with the sheriff. The big tough-looking guy wore what she recognized as an expensive suit, probably tailored. FBI? He looked like an FBI man from the movies. The other man, the thin one, was shifty-looking, and dressed all in shades of brown. They went in the back, where the dead guard was, and a few minutes later came back out, and talked to Amy LaChaise. She could hear Amy's crowing voice, but not the individual words.

After five minutes, the two men left Amy LaChaise and walked over to where she was sitting. She thought, Hold on. Just hold on .

''Mrs. Darling?'' The big guy had blue eyes that looked right into her. When he smiled, just a small polite smile, she almost shivered, the smile was so hard. He reminded her of a Montana rancher she'd met once, when she'd gone out to pick up a couple of quarter horses; they'd had a hasty affair, one that she remembered with some pleasure.

The other guy, the shifty one, smiled, and he looked like Dagwood, like a nice guy.

''I'm Lucas Davenport from Minneapolis,'' the big guy said, ''And this is Detective Sloan . . .''

She caught Lucas's name: Davenport. Wasn't he . . . ? ''Did you shoot my sister?'' she blurted.

''No.'' The big man shook his head. ''Detective Sloan and I were at the credit union, but neither one of us fired a gun.''

''But you set it up,'' she said.

''That's not the way we see it,'' Lucas said.

Sandy's head jerked, a nod: she understood. ''Am I going to be arrested?''

''For what?'' the thin man asked. He seemed really curious, almost surprised, and she found herself warming to him.

''Well, that's what I want to know. I came to the funeral, and now they won't let me go anywhere. I've got to ask before I go to the bathroom. Nobody'll talk to me.''

''That's routine,'' the thin man said. ''I know it's tiresome, but this is a serious thing. A man's been murdered.''

The thin man--Sloan?--made it sound so reasonable. He went on. ''We'll talk to the sheriff, see if we can get you some information on how much longer it'll be. I imagine you'll have to make a formal statement, but I'd think you'd be home for dinner.''

''If you're not involved,'' Davenport said. She was sitting in a big chair, and he dropped into another one at a right angle to her. ''If you've got anything to do with this, if you know where LaChaise is at, you better say so now,'' he said. ''Get a lawyer, get a deal.''

She shook her head, and a tear started down her cheek. ''I don't know anything, I just came to say good-bye to Candy . . .''

Three things were going on in her head. When Lucas said, ''Say so now,'' she thought, deep in her mind, Oh, right . At another level, she was so frightened she could hardly bear it. And in yet another place, she really was thinking aboutCandy, dead in a coffin not ten yards away; and that started the tear down her cheek.

LUCAS SAW THE TEAR START, AND HE GLANCED AT Sloan. A wrinkle appeared between Sloan's eyes. ''Take it easy,'' Sloan said gently. He leaned forward and touched her hand. ''Listen. I really don't think you had anything to do with this, but sometimes, people know more than they think. Like, if you were Dick LaChaise, where would you go? You know him, and you both know this territory . . .''

They talked with her for another fifteen minutes, but nothing came of it. Sandy showed tears several times, but held her ground: she simply didn't know. She was a horse rancher, for God's sakes, a landowner, a taxpayer, a struggling businesswoman. She didn't know about outlaws: ''Candy and I . . . she moved out of the house when I was in ninth grade and we didn't see her much after that. She was always running around with Dick, doing crazy stuff. I was afraid she'd wind up dead.''

''What'd your folks do?'' Sloan asked.

''My dad worked for the post office--he had a rural route out of Turtle Lake. They're both gone now.''

''Sorry,'' Sloan said. ''But you don't know anybody they might have run to?''

She shook her head: ''No. I didn't have anything to do with that bunch. I didn't have time--I was always working.''

''So how crazy is LaChaise?'' Lucas asked. ''His mother says he's gonna come after us.''

Sandy flipped her cowboy hat in her hands, as though she was making an estimate. ''Dick is . . . strange,'' she said, finally. ''He's rough, he was good-looking at one time, although . . . not so much now. He was wild. He attracted all the wild guys in the Seed, you'd hear about crazy stunts on his bike, or sleeping on the yellow line. He really did sleepon the yellow line once--on Highway 64, outside a tavern. Dead drunk, of course.''

''Do you think he'll come after us?'' Lucas asked.

''Are you worried?'' asked Sandy, curiously. The big guy didn't look like he'd worry.

''Some,'' Lucas said. '' 'Cause I don't know enough about him. And his wife and his sister--excuse me for saying this, I know Candy was your sister--the things they did were nuts.''

Sandy nodded. ''That's from Dick,'' she said. ''Dick is . . . he's like an angry, mean little boy. He'll do the craziest stuff, but then, later, he'll be sorry for it. He once got drunk and beat up a friend, and when he sobered up, he beat himself up. He got a two-by-two and hit himself in the face with it until people stopped him and took him to the hospital.''

''Jesus,'' Sloan said, looking at Lucas, impressed.

''But he can be charming,'' Sandy said. ''And you can shame him out of stuff. Like a little boy. Unless he's drunk, then he's unstoppable.''

''You keep talking about drinking. Is he drunk a lot?''

''Oh, yeah,'' Sandy nodded. ''He's an alcoholic, no question. So are most of his friends. But Dick's not one of those guys who's drunk all the time--he'll go dry for a while, but then he'll go off on a toot and be crazy for two weeks.''

''Somebody cut this prison officer's throat while he was cuffed up and laying on the floor. You think LaChaise could do that?'' Lucas asked.

''He could if he was in one of his bad-boy moods,'' Sandy said. ''No question. I don't know if I'm getting this across-- but when I say like a mean little boy, I mean just like that. He has tantrums, like fits. He scares everybody when he has one, because he's nuts, and because he's so strong. That's what's going on now: he's having one of his tantrums.''

''But a kid's tantrum only lasts a few minutes . . .''

''Well, Dick's can go on for a while. A week, or a couple of weeks.''

''Is that how he came to get involved in this murder over in Michigan? A tantrum?''

''Oh, no, he wasn't involved in that,'' she said. ''The cops framed him.''

Lucas and Sloan both glanced away from her at the same moment, and she smiled, just a bit. ''So you don't believe me--but they did,'' she said. ''I testified at the trial. There was this guy named Frank Wyatt, who killed another guy named Larry Waters. The prosecution said that Waters stole some dope from Wyatt, and that Dick owned part of the dope--which he may have, I don't know. Anyway, the night that the dope was stolen, the prosecution said Dick and Wyatt got together at a tavern in Green Bay and talked about killing Waters.''

''That was the conspiracy,'' Lucas said.

''Yes.'' Sandy nodded. ''They had this informant. They let him off some dope charges for his testimony. He testified that he was at the tavern when Wyatt and Dick talked. Wyatt shot Waters the next day.''

''And you say LaChaise wasn't at the tavern?'' Sloan asked.

''I know he wasn't,'' Sandy said. '' 'Cause he was at my place. I had a filly who broke a leg, shattered it. There was nothing we could do about it, the break couldn't be fixed, we had to put her down. I hate to do that; just hate it. Dick and Candy were in town, and I mentioned it to them. Dick said he'd take care of it, and he did. That was the night he was supposed to be in Green Bay. I had it written in ink on my income-tax calendar. In fact, Dick and Candy were there that whole week . . . But the jury didn't believe me. The prosecution said, 'She's his sister-in-law, she's just lying for him.' ''

''Well.'' Lucas looked at Sloan again, who shrugged, and Lucas said, ''We know it happens. You get some asshole-- excuse me--who goes around wrecking people's lives, and you get a shot at him, and some cops'll take it.''

''Sort of like you took with Candy and Georgie?'' Sandy asked.

''We didn't cheat with Candy and Georgie,'' Lucas said, shaking his head. ''They went to the credit union to rob it-- nobody made them do it, or suggested that they do it. They did it on their own hook: we were just watching them.''

She looked steadily at him, then nodded. ''All right,'' she said. ''If I was a cop, I'd have done the same thing.''

THEY TALKED FOR A FEW MORE MINUTES, BUT NOTHING developed that would help. Lucas and Sloan said good-bye to the sheriff and headed for the car.

''What do you think about Sandy Darling?'' Lucas asked as they skated down the sidewalk.

Sloan shook his head. ''I don't know. She's a tough one, and she's no dummy. But she was scared.''

''The cops scared her,'' Lucas said. ''They were pushing her pretty hard.''

''Not scared that way,'' Sloan said. Lucas tossed him the car keys and Sloan popped the driver's-side door. ''She was scared like . . .''

They got in, and Sloan fired the car up, and after another moment, continued: ''. . . she was scared like she was afraid she'd make a mistake. Like she was making up a story, and was afraid we'd break it down. If she isn't involved, she doesn't need a story. But I felt like she was working on one.''

Lucas, staring out the window as they rolled through the small town, said, ''Huh.'' And then, ''You know, I kind of like her.''

''I noticed,'' Sloan said. ''That always makes them harder to arrest.''

Lucas grinned, and Sloan let the car unwind down the snaky road toward the I-94.

''We better take a little care,'' Lucas said finally. ''We'll get the word out, that we're looking for anybody asking about cops. And get some paper going on the guy, and his connections. Roust any assholes who might know him.''

''I've never had any comebacks,'' Sloan said. ''A few threats, nothing real.''

''I've had a couple minor ones,'' Lucas said, nodding.

''That's what you get for sneaking around in the weeds all those years,'' Sloan said. Then: ''Bet I beat your time going back.''

''Let me get my seat belt on,'' Lucas said.

LACHAISE STRETCHED OUT ON A BED, A SOFT MATTRESS for the first time in four years, and breathed the freedom. Or looseness. Later, he made some coffee, some peanut-butterand-Ritz-cracker sandwiches, listened to the radio. He heard five or six reports on his escape and the killing of Sand, excited country reporters with a real story. One said that police believed he might be on foot, and they were doing a houseby-house check in the town of Colfax.

That made him smile: they still didn't know how he'd gotten out.

He could hear the wind blowing outside the trailer, and after a while, he put on a coat and went outside and walked around. Took a leak in the freezing outhouse, then walked down to the edge of the woods and looked down a gully. Deer tracks, but nothing in sight. He could feel the cold, and he walked back to the trailer. The sun was nearly gone, a dim aspirin-sized pill trying to break through a screen of bare aspen.

He listened to the radio some more: the search in Colfax was done. The Dunn County sheriff said blah-blah-blah nothing.

Still, nightfall was a relief. With night came the sense that the search would slow down, that cops would be going home. He found a stack of army blankets and draped them across the windows to black them out. After turning on the lights, he walked once around the outside of the trailer, to make sure he didn't have any light leaks, came back inside, adjusted one of the blankets, and climbed back to the bed. The silence of the woods had been forgotten, submerged in his years in a cell, and for a while he couldn't sleep.

He did sleep, but when he heard the tires crunching on the snow, he was awake in an instant. He sat up and took the Bulldog off the floor. A moment later, he heard footsteps, and then the door rattled.

''Who is that?'' he asked.

A woman's voice came back: ''Sandy.''

HER FACE WAS TIGHT, ANGRY. ''YOU JERK,'' SHE SAID. HE was looking down at her, the gun pointed at her chest. Coldly furious, she ignored it. ''I want you out of here. Now.''

''Come in and shut the door, you're letting the cold in,'' he said. He backed away from her, but continued to look out over her head. ''You didn't bring the cops?''

''No. I didn't bring the cops. But I want you out of here, Dick . . .''

''Tomorrow,'' he said. ''We're heading for Mexico.''

''At the funeral home, they said you were gunning for these cops that killed Candy and Georgie.''

''Yeah, well . . .'' He shrugged.

''Why'd you kill the prison guard?'' she asked. His eyes shifted, and she felt him gathering a reason, anexcuse: ''He was the meanest sonofabitch on the floor. If you knew what he'd done . . .''