Текст книги "Gathering Prey"

Автор книги: John Sandford

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

“At least ten murders,” Frisell said. “They really are going to get the needle. All of them. Ten. Fuckin’. Murders. Just unbelievable.”

Walker said, “Linda? You got Linda?”

Lucas: “Yeah. Probably shouldn’t tell you this, but one of your pals, what’s his name . . . ?”

Frisell: “Raleigh?”

Walker said, “You got Raleigh and Linda?”

“Raleigh tried to shoot his way past us,” Lucas said. “He was killed.”

Her mouth dropped open: “You’re lyin’.”

“No. He was shot. Had a great big chrome revolver under the front seat of his Subaru, tried to pull it on us,” Lucas said. “Now Linda’s telling us the whole story: ten murders, at least. She’s been kidnapped and raped—”

“Linda? Linda’s the worst one,” Walker said, gaping at them over the Dr Pepper. “She wasn’t raped: she’d fuck anything that moved. Any way they wanted it. She’s the one, you know, that boy out in the Black Hills, she’s the one who cut off his cock. She was dancing around with it, and he was still alive. If you look in her car, you might find it. She said she was going to make a leather weed pouch out of it.”

They stared at her for a while, then Frisell said, “Oh, boy.” And a few seconds later, to Lucas, “Where do these people come from? How do they get like this?”

“I don’t know,” Lucas said. “I told my daughter you’d hear all these urban legends, all these bullshit stories. I told her they never turned out to be true. Well, guess what?”

Frisell looked at Walker, then at Lucas and asked, “How do we know which one is lying? One of them must be.”

“We got more people to question,” Lucas said. “We better motor on over there.”

•   •   •

THEY TOOK PETRELLI to the holding cell and locked her in, and put Walker in the interview room, locked up, and told the night deputy that the lawyer could talk to Walker, and probably Petrelli, but that he should talk to Lucas before he spoke to either of the women. “Tell him it’s important to call me,” Lucas said.

•   •   •

THE TWO MEN at the city lockup were named Jason Biggs and Parker Collins; the city had two holding cells, both as bleak as the tan-tiled cell at the sheriff’s office, designed to fend off vomit and urine in the most efficient way possible. Biggs was in one cell, Collins in the other.

Barnes and Bennett, who transported them down from the park, said, “They’re pretty hard-core. We tried to chat and Biggs told Collins to ask for a lawyer. They asked us for a lawyer. I told him that we didn’t know anything about that, and you’d tell them, or Rome would.”

Lucas asked Frisell, “You up for another conversation?”

“Sure.”

A city officer asked if they wanted to use the interview room, and Lucas said, “Not yet.” And to Barnes and Bennett, “You guys get their cell phones?”

“Yeah.” Barnes nodded. “We bagged them.”

“Look at all their recents and write them down. See if any of them list a P or a Pilate.”

The city cop took them down to the first holding cell, where Biggs was locked up. They stepped inside, and Biggs, sitting on the tile bench, still wearing the vicious happy clown face, said, “You’re not a lawyer.”

“I’m a cop. You’ve got the right—”

“No shit. I want a lawyer. Now.”

“Absolutely right,” Frisell said from Lucas’s shoulder. “Screw him. Why should we give him a break? We got everything we need from Linda and Melody. I’d stick the needle in this guy myself.”

Biggs grinned at them through the red, white, and black face paint: “Hey. I been bullshitted by better cops than you. I want the lawyer.”

Lucas and Frisell backed out of the cell and the city cop locked the door behind them. Frisell said, “No Academy Award for that.”

Collins was shakier. Frisell said, “Screw him. Why should we give him a break? We got everything we need from Melody and Linda. I’d stick the needle in this guy myself.”

“What’re you talking about?” Collins whined. “What’d those bitches tell you? They are the craziest bitches I ever seen.”

Lucas said, “Ten dead, and they’re crazy? You miserable piece of shit, I wish I’d shot you back in the park.”

“I had nothin’ to do with no killings. I was along for the ride, ’cause I knew some guys who could get us some dope along the way. I heard somebody say they killed this boy out in South Dakota and I took right off, I didn’t want to hear about that shit.”

“What about Neal Malin in Hayward? Was he your boy? One of your dope guys?”

Collins’s eyes slid away. “I heard about that, too. They told me there was an accident. I wasn’t there, but they said they was freebasin’ or something and the RV exploded.”

“What kind of freebasing gets your throat cut?” Lucas asked. “What kind of freebasing do you do with gasoline?”

“I don’t know nothin’ . . . I gotta have a lawyer. I can tell you about this, but I gotta have a lawyer first.”

They backed out of the cell and Lucas told the others, “He might be the most reliable one. Let’s keep him away from everyone else.”

Bennett came up and gave Lucas a page ripped from a legal pad: “The phone numbers from their cell phones. The Collins guy had a ‘Pilate.’”

“Excellent.”

The city cop said, “We don’t have facilities to keep people here. You gotta talk to Rome, tell him we need to start shifting people up to Sault Ste. Marie.”

“I got that,” Barnes said. “I’ll talk to Rome, but we can probably borrow a bus from the school, or maybe get Amos Krall’s van and haul them up in that.”

They were still figuring out the logistics of it, when Lucas’s phone rang and “Unknown” showed up in the caller field. “Yeah?”

“Lyle Ellis here—I’m the defender. I’m over at the sheriff’s office. I was told you wanted to speak to me?”

“Yeah, Mr. Ellis. Listen, we’ve got two people there, where you are, and two more locked up at the city,” Lucas said. “It would be good if you could rep them all, at least for the time being. Did the sheriff explain the problem to you?”

“Yes. As he sees it, anyway,” Ellis said. “I understand you’re from Minnesota, but I don’t quite understand your status up here.”

“We can talk about that later,” Lucas said. “The two women being held at the sheriff’s office tell us there are nineteen traveling killers, with maybe ten bodies behind them: think the Manson gang, but worse, with the leader still running around loose here in the UP. What I want to tell you is that you’re dealing with people who in my opinion are probably insane. Literally insane and proven killers. You have to take care about your own safety. Do not get crosswise with them. In my opinion, you may want to take a cop in with you for the preliminary talk, and then, after they’re transferred up to Sault Ste. Marie, talk to them privately only when you can have a bodyguard with you.”

“You’re not scaring me, Officer Davenport,” Ellis said. “This ain’t exactly my first rodeo.”

“Maybe not your first, but it’s different from anything else you’ve handled, because it’s different from what anybody has handled, anywhere,” Lucas said. “Nobody’s dealt with this rodeo before. They’re nuts. You need to protect yourself.”

“All right. I’ll think about what you’ve said.”

“Mr. Ellis, I’ll tell you what—you sound like a guy who’s so sure of himself that he could get killed. Don’t do that. There’s one man who was crucified in South Dakota, before he was castrated and slashed to death, another who got his throat slit in Wisconsin, and a woman who was kicked to death.”

“I’ll try not to be stupid,” Ellis said.

“Try real hard,” Lucas said, and hung up.

Barnes said, “That must have been Lyle Ellis. He really isn’t the sharpest knife in the dishwasher. I’ve known him for years. I’ll . . . talk to him.”

•   •   •

THEY LEFT BARNES and Bennett and the city cop to figure out a safe way to transfer the four disciples to Sault Ste. Marie—Barnes was arguing that the best way would be chain up each one in the back of different SUVs, and drive them up separately. That would have all four of them in jail in three hours or so, and they wouldn’t be able to communicate with each other. Lucas thought that was the best idea he’d heard so far, and said so.

While Barnes and Bennett handled that, Lucas and Frisell headed back out to the park. Frisell no longer had a weapon, but Lucas suggested that if he could handle it, having already been involved in a shooting, he could be useful walking around the park, keeping an eye on things.

“I don’t want you to think I’m a cold-blooded killer,” Frisell said. “But, look, Lucas—shooting that guy really doesn’t bother me. Just doesn’t. I got a kid hurt in a sophomore football game last year, and he tried to tough it out and didn’t tell me, and got hurt worse. Cracked two vertebrae. That’s been tearing me up for a year. I should have seen it. I should have known. He’s still walking around in a girdle, almost a year later, and I kick myself in the ass every time I see him. But this Raleigh guy? Not a problem.”

Lucas half laughed and said, “You and me both. I don’t meet many people like us. I’ve been in some shootings, and they were all good, and the thing that bothered me most about them was all the fuckin’ paperwork. On the other hand, I see cops who shoot somebody, perfectly good shooting, and they’re never the same again. And it’s real, they’re not faking it.”

“I believe that,” Frisell said. “Not me, though. I didn’t go there to shoot anyone. I feel about as bad as I would if a drunk driver crossed the road and crashed into me, and he died and I didn’t. I mean, not very. And I’ll tell you, Rome’s the same way. And the other guys, too, I think.”

“I hope it’s really that way, that you don’t wake up and find your ass has fallen off,” Lucas said. Lucas called the new list of phone numbers into the BCA: “Ping them all. Let me know.”

The scene at the park was Hayward all over again, a shifting mass of painted-face Juggalos and Juggalettes in a semicircle around the shooting scene, a couple of uniformed deputies keeping the crowd back. A fire pile was going up at one end of the field, while a band was doing a sound check at the bandstand at the other end.

Lucas and Frisell parked and walked over to the circle. Laurent spotted them, walked around some crime scene tape and came over and said, “Herb Jackson’s down from Sault. Herb’s their crime scene guy.”

Lucas said, “Good,” and told Laurent about the half-assed interrogations at the sheriff’s office and the city jail. “It’s really a matter of rounding them up, now. Only one guy’s hanging tough, everybody else seems happy to deal.”

“What about Lyle Ellis?” Laurent asked. “Did he call you?”

“Yeah, he’s at your office now, should be interviewing the women.”

•   •   •

HERB JACKSON, the crime scene tech, was a little pissy about the way the scene had been handled before he got there, but that was typical, and didn’t particularly bother Lucas: as far as he was concerned, covering the shooting scene was mostly a waste of time. There had been several witnesses to the shooting, and determining the exact location of each spent 9mm shell wouldn’t make any difference one way or the other. But, that’s what crime scene techs did, and he was usually happy enough to leave them to it. If nothing else, the county attorney could argue that the scene had been handled competently, when the county was sued by the guy who’d been shot in the lip.

On the other hand, he did have a priority. He said, “Herb, I need to talk to you over here.”

As far from the crowd as possible: Lucas could see video cameras being pointed at them and some had zoom mikes. Laurent followed them over to the far side of the car, where Lucas quietly told them what Melody Walker had said about Linda Petrelli taking Henry Fuller’s penis as a trophy. “If she’s telling the truth, it could be in the car. Might not be obvious what it is . . . or it may be, I don’t know. If you find it, treat it with care, because it’s going to hang these assholes.”

“Gosh darnit, I’ve never . . .” Jackson said. “I mean, I’ve seen some weird things . . .”

“Yeah. I know. Just be aware of what you’re dealing with,” Lucas said.

“Peters and Sellers are still out there, looking around,” Laurent said. “Haven’t seen any more plates from California.”

“Herb needs to process the other two cars, the ones from Biggs and Collins,” Lucas said. “Collins admits he’s a dealer.” To Jackson: “Take a close look for hidden panels and so on.”

“I will. I did a class on that down in Lansing,” Jackson said.

“What are you going to do?” Laurent asked Lucas.

“Hook up with Peters and Sellers, wander around the park. Raleigh Waites recognized me because Pilate left a spy behind at the shooting scene in Hayward, and he saw me working the murder scene down there. Pilate may have another one here . . . we have to be aware of that.”

“Wish we could get our hands on that sonofabitch,” Laurent said. “Teach him he doesn’t bring this shit to the UP.”

•   •   •

NOTHING HAPPENED. They didn’t spot anybody.

Lucas, Laurent, Peters, Sellers, and Frisell walked every inch of the park, shouldering through the crowds, watching each other at the same time—looking for somebody tracking them. They saw nothing. An hour passed, and two. Lucas talked to the enormously fat man again, who’d seen nothing. The duty officer at the BCA called and said that the phones were being pinged through AT&T and Verizon, but they were seeing nothing at all.

“It’s possible that they were warned and they’ve all got their phones sewn upside those special bags—or they pulled the batteries,” Lucas told the duty officer. “Do this—get the phone companies to hammer on them from about eleven o’clock tonight until one in the morning. One of the women we picked up said Pilate might expect them to call around midnight. They might stay off the phones except for that window in the middle of the night.”

“Gotcha. I’ll pass the word along. Davy’s got the night shift, I’ll have him call either way, whether we get something or not.”

•   •   •

LUCAS GAVE IT another hour and then told Laurent, “We should leave one guy here, to look at newcomers, but send everybody else home. They need to get to bed early tonight. If we ping Pilate at midnight, and locate him, we’ll want to roll out and get on top of him. Get out to the site, wherever it is, throw a ring around it, and then hit him at first light.”

“Just like deer hunting,” Laurent said.

“Deer don’t shoot back, usually.”

“True. Okay, Peters has a court case tomorrow. I’ll have him stay late, and send the rest of them home.”

“I’ve got a question for you,” Lucas said. “What if Pilate’s not in Barron County?”

Laurent shrugged: “Up here, we have mutual aid agreements—all I have to do is call the sheriff’s office in whatever county I’m going to, they’ll say come on ahead, and I’m good. The budgets are so tight that nobody ever says no. If he’s up here in the UP, I’m happy enough to go after him. This is all . . . pretty interesting. I think the guys would go, too. I’ll ask.”

“Good. Check with them. If he’s deep in the woods somewhere, outside of Barron County, we might want help from the locals, too.”

“I’ll call around tonight, get set in advance,” Laurent said. “Let me know as soon as you find out where they are.”

“If they call me, you’ll be the first to know,” Lucas said. “Maybe it’ll all go down easy.”

“Raleigh Waites didn’t go down easy. Neither did that Bony guy in Wisconsin.”

“You really are Father Christmas,” Lucas said. “You were supposed to say, ‘Yeah, there’ll be nothing to it.’”

“When I was in Iraq,” Laurent said, “we had a standard answer for somebody who suggested that an op was going to be easy.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah: Run!”

•   •   •

LUCAS WENT BACK to the Holiday Inn, took a shower, laid out some clothes so he could get dressed in a hurry, called Weather, told her what was happening, talked to Letty for a while—she was hurting worse than she had the first day, but Weather said that was normal.

When he got off the phone, he turned off the light and tried to sleep. But it was too early, and he didn’t. Instead, he lay in bed in the dark and thought about the possibilities, and when that got boring, called Del: “Is everything okay?”

“Well, yeah. I mean there aren’t any emergencies going on. What are you up to?”

“Trying to sleep, but can’t. Almost got shot today, don’t tell Weather . . .”

He told Del about it, and Del said, “Jesus, you got lucky.”

“Yeah, somewhat.”

When he got off the call to Del, he turned the lights off again, couldn’t sleep, got his iPad out, browsed the Internet for a while, eventually worked his way around to eleven-thirty, and two minutes later, got a call from the duty officer. “We got five hits on those phone numbers, right away. Two of them were in California, but three of them are up there in the UP. We got a hit on the Pilate phone number and two others. I got the GPS coordinates figured out. You got a map?”

“Let me call one up,” Lucas said.

If the GPS locations were correct, the Pilate calls were coming out of a state park campground in the deep woods of Cray County, forty miles west and north of where Lucas was.

“Keep pinging them. We’re on the way,” Lucas said. He was on his feet, pulling on his jeans. He called Laurent and said, “We’re going to Cray County, talk to the locals there, wherever that is.”

“Already did. I called all the sheriffs in the UP and we’re good everywhere. We can pick up a couple of their deputies and maybe a couple more reserve deputies when we get there. The question is, do we want to go in there at one o’clock in the morning? We’d wind up chasing people through the woods in the dark.”

Lucas thought about it, then said, “I guess not. I’m going, but let your guys sleep. It gets light what, at six o’clock? Forty miles? Get them up at four-thirty, get out of town before five-thirty.”

“It’s a straight shot over there. We go in a convoy, with lights, we can be there in less than an hour,” Laurent said. “Peters is coming—he canceled his court date. Let me get you the names of the sheriff’s deputies over there. You probably ought to check in with them. I’ll call them and tell them you’re coming.”

•   •   •

LUCAS WAS ON THE ROAD a little after midnight, the names of the Cray County cops in his notebook and a hand-drawn map of the campground where Pilate was. There was nothing open in Jeanne d’Arc, not even the gas station, so he headed west. Twenty miles out, he spotted a combination sporting goods store–roadhouse–gas station that was still open, got a Diet Coke and a cheeseburger and fries to go, and got back on the road with a full tank of gas.

Lewis State Park was totally off the grid, on the far side of the county seat at Winter. Winter did have an open gas station/convenience store, and the clerk pointed him down the main street to the county courthouse. The annex in back, where the sheriff’s office was, showed a light, but the door was locked and nobody answered when he knocked.

He had a phone number for the deputy on duty, called it, and the deputy picked up, said, “This is Carl.”

“Carl, this is Lucas Davenport. I’m down at the sheriff’s office.”

“Hey. I’m out on road patrol, right at the far end of my run. You seen the store?”

“Yeah.”

“They got good coffee, you could wait for me there,” Carl said.

“I’m going to run out to Lewis Park, take a look at the situation.”

“Okay. You’re only about ten miles from there, so . . . if you just look around, and then head back, we’ll probably just about meet up.”

“Thanks. See you then.”

•   •   •

TEN MILES OUT OF WINTER, he passed a highway sign marking the turnoff, but kept going, without slowing. At the first side road, which was a driveway, he pulled over, got out his phone: no service. He turned around and drove slowly past the entry road to the park. He could see nothing, not even a glimmer of light.

He drove back to Winter, working out exactly what he wanted to do. At Winter, Lucas tried his phone again, got one bar, called the BCA duty officer. “No more pings. Everything slowed down after midnight, and all of a sudden, they were gone. There’s two phones up by Lake Superior and another one in the woods halfway between Winter and Lake Superior. I looked at a satellite view of the GPS location, but there’s not a darn thing there.”

When he got off the phone, Lucas tried his iPad, got one bar on that, too, but managed to slowly download a terrain map of Lewis State Park. The main feature, as with Overtown Park in Barron County, was a lake and a campground. Otherwise, the land around the lake was flat and probably swampy, since there wasn’t much relief above the lake’s water level. A Google satellite view showed a chunk of forest around the lake, and several expansive clear-cuts back from the entry road.

He was looking at the Google view when a Ford pickup bounced into the parking lot and an older man wearing a T-shirt, sweatpants, and gym shoes got out. Lucas stepped out to meet him, asking, “Carl?”

“Nope. I’m the sheriff, Phil Turner.” He was a short man, thin, with a bristling white mustache and a thick chest and arms. They shook hands and Turner said, “Carl called me. I told him I’d probably be up until two. You’d be Davenport?”

“Yup.”

“This guy still out at Lewis?”

“Don’t know. Don’t know full names, don’t know most descriptions, don’t know license plates, except they’re most likely from California, but not for sure. They will be armed and they’re willing to kill. Eager to kill.”

“Well, shit.”

“Yeah. Not a good situation,” Lucas said.

“I called around for mutual aid, we’ll have twenty deputies and reserve deputies from the surrounding counties here at five-thirty, including the guys from Barron County. How many people are we looking at?”

“I’m not sure. We think they started out with nineteen or twenty. We’ve taken down six of them, which would leave twelve or thirteen, but they’re not all at the park. We’ve got locations for at least three more cell phones, not at the park. If there are two people per cell phone, that would mean six people are out in the woods yet, so maybe . . . six or seven at the park? But we really don’t know.”

“Well, twenty deputies ought to be enough. Mostly got to be careful not to shoot each other. The lake’s the best part of a mile off the highway, but there’s some logging roads that come off the park road. There’s one about two-thirds of the way in that leads back to a clear-cut. We put the cars in there, block the road out, and walk in.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Lucas said. “Where are we hooking everybody up?”

“Right here. Don’t have a motel, but I got a couch if you want to try to catch a couple hours of sleep.”

“I’m okay,” Lucas said. “How many of those logging roads come off the main park road?”

“Four or five, I guess,” Turner said.

“I think I’ll go back over there and park off the road. Watch for anybody going out.”

Turner nodded. “Okay. I could send Carl over there with you, he’s not doing anything anyway, except driving around. We could stick him in a driveway off the highway, you see California plates going out, you could tag the car until we got far enough from the park that we could run him down without waking anybody else up.”

“Can Carl . . . I mean, is he . . .”

“Competent? Yeah, sure. He’s okay. And he has an M14 we got from the feds with twenty-round magazines. He can punch holes in cars all day.”

“I don’t want any cops killed,” Lucas said.

“Neither do I—but if these guys are as bad as you said they were, I don’t want them driving away, either.”

“All right. If you’re good with Carl backing me up, I’m good with it, too,” Lucas said.

•   •   •

CARL SHOWED UP a minute later and they decided that he’d park in a driveway a mile or so west of the park turnoff. After a few more words, they loaded up and headed back toward the park. Carl dropped off a mile out, did a two-point turn, and backed into the driveway.

Lucas continued on in the dark, found the lake turnoff, drove a hundred yards down the narrow gravel track, found a narrower dirt track going off to the left. He turned in, drove fifty feet down the track, checking it out in his headlights, then backed out to the main road, turned around, and backed into the side track. When he was thirty feet off, he moved the front seat back as far as it would go, killed his lights and engine, and settled in to wait.

He’d had a long day and let himself doze. He never went completely asleep, he thought, not deep enough that he wouldn’t wake up if a car went by; but he wasn’t disturbed until his iPhone alarm went off at five o’clock. His mouth tasted like a chicken had been roosting in it, and his back hurt. He took care of the mouth with a stick of gum, stepped out of the car to do a few toe touches, and called Carl. “Time to go in.”

“I think. I was about to give you a call. Didn’t see anything on my end.”

“Meet you back at the sheriff’s office.”

•   •   •

TWELVE DEPUTIES FROM three counties were waiting for him at the sheriff’s office in Winter. Then Turner, the sheriff, showed up, got out of the car, and said, “Roman and his guys are ten minutes out. They got six guys, two regular deputies and three reserves. One more reserve guy might be coming a little later, he had a kid got hurt last night late and had to take him to the emergency room in Sault Ste. Marie.”

“Hope it’s not bad.”

“Nah. Might have a broken fibula in his leg, he was shooting baskets with some friends, got a little rough. Anyway, he walked around on it, but about the time he was supposed to go to bed, the pain got bad. They took him over to the doctor, who sent them up to Sault.”

“All right: so we got twenty.” Lucas looked over the crowd in the parking lot. There were patrol cars from three counties, and a varied collection of trucks and SUVs. All but two of the deputies were men, and about half were wearing uniforms, the rest a motley of camo, canvas, and denim. Subtract the uniforms, and they might have been setting up a deer drive.

Laurent and the Barron County crew arrived a few minutes later; Laurent came over and said, “Doug Sellers’s kid broke his leg.”

“I heard. I think we should be okay.”

Laurent nodded: “Let’s get the show on the road.”

•   •   •

THEY GATHERED THE DEPUTIES around a pole light outside the sheriff’s office and outlined the plan: go in, quietly, park about four hundred yards from the campground, with two of the cars blocking the road.

Once they were all parked, they’d go single file down the road until they got close enough to see the park: “It should be light enough to see by the time we get there,” Lucas said, waving off to the east, where the night sky was beginning to lighten. “You guys with rifles, keep the muzzles up in the air. I don’t want to see anybody pointing a muzzle at somebody else’s back. Guys with sidearms, keep them holstered. When we get in there, we want to nail down every tent, car, RV, whatever. Nobody comes out. If somebody gets aggressive . . .”

They talked it out, and when everybody agreed that they knew what would happen, a guy in camo pants and a CAT shirt suggested that they stop down at the store for snacks and coffee.

“Good idea,” Turner said. “Load ’em up, boys. And girls. But don’t stay in the store more’n a minute or two. We gotta roll.”

One of the women had to pee and hurried into the sheriff’s office, and then one of the men had to, and everybody else headed down to the store, where Lucas loaded up on Diet Coke and crunchy-style Cheetos. Five minutes later, Turner did a head count, and everybody was set, and they took off.

•   •   •

LUCAS HAD ONCE BEEN a deer hunter, though he’d given it up about the time he married Weather—she didn’t particularly object to the idea of shooting deer, and rather liked venison spaghetti and meatballs, but she’d read a paper that said that lead bullets, especially of the expanding variety, contaminated much of the meat with lead particles.

No lead particles in the diet of her children . . . But over the years, Lucas had spent the equivalent of three or four months sitting in deer stands or still hunting, and had learned that at dawn, it was too dark to safely shoot; but within fifteen minutes, you could read the small print in a newspaper, and could plainly see two or three hundred yards out.

That transition happened as the cop convoy rolled down the road toward the lake. When they turned in, headlights were useful. By the time they all got parked, and got the exit road blocked, they were in full daylight.

Most of the members of the posse were carrying rifles, and most of the rifles were .223 black rifles. Carl had his M14, and another man carried a semiauto .30-06, both of which would be useful if they had to bust up an RV.

Laurent led the way out, followed by his reserve deputies, all of them in uniform now and all of them military veterans carrying black rifles. Lucas moved with them, with Carl and Turner following behind Lucas.

Everybody automatically shut up as they were walking along, strung out in a line with four or five yards between them; a few squirrels were chattering away in the woods, and a crow was complaining, but other than that, there was no sound but the crunch of their feet in gravel.

They detoured around a few wet spots in the trail and finally topped a low ridge and started down a gentle slope toward the end of the lake—they could see the curve of the shoreline, and as they got closer, Lucas could smell coffee.

A boat ramp was straight ahead of them, with three boats tied off to one side of the ramp. The road curved to the right, and as they walked down into the open, they saw a line of camping spaces along the lakeshore. Maybe half of them were occupied, mostly by pickups with campers. Three people, two men and a woman, were sitting around a fire on canvas camp stools at the first camping space, and they all stood up as the posse moved out of the woods with their guns. They called someone, and a second woman came down from a camper.

Lucas moved forward, caught up with Laurent, and told the guy behind him to “wait here, and pass the word to everyone to stop where they are.” The column stopped, still mostly back along the trail, and Lucas and Laurent walked up to the campers. One of the men, tall with a white beard, asked, “What the heck’s going on?”

Their trucks both had Michigan plates.