Текст книги "Lucas Davenport Novels 1-5"

Автор книги: John Sandford

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Текущая страница: 100 (всего у книги 105 страниц)

CHAPTER

20

Harper sat on the jail bunk, scowling, shaking his head, his yellow teeth bared. His attorney, wearing a salt-and-pepper tweed suit that might have been made during the Roosevelt Administration, sat next to him, fidgeting.

“That ain’t good enough,” Harper said.

“Let me explain something to you, Russ,” Carr said. Carr’s double chin had collapsed into wattles, and the circles under his eyes were so black that he looked like he’d lost a bar fight. “Eldon Schaeffer has to get elected county attorney. If he cuts a deal with you, and it turns out you’re a member of some sex ring, and that you know who the killer is but you didn’t tell us, and Eldon gives you immunity and you walk out of here a free man . . . Well, Eldon ain’t gonna win the next election. He’s gonna be out of a job. So he isn’t going to cut that deal. He’s gonna want some jail time.”

“Then he can stick it in his ass,” Harper said. He nodded at his attorney. “If Dick here is right, I’ll be out of here in an hour.”

“You’ll risk going to trial for multiple murder to save a couple years in jail? You could do two or three years standing on your head,” Lucas said. He was leaning on the cell wall, looking down at Harper. “And I swear to Christ, if we tie you to the killer, if we even find a thread of evidence putting you two together, we’ll slap your ass in jail so fast your head’ll spin. For accessory to murder. You’ll die in prison.”

“If you’re trying to cut me this kind of a deal, that means you ain’t got shit on anybody,” Harper said. His eyes flicked toward his attorney, then to Carr. “Take a fuckin’ hike, Shelly.”

As they filed out of the cell, Carr looked at Lucas and said, “Slap his ass in jail so fast his head’ll spin? Some threat. I’m gonna send it in to Reader’s Digest.”

“I’ll sue,” Lucas said, and Carr showed a bit of a smile. While they were waiting for the elevator, Harper’s attorney came out and joined them. As they were waiting, Carr looked at the attorney and asked, “Why’d you have to go and do this, Dick? Why’d you call the judge? You coulda waited until Monday and everything would have been fine.”

“Russ has the right . . .” The attorney’s prominent Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. A large Adam’s apple, big hands, rough, porous skin, and the suit: he looked like a black-and-white photograph from the Depression.

The elevator doors opened and they stepped inside, faced the front. “Don’t give me any ‘rights,’ Dick, I know all that,” Carr said as they started down. “But we’ve got five dead and Russ knows who did it. Or he has some ideas. He’s the only thing we’ve got. If he takes off, and we get more dead . . .”

“He’s got a right,” the attorney said. But he didn’t sound happy.

Carr looked at Lucas. “Phil’s body must be on the way to Milwaukee.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry about that, Shelly—I really am,” Lucas said.

Tears started running down Harper’s attorney’s face, and he suddenly snuffled and wiped his coat sleeve across his eyes. “God, I can’t believe Father Phil’s dead,” he said. “He was a good priest. He was the best.”

“Yeah, he was,” Carr said, patting the attorney on the shoulder.

Lacey was walking through the halls, hands in his pockets, peering in through open doors. When he saw Carr, he said, “There you are. Two FBI men just arrived. A couple more may be coming from Washington—a serial-killer team.”

“Oh, boy.” Carr hitched up his pants. “Where are they?”

“Down in your office.”

Carr looked at Lucas. “Maybe they’ll do some good.”

“And maybe I’ll get elected homecoming queen,” Lucas said as they started down the hall.

Lacey looked at him. “Did you know your new girlfriend was the homecoming queen?”

“What?” There was no longer any point in being obtuse about his relationship with Weather.

“That’s right,” Lacey said enthusiastically. “Around homecoming time, people still talk about the dress she wore on the float. It was like one of those real warm days and she had this silver dress. Oh, boy. They called her . . .” He suddenly snapped his mouth shut and flushed.

“Called her what?”

Lacey looked at Carr and Carr shook his head. “You can’t get your foot any deeper in your mouth than it already is, Henry. You might as well tell him,” he said.

“Um—Miss Teen Tits of Ojibway County,” Lacey said feebly.

“Glad you told me—gives me an edge on her,” Lucas said.

“I hope you got an edge on the feebs,” Lacey said gloomily. “About two minutes with them, I felt like I had big clods of horseshit on my shoes and straw sticking outa my ears.”

“Dat’s da feebs,” Lucas said. “That’s what they do best.”

They talked for an hour with the two advance agents, Lansley and Tolsen. The two would have been hard to tell apart except that Lansley was the color of well-sanded birch plywood while Tolsen was polished ebony. They both wore gray suits with regimental neckties, long, dark winter coats with leather gloves, and rubbers on their wingtips.

“ . . . think there’s some prospect that our man may be a traveler . . .”

Lucas, sitting behind Lansley, who was talking, looked past him at Carr and shook his head. No chance it was a traveler: none.

And after a while: “ . . . name of the game is cooperation, and we’ll do everything we can . . .”

Lucas broke in: “What we really need is computer support.”

Tolsen was quick and interested. “Of what nature?”

“There are only about seven thousand permanent residents in this county. We can eliminate all women, all children, anyone with dark hair. Our man is obviously psychotic and may have a history of violence. If there’s some way your computers could interface with the state driver’s license bureau, process Ojibway County drivers and crosscheck the blond-male population with the NCIC records . . .”

Lansley and Tolsen took notes, Lansley using a hand-sized microcomputer. They came up with some ideas of their own and left in a hurry.

“What the heck was all that about?” Carr asked, scratching his head.

“They’ve got something to do,” Lucas said. “It might even help if we need help three weeks from now.”

A deputy knocked, stuck his head in the door. “Harper’s out. Put up his gas station with Interstate Bond.”

“That really frosts my butt,” Carr said.

“Go home and get some sleep. Or check into a motel. You look so bad I’m seriously worried,” Lucas said.

“That’s a thought—the motel,” Carr said distractedly. “What’re you going to do?”

“Go someplace quiet and think,” Lucas said.

Weather got home a few minutes after six, came in with a deputy, and found Lucas staring into a guttering fire. “This is Marge, my bodyguard,” she said to Lucas. The deputy waved and said, “You got it from here,” and left. Weather shed her coat and boots, came over to sit beside him. He put an arm around her shoulder. “You ought to throw another log on,” she said.

“Yeah . . . goddammit, there are fewer people in this county than there are in some buildings in Minneapolis. We oughta be able to pick him out. There can’t be that many candidates,” Lucas said.

“Still think Phil Bergen was murdered?”

“Yeah. For sure. I don’t know why he was killed, though. Did he know something? Was he supposed to distract us? What?”

“Schoeneckers’?”

“Not a goddamn thing,” Lucas said.

“Could they be dead?”

“We’ve got to start considering the possibility,” Lucas said. “We were lucky to find the Mueller kid. He could’ve laid out there until spring. Hell, if the killer had driven him two minutes back into the woods, we might not ever have found him.”

“Are you watching Harper?”

“That’s impossible. Where’re you gonna watch him from? We’ll check on him every couple of hours, though.”

Weather shivered. “The man scares me. He’s one of those people who just does what he wants and doesn’t care who gets hurt. Sociopath. I don’t think he even notices if somebody gets hurt.”

They sat quietly for a moment, then Lucas smiled, remembering, and glanced at her. She was looking into the fire, her face serious. “We’ve been having a pretty good time in bed, haven’t we?” he asked.

“Well, I hope so,” she said, laughing. She patted his leg. “We fit pretty well.”

“Um . . .” He pulled at his chin, looking into the fire. “There’s something . . . I’ve always wanted to do, you know . . . sexually . . . and I haven’t been able to find a woman who could do it.”

Her smile flickered. With an edge of uncertainty, she asked, “Well . . . ?”

“I always wanted to jump a homecoming queen wearing nothing but her white high heels and her crown. What do you think?” He pulled her closer.

“Those rotten jerks,” she said, pushing him away. “I wasn’t going to tell you until ten years from now.”

“Miss Teen Tits of Ojibway County,” he said.

“You should have seen me,” she said, pleased. “The dress was cut fairly low in front, but really low in back. People said I had two cleavages.”

“I like the image.”

“Maybe we could work something out,” she said, snuggling closer. “I don’t know if I’ve still got the crown.”

CHAPTER

21

Harper was released at noon. He asked a deputy at the property window how he’d get back home, since the cops had brought him in.

“Fuckin’ hitchhike, Russ,” the cop said, and slammed the window down. Harper called his station. No answer. He finally found a kid smoking a cigarette outside a game parlor and offered him five bucks to give him a ride. The kid said ten, Harper argued, the kid tossed his cigarette in the street and told him to go fuck himself. Harper paid the ten.

The gas station was closed and locked. Harper went inside, checked the register. There was money in the till and a note: “Russ, had to close. People are pissed at you they think your in on it.”

“Motherfucker.” Harper crumbled the note, threw it in the corner, locked up and walked out to his truck. The tires were flat, all four of them. Cursing, he checked them, found no sign that they’d been slashed. That was something. He pulled an air hose out of the lube bay and filled the tires. Worried about his house, he drove down to it, parked, checked the front and sides. No one had been there since he left it. Okay. Inside, he made a fried egg and onion sandwich, and wolfed it down. The anger was growing. The cops would get them all if they didn’t hang together. He’d done his part.

He picked up the phone, thought about it, put it down, got in his truck, drove to the station, parked and walked across the highway to the Duck Inn. There was a wall phone between the men’s and women’s restrooms, and he dropped a quarter.

The Iceman answered.

“This is Russ. We gotta talk.”

“I heard you were in jail,” the Iceman said.

“I bailed out. Where can we get together?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Russ. I think we better . . .”

“Fuck what you think,” Harper snarled. His voice had gone up and he looked quickly back toward the bar and dropped his voice again. “We gotta make some contacts. If anybody talks to the cops, if anybody cracks, we’re all going down. They know about the Schoeneckers. We gotta figure out a way to find them, tell them to stay lost. I’ll call Doug.”

“Doug’s gone. I don’t know where,” said the Iceman.

“Ah, Jesus. Well, they don’t know about him. Maybe that’s best. But listen: the cops don’t have shit on anybody at this point. But if just one of us talks . . .”

“Listen. Maybe . . . you know yellow-hair?” asked the Iceman. “You know who I mean?”

“Yeah?”

“She’s alone at her place. Why don’t you stop by around four o’clock? I can get away for a while.”

“See you then,” Harper said and hung up. He walked back out to the bar, climbed onto a barstool. The heavyset bartender was wiping the counter with a rag; he had slicked-down hair, a handlebar mustache, and rode with the Woods Runners M.C. The mustard stains on his apron were turning brown. “Gimme a Miller Lite, Roy,” Harper said.

“Don’t want your trade, Russ,” the bartender said, concentrating on his rag. There were three other men in the bar, and they all went quiet.

“What?”

“I said I don’t want your trade. I don’t want you in here no more.” Now the bartender looked up at him. He had small black eyes, underlined with scar tissue.

“You’re telling me my money’s no good?” Harper pulled a handful of dollar bills from his pocket, slapped them on the bar.

“Not in here it ain’t,” the bartender said.

“I hate the sonofabitch,” the yellow-haired girl said. She sucked smoke from her mouth up her nostrils, looking cat-eyed sideways at the Iceman. “What’re we going to do?”

“Well, the first thing is, he might of cut a deal with the county attorney,” the Iceman said. He was sitting on the couch with a silver beer can in his hand. “He might be wearing a wire.”

Harper pulled into the driveway at the yellow-haired girl’s house at five minutes to four. The sky to the west was shiny-silver, but the sun was hidden behind the thin overcast. Cold. He shivered as he got out of the truck. The Iceman’s truck was already there, with an empty snowmobile trailer behind it. Harper frowned, stopped to listen. He could hear the music coming from the broken-down double-wide. Jim used to listen to it. Heavy Metal. Thump-thump.

The Iceman’s snowmobile was sitting next to the house. Harper walked around it, knocked on the door. A little tingle, now: the yellow-haired girl was a little skinny for his tastes, but she had all the right sockets. He waited a moment, irritated, and pounded on the door.

The yellow-haired girl answered. “Come on in,” she said, pulling the door back. Harper nodded, stepped inside, and wiped his feet on the square of carpet next to the door. The house smelled of burnt cooking oil and French fries, fatty meat and onions. “He’s in the can,” she said.

Harper wiped his feet, and as the yellow-haired girl backed away, caught her by the arm. “I’m gonna want some pussy,” he said.

“Whatever,” she said, shrugging. She backed into the front room, pulling him along, smiling, tongue on her upper lip. Harper went along, caught by her . . .

And the Iceman was there with a shotgun, the muzzle only a foot from Harper’s face.

“What?” Harper blurted.

The Iceman put his finger to his lips, said, “Do it,” to the girl. She stepped closer to him, unzipped his parka, pulled it off his shoulders, patted it down. Harper watched for a moment, confused, then said, “Oh. You think . . .”

The Iceman waggled the shotgun at his head, and Harper shut up, but relaxed.

“Shirt,” whispered the yellow-haired girl. She unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it off. Untied his boots, pulled them free, looked inside. Unzipped his pants, pulled them down, pulled them off.

“As long as you’re down there,” Harper joked.

The Iceman half-smiled. The yellow-haired girl pulled down his underpants, then pulled them back up. Lifted his t-shirt, pulled it down. “Don’t see nothing,” she said.

“Okay,” the Iceman said. This had worked with the priest. People want to believe. He kept the shotgun on Harper’s skull. “Now, Russ, we want to talk, but we’re not sure you didn’t cut a deal. We’re just trying to be careful. We want you to sit down on that couch and Ginny’s gonna put a little tape around your hands and ankles.”

“Bullshit she is.” Harper was wearing nothing but his underwear and socks.

“I got the gun and I’m scared,” the Iceman said. He blurted it out—let his voice rise and break. “If anything cracks, I’ll go to prison forever. You could handle prison, Russ, but I’d die there. Man, I’m scared shitless.”

“You don’t need no tape,” Harper said. He went to the couch and sat down. The shotgun tracked him. “Anyway, gimme my pants.”

“We need to tape you up,” the Iceman insisted. “I gotta go outside and see if anybody came with you. You coulda made a deal.”

“I didn’t make no deal.”

“Then the tape ain’t gonna hurt, is it?”

Harper stared at the Iceman. The shotgun barrel never wavered. He finally shrugged. “All right, you motherfucker.”

The yellow-haired girl was there with a roll of duct tape. “Cross your feet,” she said.

“You’re gettin’ kinda bossy, ya little cunt,” Harper said. But he crossed his feet. She taped them in a minute.

“Now your hands,” she said. Harper looked at the gun, shrugged, and crossed his hands. “Behind you.”

“Goddammit.”

When he was taped, she stood up and looked at the Iceman. “Got him,” she said.

“Go check,” the Iceman said, tipping his head toward the door. “Go a half-mile up the road, both ways.”

“What . . .” Harper began.

“Shut up,” said the Iceman.

“Listen, motherfucker . . .”

The Iceman stepped close to him and hit him with the stock of the shotgun. The blow caught Harper on the ear and knocked him off the couch.

“You mother—” Harper groaned. He struggled to get up. The Iceman put a foot on his head and pressed. Harper thrashed, but the Iceman rode him, giggling. The girl pulled on a snowmobile suit, boots, ran out the door and started the snowmobile. She was back in five minutes.

“Nobody out there,” she said.

“Is the tape strong enough to hold him?” the Iceman asked. He was sitting on Harper’s head, Harper cursing weakly.

“That’s all I got except for some of that paper tape,” the yellow-haired girl said. Then brightened. “There’s some wire that Rosie was gonna use for clothesline.”

“Get it. And some pliers.”

They wrapped the soft steel wire around Harper’s wrists, and the yellow-haired girl turned it until Harper started to scream. “Fuckin’ hurts, don’t it,” she said to him. She took three more turns, saw blood.

“Careful,” the Iceman said. “Cops look for blood.” Blood is evidence.

She nodded, and carefully wired his feet, wrapping it all the way to his knees. “That’s got it,” she said.

The Iceman stood up. Harper lay still for a moment, then tried to get to his knees. When he was halfway up, the Iceman kicked him in the middle of the back, and he pitched over on his face. “Motherfucker . . .”

“Hurts, don’t it,” the yellow-haired girl said, squatting next to him so she could look in his eyes. His eyelids flickered, showing the first sign of real fear. She reached down into his underpants. “You know what I think I’ll do?” she asked playfully. “I think I’ll get a knife and cut your dick off. How’d you like that?”

The Iceman, climbing into his snowmobile suit, said, “We don’t have time to fuck around. You know how to get there?”

“Meet you in ten minutes,” she said, intense, excited.

“Take it easy in the dark,” the Iceman said.

Harper was thrashing on the floor again, managed to roll onto his back, tried to sit up. He was bleeding from his nose. The Iceman stooped, caught the wires between his ankles, and dragged him across the room, through the front door, down the porch. The yellow-haired girl was on the Iceman’s snowmobile, waved, and pulled away. Harper’s head banged off the stoop, and the Iceman pulled him through the snow to Harper’s own truck, picked him up with some effort, and threw him in the back. Then he went back inside, gathered up Harper’s clothes, got the truck keys, and went back out.

The trip to the sandpit took seven or eight minutes. The Iceman took the right down to the pit, pulled off the road into the area beaten down by deputies’ trucks when they’d found the Mueller kid. He climbed out, walked around in back, dropped the tailgate, and jerked Harper out of the back, letting him fall to the ground.

“You still alive?” he asked as Harper groaned. The temperature was below zero; in his underwear, Harper wouldn’t last long. The Iceman dragged him around into the truck headlights as a snowmobile curved in from the trail. The yellow-haired girl stopped beside the truck and got down.

Harper, on his back, his face a mask of blood, spit once and then croaked, “You kill Jim?”

“Yup. Enjoyed it,” the Iceman said. “Fucked him first.”

“Thought you might of,” Harper said. He thrashed for a moment, then began to weep, his body heaving. The Iceman walked back to the snowmobile, pulled his snowshoes off the rack, stepped into them and clipped them over his toes.

The yellow-haired girl was standing over Harper, watching him, her hand in her pocket.

“Got your gun?” the Iceman asked.

“Yup.” She’d had it in her hand, and she pulled it out of her pocket.

“So shoot him.”

“Me?” Harper tried to roll, but just managed to get facedown. She stared in fascination at the back of his head.

“Sure. It’s a rush. Here.” The Iceman stepped back from Harper, bent, grabbed his feet and rolled him in place until Harper was faceup again. Harper tried to sit up, but the Iceman stepped on his chest, pushing him flat.

“C’mon,” Harper groaned. He saw the gun in the yellow-haired girl’s hand. “C’mon—the cocksucker killed your school friends.”

“Weren’t no friends of mine. And besides, you’re the one who just had to fuck me in the ass and hurt me. You remember that, Russ Harper? Me hurtin’ and you laughin’?” She looked at the Iceman. “Where should I shoot him?”

“In the head’s best,” the Iceman said.

She leaned forward with the gun, holding it two feet from Harper’s forehead. He closed his eyes, squeezed them. When she didn’t pull the trigger, he said, “Fuck you then. Fuck you.”

She still didn’t pull the trigger, and he opened his eyes. As they opened, she pulled it, and the bullet hit in the left side of the forehead. He groaned, started to thrash.

“Again,” said the Iceman. “Do it again.”

She fired twice more, one bullet going through Harper’s left eye, the other through the bridge of his nose. The second bullet killed him. She fired the third because it felt good. The gun snapped in her hand, like a gun should. She could feel the power going out.

“How’s that feel?” the Iceman asked. Harper was still in the snow, his head at an odd angle; the blood running down his face looked purely black in the headlight.

“God . . . that was intense,” said the yellow-haired girl. She knelt to look at Harper’s face, squeezed his nose, then looked up at the Iceman. “Now what?”

“Now I carry him into the woods where they won’t find him right away, and then I drive his truck out onto Welsh Lake by the fish shacks and leave it there. You pick me up.”

“If we get another one, can I . . . ?”

“We’ll see,” the Iceman said, looking down at Harper. There was very little blood. “If you’re good, maybe,” the Iceman said. And he started to giggle.