Текст книги "Lucas Davenport Novels 1-5"

Автор книги: John Sandford

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Текущая страница: 87 (всего у книги 105 страниц)

“ . . . Contaminate his memory.”

“Yeah.” Carr nodded, picked up the coffee he’d set on the car hood, and finished it.

“How about the firemen? Would they have any reason to lie about it?”

Carr shook his head. “I know them both, and they’re not particular friends. So it wouldn’t be like a conspiracy.”

“Okay.”

Two firemen came through the door. The first was encased in rubber and canvas, and on top of that, an inch-thick layer of ice.

“You look like you fell in the lake,” Carr said. “You must be freezing to death.”

“It was the spray. I’m not cold, but I can’t move,” the fireman said. The second fireman said, “Stand still.” The fireman stood like a fat rubber scarecrow and began chipping the ice away with a wooden mallet and a cold chisel.

They watched the ice chips fly for a moment, then Carr said, “Something else. When he went by the fire station, he was towing a snowmobile trailer. He’s big in one of the snowmobile clubs—he’s the president, in fact, or was last year. They’d had a run today, out of a bar across the lake. So he was out on the lake with his sled.”

“And those tracks came up from the lake.”

“Where nobody’d be without a sled.”

“Huh. So you think the priest had something to do with it?”

Carr looked worried. “No. Absolutely not. I know him: he’s a friend of mine. But I can’t figure it out. He doesn’t lie, about anything. He’s a moral man.”

“If a guy’s under pressure . . .”

Carr shook his head. Once they’d been playing golf, he said, both of them fierce competitors. And they were dead even after seventeen. Bergen put his tee shot into a group of pines on the right side of the fairway, made a great recovery and was on the green in two. He two-putted for par, while Carr bogied the hole, and lost.

“I was bragging about his recovery to the other guys in the locker room, and he just looked sadder and sadder. When we were walking down to the bar he grabbed me, and he looked like he was about to cry. His second shot had gone under one of the evergreens, he said, and he’d kicked it out. He wanted to win so bad. But cheating, it wrecked him. He couldn’t handle it. That’s the kind of guy he is. He wouldn’t steal a dime, he wouldn’t steal a golf stroke. He’s absolutely straight, and incapable of being anything else.”

The fireman with the chisel and mallet laid the tools on the floor, grabbed the front of the other fireman’s rubber coat, and ripped it open.

“That’s got it,” said the second man. “I can take it from here.” He looked at Carr: “Fun in the great outdoors, huh?”

The doctor was edging between the wall and the nose of the station wagon, followed by a tall man wrapped in a heavy arctic parka. The doctor had light hair spiked with strands of white, cut efficiently short. She was small, but athletic with wide shoulders, a nose that was a bit too big and a little crooked, bent to the left. She had high cheekbones and dark-blue eyes, a mouth that was wide and mobile. She had just a bit of the brawler about her, Lucas thought, with the vaguely Oriental cast that Slavs often carry. She was not pretty, but she was strikingly attractive. “Is this a secret conversation?” she asked. She was carrying a cup of coffee.

“No, not really,” Carr said, glancing at Lucas. He gave a tiny backwards wag of his head that meant, Don’t say anything about the priest.

The tall man said, “Shelly, I hit every place on the road. Nobody saw anything connected, but we’ve got three people missing yet. I’m trying to track them down now.”

“Thanks, Gene,” Carr said, and the tall man headed toward the door. To Lucas, he said, “My lead investigator.”

Lucas nodded, and looked at Weather. “I don’t suppose there was any reason to do body temps.”

The doctor shook her head, took another sip of coffee. Lucas noticed that she wore no rings. “Not on the two women. The fire and the water and the ice and snow would mess everything up. Frank was pretty bundled up, though, and I did take a temp on him. Sixty-four degrees. He hadn’t been dead that long.”

“Huh,” said Carr, glancing at Lucas.

The doctor caught it and looked from Lucas to Carr and asked, “Is that critical?”

“You might want to write it down somewhere,” Carr said.

“There’s a question about how long they were dead before the fire started,” Lucas said.

Weather was looking at him oddly. “Maddog, right?”

“What?”

“You were the guy who killed the Maddog after he sliced up all those women. And you were in that fight with those Indian guys.”

Lucas nodded. “Yeah.” The Crows coming out of that house in the dark, .45s in their hands . . . . Why’d she have to bring that up?

“I had a friend who did that New York cop, the woman who was shot in the chest? I can’t remember her name, but at the time she was pretty famous.”

“Lily Rothenburg.” Damn. Sloan on the steps of Hennepin General, white-faced, saying, “Got your shit together? . . . Lily’s been shot.” Sweet Lily.

“Oh, yes,” Weather said, nodding. “I knew it was a flower name. She’s back in New York?”

“Yeah. She’s a captain now. Your friend was a redheaded surgeon? I remember.”

“Yup. That’s her. And she was there when the big shoot-out happened. She says it was the most exciting night of her career. She was doing two ops at the same time, going back and forth between rooms.”

“My God, and now it’s here,” Carr said, appalled. He looked at Lucas. “Listen, I spent five years on the patrol before I got elected up here, and that was twenty years ago. Most of my boys are off the patrol or local police forces. We really don’t know nothin’ about multiple murder. What I’m askin’ is, are you gonna help us out?”

“What do you want me to do?” Lucas asked, shaking away the memories.

“Run the investigation. I’ll give you everything I can. Eight or ten guys, help with the county attorney, whatever.”

“What authority would I have?”

Carr dipped one hand in his coat pocket and at the same time said, “Do you swear to uphold the laws of the state of Wisconsin and so forth and so on, so help you God?”

“Sure.” Lucas nodded.

Carr tossed him a star. “You’re a deputy,” he said. “We can work out the small stuff later.”

Lucas looked at the badge in the palm of his hand.

“Try not to shoot anybody,” Weather said.

CHAPTER

3

The Iceman’s hands were freezing. He fumbled the can opener twice, then put the soup can aside and turned on the hot water in the kitchen sink. As he let the water run over his fingers, his mind drifted . . . .

He hadn’t found the photograph. The girl didn’t know where it was, and she’d told the truth: he’d nearly cut her head off before she’d died, cut away her nose and her ears. She said her mother had taken it, and finally, he believed her. But by that time Claudia was dead. Too late to ask where she’d put it.

So he’d killed the girl, chopping her with the corn-knife, and burned the house. The police didn’t know there was a photo, and the photo itself was on flimsy newsprint. With the fire, with all the water, it’d be a miracle if it had survived.

Still. He hadn’t seen it destroyed. The photo, if it were found, would kill him.

Now he stood with his fingers under the hot water. They slowly shaded from white to pink, losing the putty-like consistency they’d had from the brutal cold. For just a moment he closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the sense of things undone. And time was trickling away. A voice at the back of his head said, Run now. Time is trickling away.

But he had never run away. Not when his parents had beaten him. Not when kids had singled him out at school. Instead, he had learned to strike first, but slyly, disguising his aggression: even then, cold as ice. Extortion was his style: I didn’t take it, he gave it to me. We were just playing, he fell down, he’s just a crybaby, I didn’t mean anything.

In tenth grade he’d learned an important lesson. There were other students as willing to use violence as he was, and violence in tenth grade involved larger bodies, stronger muscles: people got hurt. Noses were broken, shoulders were dislocated in the weekly afternoon fights. Most importantly, you couldn’t hide the violence. No way to deny you were in a fight if somebody got hurt.

And somebody got hurt. Darrell Wynan was his name. Tough kid. Picked out the Iceman for one of those reasons known only to people who pick fights: in fact, he had seen it coming. Carried a rock in his pocket, a smooth sandstone pebble the size of a golf ball, for the day the fight came.

Wynan caught him next to the football field, three or four of his remora fish running along behind, carrying their books, delight on their faces. A fight, a fight . . .

The fight lasted five seconds. Wynan came at him in the stance of an experienced barehanded fighter, elbows in. The Iceman threw the rock at Wynan’s forehead. Since his hand was only a foot away when he let go, there was almost no way to miss.

Wynan went down with a depressive fracture of the skull. He almost died.

And the Iceman to the cops: I was scared, he was coming with his whole gang, that’s all he does is beat up kids, I just picked up the rock and threw it.

His mother had picked him up at the police station (his father was gone by then, never to be seen again). In the car, his mother started in on him: Wait till I get you home, she said. Just wait.

And the Iceman, in the car, lifted a finger to her face and said, You ever fuckin’ touch me again I’ll wait until you’re asleep and I’ll get a hammer and I’ll beat your head in. You ever touch me again, you better never go to sleep.

She believed him. A good thing, too. She was still alive.

He turned off the hot water, dried his hands on a dish towel. Need to think. So much to do. He forgot about the soup, went and sat in his television chair, stared at the blank screen.

He had never seen the photograph as it had been reproduced, although he’d seen the original Polaroid. He had been stupid to let the boy keep it. And when the boy had sent it away . . .

“We’re gonna be famous,” the kid said.

“What?” They were smoking cigarettes in the trailer’s back bedroom, the boy relaxing against a stack of pillows; the Iceman had both feet on the floor, his elbows on his knees.

The boy rolled over, looked under the bed, came up with what looked like a newspaper. He flipped it at the Iceman. There were dozens of pictures, boys and men.

“What’d you do?” the Iceman asked; but in his heart he knew, and the anger swelled in his chest.

“Sent in the picture. You know, the one with you and me on the couch.”

“You fuck.”

The Iceman lurched at him; the boy giggled, barely struggling, not understanding. The Iceman was on his chest, straddling him, got his thumbs on the boy’s throat . . . and then Jim Harper knew. His eyes rolled up and his mouth opened and the Iceman . . .

Did what? Remembered backing away, looking at the body. Christ. He’d killed him.

The Iceman jumped to his feet, reliving it and the search for a place to dump the body. He thought about throwing it in a swamp. He thought about shooting him with a shotgun, leaving the gun, so it might look like a hunting accident. But Jim didn’t hunt. And his father would know, and his father was nuts. Then he remembered the kid talking about something he’d read about in some magazine, about people using towel racks, the rush you got, better than cocaine . . .

The Iceman, safe at home, growled: thinking. Everything so difficult. He’d tried to track the photo, but the magazine gave no clue to where it might be. Nothing but a Milwaukee post office box. He didn’t know how to trace it without showing his face. After a while he’d calmed down. The chances of the photo being printed were small, and even if it was printed, the chances of anyone local seeing it were even smaller.

And then, when he’d almost forgotten about it, he’d gotten the call from Jim Harper’s insane father. The LaCourts had a photo.

Remember the doctor.

Yes. Weather . . .

If the photo turned up, no one would immediately recognize him except the doctor. Without the doctor, they might eventually identify him, but he’d know they were looking, and that would give him time.

He got to his feet, went to wall pegs where he’d hung his snowmobile suit over a radiator vent. The suit was just barely enough on a night like this. Even with the suit, he wouldn’t want to be out too long. He pulled it on, slipped his feet into his pac boots, laced them tight, then dug into his footlocker for the .44. It was there, wrapped in an oily rag, nestled in the bottom with his other guns. He lifted it out, the second time he’d use it today. The gun was heavy in his hand, solid, intricate, efficient.

He worked it out, slowly, piece by piece:

Weather Karkinnen drove a red Jeep, the only red Jeep at the LaCourt home. She’d have to take the lake road out to Highway 77, and then negotiate the narrow, windblown road back to town. She’d be moving slow . . . if she was still at the LaCourt house.

Weather’s work was finished. The bodies were covered and would be left in place until the crime lab people arrived from Madison. She’d performed all her legal duties: this was her year to be county coroner, an unpleasant job rotated between the doctors in town. She’d made all the necessary notes for a finding of homicide by persons unknown. She’d write the notes into a formal report to the county attorney and let the Milwaukee medical examiner do the rest.

There was nothing holding her. But standing in the shed, drinking coffee, listening to the cops—even the cops coming over to hit on her, in their mild-mannered Scandinavian way—was something she didn’t want to give up right away.

And she wouldn’t mind talking to Davenport again, either, she thought. Where’d he go to? She craned her neck, looking around. He must be outside.

She flipped up her hood, pulled it tight, put on her gloves. Outside, things were more orderly. Most of the fire equipment was gone, and the few neighbors who’d walked to the house had been shooed away. It still stank. She wrinkled her nose, looked around. A deputy was hauling a coil of inch-thick rope up toward the house, and she asked, “Have you seen, uh, Shelly, or that guy from Minneapolis?”

“I think Shelly’s up to the house, and the other guy went with a bunch of people down to the lake to look at the snowmobile trail, and they’re talking to snowmobile guys.”

“Thanks.”

She looked down toward the lake, thought about walking down. The snow was deep, and she was already cold again. Besides, what’d she have to contribute?

She went back to the garage for another cup of coffee, and found that it was gone, Davenport’s Thermoses empty.

Davenport. God, she was acting like a teenager all of a sudden. Not that she couldn’t use a little . . . friendship. She thought back to her last involvement: how long, a year? She counted back. Wait, jeez. More than two years. God, it was nearly three. He’d been married, although, as he said charmingly, not very, and the whole thing was doomed from the start. He’d had a nice touch in bed, but was a little too fond of network television: it became very easy to see him as a slowly composting lump on a couch somewhere.

Weather sighed. No coffee. She put on her gloves, went back out and trudged toward her Jeep, still reluctant to go. In the whole county, this was the place to be this night. This was the center of things.

But she was increasingly feeling the cold. Even with her pacs, her toes were feeling brittle. Out on the lake, the lights from a pod of snowmobiles shone toward the house. They’d been attracted by the fire and the cops and by now, undoubtedly, the whole story of the LaCourt murders. Grant was a small town, where nothing much happened.

The Iceman sliced across the lake. A half-dozen sleds were gathered on the ice near the LaCourt house, watching the cops work. Two more were cruising down the lakeshore, heading for the house. If the temperature had been warmer, a few degrees either side of zero, there’d have been a hundred snowmobiles on the lake, and more coming in.

Halfway across, he left the trail, carved a new cut in the soft snow and stopped. The LaCourt house was a half mile away, but everything around it was bathed in brilliant light. Through a pair of pocket binoculars he could see Weather’s Jeep, still parked in the drive.

He grunted, put the glasses in a side pocket where they’d stay cold, gingerly climbed off the sled and tested the snow. He sank in a foot before the harder crust supported his weight. Good. He trampled out a hole and settled into it, in the lee of the sled. Even a five-mile-an-hour wind was a killer on a night like this.

From his hole he could hear the beating of a generator and the occasional shouts of men working, spreading what appeared to be a canvas tent over the house. Their distant voices were like pieces of audible confetti, sharp isolated calls and shouts in the night. Then his focus shifted, and for the first time, he heard the other voices. They’d been there, all along, like a Greek chorus. He turned, slowly, until he was facing the darkness back along the creek. The sound was unearthly, the sound of starvation. Not a scream, like a cat, but almost like the girl, when he’d cut her, a high, quavering, wailing note.

Coyotes.

Singing together, blood songs after the storm. He shivered, not from the cold.

But the cold had nearly gotten to him twenty minutes later when he saw the small figure walking alone toward the red Jeep. Yes. Weather.

When she climbed inside her truck, he brushed the snow off his suit, threw a leg over the sled and cranked it up. He watched as she turned on the headlights, backed out of her parking space. She had further to go than he did, so he sat and watched until he was sure she was turning left, heading out. She might still stop at the fire station, but there wasn’t much going on there except equipment maintenance.

He turned back toward the trail, followed it for a quarter mile, then moved to his right again, into new snow. Stackpole’s Resort was over there, closed for the season, but marked with a yard-light. He could get off the lake on the resort’s beach, follow the driveway up to the highway, and wait for her there.

He’d had an image of the ambush in his mind. She’d be driving slowly on the snowpacked highway, and he’d come alongside the Jeep with the sled. From six or ten feet away, he could hardly miss: the .44 Magnum would punch through the window like it was toilet paper. She’d go straight off the road, and he’d pull up beside her, empty the pistol into her. Even if somebody saw him, the sled was the perfect escape vehicle, out here in the deep snow. Nothing could follow him, not unless it had skis on the front end. Out here, the sled was virtually anonymous.

The snow-covered beach came up fast, and he braked, felt the machine buck up, took it slowly across the resort’s lakeside lawn and through the drifts between two log cabins. The driveway had been plowed after the last storm, but not yet after this one, and he eased over the throw-piles down into it. He stopped just off the highway, where a blue fir windbreak would hide the sled. He felt like a motorcycle cop waiting behind a billboard.

Waiting. Where was she?

There was a movement to his left, at the corner of his eye, sudden but furtive, and his head snapped around. Nothing. But there had been something . . . There. A dog, a small German shepherd, caught in the thin illumination of the yard-light. No. Not a shepherd, but a coyote. Looking at him from the brush. Then another. There was a snap, and a growl. They never did this, never. Coyotes were invisible.

He pulled down the zip on his suit, took the .44 out of the inside pocket, looked nervously into the brush. They were gone, he thought. Somewhere.

Headlights turned the corner down at the lake road. Had to be Weather. He shifted the pistol to his other hand, his brake hand. And, for the first time, tried to figure out the details of the attack. With one hand on the accelerator and the other on the brake . . . . He was one hand short. Nothing to shoot with. He’d have to improvise. He’d have to use his brake hand. But . . .

He put the gun in his outside leg pocket as the headlights closed on him. The Jeep flashed by and he registered a quick flickering image of Weather in the window, parka hood down, hat off.

He gunned the sled, started after her, rolling down the shallow ditch on the left side of the road. The Jeep gained on him, gained some more. Its tires threw up a cloud of ice and salt pellets, which popped off his suit and helmet like BBs.

She was traveling faster than he’d expected. Other snowmobiles had been down the ditch, so there was the semblance of a trail, obscured by the day’s snow; still, it wasn’t an official trail. He hit a heavy hummock of swamp grass and suddenly found himself up in the air, holding on.

The flight might have been exhilarating on another day, when he could see, but this time he almost lost it. He landed with a jarring impact and the sled bucked under him, swaying. He fought it, got it straight. He was fifty yards behind her. He rolled the accelerator grip forward, picking up speed, rattling over broken snow, the tops of small bushes, invisible bumps . . . his teeth chattered with the rough ride.

A snowplow had been down the highway earlier in the evening, and the irregular waves of plowed snow flashed by on his right. He moved further left, away from the plowed stuff: it’d be hard and irregular, it’d throw him for sure. Weather’s taillights were right there. He inched closer. He was moving so fast that he would not be able to brake inside his headlight’s reach: if there was a tree down across the ditch, he’d hit it.

He’d just thought of that when he saw the hump coming; he knew what it was as soon as he picked it up, a bale of hay pegged to the bottom of the ditch to slow spring erosion. The deep snow made it into a perfect snowmobile jump, but he didn’t want to jump. But he had no time to go around it. He had no time to do anything but brace himself, and he was in the air again.

He came down like a bomb, hard, bounced, the sled skidding through the softer snow up the left bank. He wrestled it to the right, lost it, climbed the right bank toward the plowed snow, wrestled it left, carved a long curve back to the bottom.

Got it.

The Iceman was shaken, thought for an instant about giving it up; but she was right there, so close. He gritted his teeth and pushed harder, closing. Thirty yards. Twenty . . .

Weather glanced in her side mirror, saw the sled’s headlight. He was coming fast. Too fast. Idiot. She smiled, remembering last year’s countywide outrage. Intersections of snowmobile trails and ordinary roads were marked with diamond-shaped signs painted with the silhouette of a snowmobile. Like deer-crossing signs, but wordless. The year before, someone had used black spray paint to stencil IDIOT CROSSING on half the snowmobile signs in Ojibway County. Had done the job neatly, with a stencil, a few signs every night for a week. The paper had been full of it.

Davenport.

An image of his face, shoulders, and hands popped into her mind. He was beat-up, wary, like he’d been hurt and needed help; at the same time, he looked tough as a railroad spike. She’d felt almost tongue-tied with him, found herself trying to interest him. Instead, half the things she’d said sounded like borderline insults. Try not to shoot anyone.

God, had she said that? She bit her tongue. Why? Trying to impress him. When he’d focused on her, he seemed to be looking right into her. And she liked it.

The bobbing light in her side mirror caught her eye again. The fool on the snowmobile was still in the ditch, but had drawn almost up beside her. She glanced back over her shoulder. If she remembered right, Forest Drive was coming up. There’d be a culvert, and the guy would catapult into Price County if he tried to ride over the embankment at this speed. Was he racing her? Maybe she should slow down.

The Iceman was befuddled by the mechanics of the assassination; if he’d had a sense of humor, he might have laughed. He couldn’t let go of the accelerator and keep up with her. If he let go of the brake . . . he just didn’t feel safe without some connection with the brake. But he had no choice: he took his hand off the brake lever, pulled open the Velcro-sealed pocket flap, got a good grip on the pistol, slid it out of his pocket. He was fifteen feet back, ten feet. Saw her glance back at him . . .

Five feet back, fifteen feet to the left of her, slightly lower . . . the snow thrown up by the Jeep was still pelting him, rattling off his helmet. Her brake lights flashed, once, twice, three times. Pumping the brakes. Why? Something coming? He could see nothing up ahead. He lifted the gun, found he couldn’t keep it on the window, or even the truck’s cab, much less her head. He saw the edge of her face as she looked back, her brake lights still flashing . . . What? What was she doing?

He pushed closer, his left hand jumped wildly as he held it awkwardly across his body; the ride was getting rougher. He tried to hold it, the two vehicles ripping along at fifty miles an hour, forty-five, forty, her brakes flashing . . .

Finally, hissing to himself like a flattening tire, he dropped the gun to his leg and rolled back the accelerator. The whole thing was a bad idea. As he slowed, he slipped the pistol back into his pocket, got his hand back on the brake. If he’d had a shotgun, and he’d been in daylight, then it might have worked.

He looked up at the truck and saw her profile, the blonde hair. So close.

He slowed, slowed some more. She’d stopped pumping her brakes. He turned to look back, to check traffic. And suddenly the wall was there, in front of him. He jerked the sled to the right, squeezed the brake, leaned hard right, wrenched the machine up the side of the ditch. A block of frozen snow caught him, and the machine spun out into the road and stalled.

He sat in the sudden silence, out of breath, heart pounding. The Forest Road intersection: he’d forgotten all about it. If he’d kept moving on her, he’d have hit the ends of the steel culvert pipes. He’d be dead. He looked at the embankment, the cold moving into his stomach. Too close. He shook his head, cranked the sled and turned toward home. He looked back before he started out, saw her taillights disappear around a curve. He’d have to go back for her. And soon. Plan it this time. Think it out.

Weather saw the snowmobile slow and fall back. Forest Road flashed past and she came up on the highway. He must have read her taillights. She’d seen the road-crossing sign in her headlights, realized she wouldn’t have time to stop, to warn him, and had frantically pumped her brakes, hoping he’d catch on.

And he had.

Okay. She saw his taillight come up, just a pinprick of red in the darkness, and touched the preset channel selector on her radio. Duluth public radio was playing Mozart’s Eine kleine Nachtmusik.

Now about Davenport.

They really needed to talk again. And that might take some planning.

She smiled to herself. She hadn’t felt like this for a while.