Anderson, harried, his hands full of paper, his sharecropper's face pickled in a permanent squint, said, "Sloan said to tell you he's bringing the car. Dunn's moving: you gotta get out of here."
"Stay on the Mail thing," Lucas said, pulling on his jacket.
Anderson ticked it off on his fingers. "We're tracking his friends, to see if anybody's run into him since the bridge, if anybody has a name. We're trying to figure out who the body really was, but that will be a problem. It has to be somebody at the hospital who had dental care, who was close to Mail's size and age, and who was out at the same time, but there are hundreds of people who fit, all of them are mentally ill, and a lot of them are impossible to find. We're trying to find Mail's parents-his mother and stepfather. We think they might have split up. We know they moved to the Seattle area, but one of the stepfather's friends heard they split out there, and the mother might have remarried."
"What about decent photos of the guy?"
"We've got photos coming from the hospital and the DMV, but they're all years old," Anderson said.
"Yeah, but with something real to work from, we can age him. Get them over to the company, if you need to. They were doing some good stuff this morning."
"Okay. But you need to talk with the chief about whether to release them to the press. If he's as close to the edge as you say he is…"
"Yeah. I'll be back. Don't do anything until we talk about it. And if anything breaks-anything-call me. I'll be on the phone."
When Lucas ran out, Sloan was walking up to the building, carrying a baseball cap.
"Where is he? Dunn?"
"He's coming through town right now," Sloan said over his shoulder as he turned and headed back into the street. He had a gray, four-year-old Chevy Caprice sitting in traffic with its engine running. "We've got to motivate."
The radios they'd gotten from the feds were standard: Lucas called in, checking the identification protocols, and was told that zebra is underway; the subject has been acquired.
"That means they can see the car from the chopper," Lucas said.
"Fuckin' wonderful," Sloan said.
"It's better than the ten-four bullshit," Lucas said. "I never did understand that."
"Did you bring the maps?"
"Yeah, and I got one for the Hudson area, just in case." Lucas took the maps out of his pocket. The radio burped;
Approaching White Bear Avenue Interchange.
"This is really fucked, you know?" Lucas said. "I'm sitting here thinking that it's a little too strange."
As they paced Dunn's car through the city and into the 'burbs, Lucas told Sloan about the identification of John Mail. "Haven't pinned him yet," Lucas said.
"If he's the guy, we will," Sloan said confidently. "Once we get a face…"
"I hope," Lucas said.
They were in the countryside now, and white puffy clouds cast long shadows on new-cut hay, the last cut of the year. The beans and corn, as far as Lucas could tell, were about as good as they ever got in Minnesota, the corn showing stripes of gold along the edge of the leaves, the beans already brown and drying. A few miles out of St. Paul, an ultra-light aircraft circled over the highway, the pilot plainly visible in his leathers and black helmet. Further on, toward the St. Croix River, a half-dozen brightly colored hot-air balloons drifted east toward Wisconsin.
And the radio said, He's off at 95… he's back on, heading east.
This is five; we got him coming in.
Dumbo: Everybody in position, now.
"Get off at Highway 15," Lucas said, pointing at an exit sign. "Go north, find a place to turn around and start back. We don't want to sit anywhere. If Mail is out roaming around, and sees us, he'd recognize me."
Sloan took the off-ramp, paused at the top, and started north on the blacktopped road. "Van coming up from behind," Sloan said.
Lucas slid down in his seat and Sloan took the first left. The van stayed on the main road. Sloan, looking in the rearview mirror, said, "Blonde. Woman." He did a U-turn and started back.
He's inside. We've got him covered.
"They're doing okay," Lucas said nervously.
"Give them time," Sloan said. "The feebs could fuck up a wet dream."
Lucas and Sloan both looked at their watches simultaneously. Sloan said, "Five minutes," and Lucas grunted.
They were headed back toward the interstate, no other cars in sight. The landscape was littered with new suburban houses with plastic siding in pastel tints ranging from sunset to sage; here and there a farm field came up to the edge of the road. A flock of sheep grazed over a pasture.
Lucas said, "Green pastures."
"Say what?" Sloan looked at him.
Lucas said, "These are the green pastures, from Psalms. Elle was right. I'll bet my ass that he's about to lead us into Stillwater. How far are we from Stillwater? Ten miles?"
"About that."
"Let's head that way," Lucas said urgently. "We're pretty useless anyway."
"If he's leading us, then this might not be what it looks like…"
"Yeah, yeah," Lucas said. "Exactly right."
And the radio said, We've got a confirmed hit, confirmed hit. He's off, he's gone, Jimmy get me… what? We've got cellular confirmed but no cell designation, it was too quick. Can we run that, Jimmy? Jimmy? Subject is out of the rest stop on his way to the car, can we get the intercept up…
"What the fuck did he say?" Lucas asked. "What'd Mail say?"
And the radio said, Subject was told to go to a picnic table and pull a note off the bottom side and follow instructions… subject is at the picnic table, subject is walking back to the car, he's reading a paper, he has the instructions…
"Come on, goddamnit, we gotta move," Lucas said. "It's Stillwater."
Subject is in car proceeding west on I-94.
"Wrong way," Sloan grunted.
"He's got no choice from there," Lucas said. He slapped his own forehead. "And think about it, think about it: the guy makes the initial contact on Dunn's cellular phone, and routes him to a public phone? Why'd he do that? Why didn't he call him on the cellular again? Then he wouldn't have to fuck around with the possibility that somebody else was using the pay phone. Why'd he do that, Sloan?"
"I don't know." Sloan frowned as he thought about it. "Maybe.. no. If he doesn't trust the cellular now, why'd he trust it yesterday?"
"He didn't. Maybe he figured we'd be monitoring it," Lucas said. "Maybe he did it so we'd be close by, but he'd know where we were at. I'll bet that sonofabitch is in Stillwater right now. Goddamnit, what's he doing?"
Three minutes later the radio burped, Subject exiting at Highway 15… crossing Interstate, reentering Interstate…
"What's he doing?" Sloan asked. "Why didn't he go this way?"
"He's going down to 95 and he'll take 95 north to Stillwater," Lucas said. "It's simpler, if you don't have a map. How fast can we get there?"
"We'll be there in six or seven minutes. He'll be ten minutes behind us. If you're right."
"I'm right."
"Yeah, I know." Sloan had the Chevy up to ninety, sloughed past the Lake Elmo airport with its pole-barn hangars, and onto Highway 5 east toward Stillwater.
"Goddamnit, I wish we were set up with the Stillwater cops. Just a few guys to sit and watch. We could've shipped a picture of Mail out here."
They listened to the parade moving east on the interstate, then Lucas got on the radio to Dumbo. "We're headed to Stillwater, we think he's playing out the Bible verses he sent us. You probably ought to have your lead cars get off at Highway 95 and start north. And take it easy: we've got two more verses to go, but the last one talks about a trap."
"Got it covered, Minneapolis," Dumbo said. "Keep your heads down. We don't want a crowd."
"Thanks for the technical advice," Sloan muttered.
As Dunn and the federal parade turned off the interstate, Sloan blew past a Dodge pickup on the Highway 36 entrance ramp. The truck swerved onto the shoulder as they passed, and the driver, a young, long-haired man, leaned on his horn and then came after them as they weaved through the traffic, down a long passage of convenience stores and fast-food joints.
"Asshole," Sloan said, grinning into his rearview mirror.
"Better hope he doesn't kill any kids," Lucas said.
"Yeah. The fuckin' paperwork alone. We gotta light coming up, you wanna hop out and chat with him?"
"Unless you want to run the light."
"All right."
The truck loomed behind them as they slowed for the light, closed to eight inches from their bumper, and the kid was back on the horn.
Lucas turned to look over the backseat. The trucker had one hand on the wheel and the other on the horn; a young woman, next to him in the passenger seat, seemed to be yelling-he could see the points of her canine teeth-but Lucas couldn't tell whether she was yelling at the driver or at him. Then she gave him the finger and Lucas decided that he was definitely the target. The trucker dropped the transmission into park, popped his door, and started to climb out, and Sloan went through the red light.
"Goddamn, he's coming through the red," Sloan said, peering in the mirror.
The radio: Two miles out of Bayport, slow and steady.
"We gotta do something about this guy," Sloan said as they took the long sweeping curve toward the St. Croix River. They'd cut the corner off Dunn's route and were approaching Highway 95 ahead of him. "Dunn's not five miles away. Going through Bayport'll slow him down, but this asshole…" He looked in the mirror, and the truck was coming after them.
"All right," Lucas said. "There's a marina up ahead. Pull in there. He'll come in behind us and I'll take him in the parking lot." Lucas pulled his.45 out of the shoulder rig, popped the magazine, jacked the shell out of the chamber, slapped the magazine back in the butt, and dropped the extra shell in his coat pocket. "What a pain in the ass."
"Ready?" Sloan asked.
"Yeah. You got cuffs? If we need them?"
"Glove compartment."
Sloan kept the speed up until he was on top of the marina entrance, then stood on the brakes and took them off the highway. The trucker almost rammed them, swerved out at the last minute, then cranked the truck down the road behind them. Sloan kept moving until they hit the parking lot, then pulled around in a circle. The trucker cut inside them, and they stopped, nearly nose-to-nose.
Lucas popped the door and climbed out, the pistol back in its holster. The trucker was already on the ground, running around the back of his truck, reaching into the open truck bed for something. Lucas ran toward him and the trucker pulled out a length of two-by-four and Lucas screamed, "Police," showed his badge in his left hand, and pulled the pistol in his right. "On the ground. On the ground, asshole."
The trucker looked at the two-by-four, his eyes puzzled, as though it had gotten into his hand by mistake, then chunked it back into the truck. "You cut me off," he said.
"Get on the fuckin' ground," Lucas shouted.
The woman started out of the passenger side, but when she saw the gun, she got back in and punched down the door locks. Sloan got out and held up a badge where she could see it.
The trucker was flat on the blacktop, looking up, and Lucas said, "We're on an emergency run, we're in a big goddamn hurry or I'd kick your ass into fuckin' strawberry jam. As it is, I'm gonna take your truck license number. I want you to sit here, out of the way, for a half-hour. You can sit in the truck, but you sit for a half-hour, and then you can leave. If you leave before then, I'll be all over your ass. I'll put your ass in jail on fifteen fuckin' traffic counts and a couple of felonies, like interfering with officers. You understand that?"
"I understand, sir." The trucker had grown calm.
"All right. Get in the truck and sit. Half an hour."
Lucas hurried back to the car and Sloan pulled it around in a circle and they were halfway out of the parking lot before they started laughing.
"Funny, but Christ, I wished that hadn't happened just then," Lucas said as he reloaded the.45. "They say anything more on the radio?"
"Yeah, they said…" Before Sloan could get it out, the radio said, He's into Bayport, still proceeding north. We got him.
"We've got five minutes," Sloan said.
"Main Street's only about ten blocks long. Let's run down it and see what we can see," Lucas said.
Stillwater was an old lumber mill town, with most of the turn-of-the-century mercantile buildings still in place, crowding Main Street. The buildings had been renovated with tourists in mind, and were now filed with bricks-and-copper-pot restaurants, fern bars, and butter-churn antique stores; the long row of brick store fronts was inflected by the white plastic of a Fina station.
Lucas slumped in his seat, Sloan's baseball cap on his head, only his eyes above the window sill. He hoped he looked like a child but wouldn't have bet on it. "Two million vans," he said. "Everywhere you look, there's a van, if the sonofabitch is dumb enough to still be driving that van around."
The chopper: Subject proceeding through Bayport.
Sloan idled the length of the town, and they saw nothing of interest: storefronts full of tourists, teenagers idling along the walks, one lad who might've been Mail but wasn't. In the light of a pizza place, his face was five years too young.
At the north end of town, Lucas said, "We've got three or four minutes to set up. Let's go back to the other end and find a spot where we can watch the street. If he turns off right away, we should be able to see him. If he goes on past, we can fall in behind."
"Piss off the feds," Sloan said.
"Fuck 'em. Something's happening."
Sloan made a U-turn in the parking lot of a run-down building with a line of dancing cowboy boots painted on the bare, corrugated metal in flaking house paint. They waited for a break in traffic and then drove back to the south end of town, pulled into a parking lot, and found an empty handicapped parking space facing the street. A line of pine trees separated the lot from the street. "Probably get a ticket," Sloan said as he pulled into the handicapped space.
"I don't know," Lucas said. "I've always thought of you as handicapped."
Radio: The subject has exited Bayport and is proceeding north.
"Why's he talking like that?" Sloan asked.
"He's got that camera with him. He'll say perpetrator in a minute."
From their vantage in the parking lot, they could look through the line of trees and see the cars coming into town on Highway 95. Dunn drove a silver Mercedes 500 S, and as the chopper radio said Subject is entering Stillwater, Lucas picked it out in the traffic stream.
"See him?"
"I've got him."
"Let him get past."
Sloan backed the car out of the handicapped slot. "I wonder where the feds are?"
"Probably not real close."
They waited behind the trees until the Mercedes went past, and then Sloan pulled out of the lot and back onto Main Street. There were two cars between them and Dunn. Lucas, slumped in his seat, couldn't see him.
"What's he doing?" he asked, when they all stopped for a red light.
Sloan had edged a bit to the left, and said, "Nothing. Looking straight ahead."
"What do you think? Is Dunn legit?"
Sloan looked at him. "If he's not, they had to set it up ahead of time."
"Well, he's a smart guy."
"I don't know," Sloan said. The traffic started moving again. "That'd be awful tricky."
"Yeah."
After a moment, Sloan said, "It looks like he's going all the way through town. Unless he's going to that old train station. Or one of the antique places."
"Shit: I hope he doesn't take a boat somewhere. Did the feds think of a boat? Boy, if the sonofabitch goes out on the water…"
"We could grab a boat from somebody," Sloan said.
"I'd give ten bucks to see that note he got from the picnic table."
"With your money, you could do better," Sloan said. "Hey. He's slowing down. Goddamn, he's turning around right where we did."
"Go on past," Lucas said. He sat up a bit and saw the silver Benz turning in the gravel parking lot outside the building painted with the cowboy boots. Sloan pulled into the next parking lot, a marina, and found a space with two cars between them and Dunn.
"Goddamnit," Lucas said. He put his hand to his forehead.
Subject has stopped. Subject has stopped. Five, are you on him?
We see him, we're proceeding into parking lot down the street.
"The whole fuckin' lot's gonna be full of cops," Sloan said. "That must be them." A dark Ford bumped into the lot, and Lucas could see that it was full of adult-sized heads.
"Can you see the name of that place?" Lucas asked. "Where he's at?"
"No light," Sloan said. Across the street, Dunn was getting out of his car. He looked up at the boot store and started toward it, ponderously. He carried a briefcase and slumped with it, as though it weighed a hundred pounds.
Lucas picked up the federal radio. "This is Davenport. We're in the same parking lot with your guys. If he tries to go into that building, I'm going to stop him. We need you to spread your people out on the street, set up a net and look at faces, see if you can spot Mail. He's around here."
Dumbo was sputtering. "Davenport, you stay the heck out of here. You stay out of here, we've got it under control."
Sloan was looking at him curiously, and said, "Lucas, I don't think…"
"Fuck me, fuck me," Lucas said. He pushed open the door.
"Lucas!" Sloan was whispering, though Dunn was a long way away.
A concrete loading dock ran along the front of the cowboy building, and Dunn was climbing heavily up the steps at one end. The building was dark, with no sign of movement. Dunn went to the door, and Lucas climbed out of the car, radio in his hand.
Sloan said, "Lucas…"
And Lucas put the radio to his mouth and said, "I gotta stop him. Get your men out." He tossed the radio back into the car and started running, yelling at Dunn: "Dunn, Dunn! Wait. George Dunn…"
Dunn stopped, his hand on the door of the store. Lucas waved, and, glancing back, saw Sloan coming after him. "Take the back of the building," Lucas shouted. Sloan yelled something and broke off, and Lucas ran toward Dunn, who simply stood.
"Get down off of there," Lucas shouted as he came up.
"You sonofabitch," Dunn shouted back. "You've killed my kids…"
"Get out of there," Lucas yelled. He ran up the steps-saw in the dark window the barely discernible words, "Bit amp; Bridle"-and reached for his gun.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Dunn asked. His face was stretched with tension and anger.
"There's something wrong," Lucas said. "This whole thing is a setup."
"Set-up," Dunn shouted. "Set-up? You just fuckin'…" And before Lucas could stop him, Dunn turned the door knob and shoved the door open. Lucas flinched. Nothing happened. "… fuckin' killed my kids…"
Lucas pulled his.45 and stepped past Dunn into the building, groped for a light switch, found it, flicked the switch up. To his surprise, the lights came on. The store was empty, and apparently had been for some time. He was facing a long bare counter top, with vacant shelves behind it. All of it was covered with a patina of dust.
A fed ran up the steps. "What the hell are you doing?" he shouted at Lucas. Lucas waved him away, then said, "You oughta get out on the street and watch for Mail. He's watching this from somewhere."
"Watching what?"
"Whatever he's got going here," Lucas said. "This used to be a place called the Bit and Bridle. One of those Bible verses said something about a bit and bridle. It was all too fuckin' easy."
The fed looked around the empty room, then reached back under his jacket and pulled out a Smith amp; Wesson automatic. "You want to try that door? Or you think we should wait for the bomb squad?"
"Let's take a look," Lucas suggested. To Dunn, he said, "You wait outside."
"Yeah, bullshit."
"Wait the fuck outside," Lucas said.
Dunn dropped the briefcase and said, "You wanna find out right now if you can take me?"
"Ah, Jesus," Lucas said. He turned away from Dunn and went to a doorway that led into the back of the building. The doorway was open just an inch, and Lucas, standing well off to the back side of it, pushed it open another inch. Nothing happened. The fed moved in from the opening side, reached around the corner, groped for a minute, found the light switch, and turned it on.
The place was deadly silent until Dunn said, "There's nothing here. He's gone."
Lucas looked through the two-inch opening, saw nothing, then pushed the door open a foot, then all the way. The door opened into what looked like a storage room. A stack of shelves, covered with dust, sat against one wall. A handful of blank receipt forms was scattered over the wooden floor. A 1991 Snap-On Tool calendar still hung on a wall.
"Somebody's been here," the fed said. He pointed his Smith at the floor, at a tangled line of footprints in the dust. The prints came through another door further back. The door was open several inches. Lucas stood next to it and called out, "Mail? John Mail?"
"Who's that?" Dunn asked. "Is that the guy?"
"Yeah."
"There's a light switch," the fed said. "I'm gonna get it, watch it."
He hit the switch, and three light bulbs, scattered around the central shaft of the building, popped on. The building had been remodelled since it had last been used to store grain, and the grain storage shaft had been partitioned into storage rooms and a receiving dock. The rooms had no ceilings, but looked straight to the top of the shaft. The light inside the shaft was weak-the volume was too big for the three operable bulbs.
But in the gloom above them, something moved. They all saw it at once, and Lucas and the fed pressed back against the walls, their guns up.
"What is it?"
"Aw, Jesus," Dunn shouted, turning in his own footprints, head craned up. "It's Andi, Jesus…"
Then Lucas could see it, the body in black, the feet below it, twisting from a yellow rope at the top of the shaft. The door they had not yet tried went into the receiving dock and the main part of the shaft itself. Dunn broke toward it, hands out to stiff-arm the door…
"Wait, wait," Lucas screamed. He launched himself cross the room in a body block, caught Dunn just behind the knees, and cut him down. The fed stood frozen as they thrashed on the floor for a moment, and Lucas, gun still in one hand, trying to control it, sputtered at the fed, "Hold him, for christ sakes."
"That's Andi," Dunn groaned as the fed put away his pistol and grabbed Dunn's coat. "Let me up."
"That's not your wife," Lucas said. "That's a woman named Crosby."
"Crosby? Who's Crosby?"
"A friend of Mail's," Lucas said shortly. "We've been trying to track her, but he got to her first."
Lucas, back on his feet, holstered his pistol and went to the partially open door to the shaft. There was a slight draft through the doorway, but nothing else. Lucas reached through, found another light switch, hesitated, then flipped it on. Again, the lights worked. He looked through the crack in the door, saw nothing. No wires, nothing that might be a bomb. He gave the door a push and was ready to step through.
But the door seemed to resist for a split second, just a hair-trigger hold, and then a break, almost imperceptible, but enough that Lucas jumped back.
"What?" The FBI man was grinning at him.
"I thought I felt…" Lucas started. He put his hand out toward the door and took a step.
And was nearly knocked off his feet as the door seemed to explode a foot from his face.
Can see, he thought, his hands up in front of his face. Nothing hurts…
"What?" the fed was shouting, his gun out again, pointing at the shattered wooden door. "What? What? What was that?"
Dust filtered down on them and rolled out of the back room like smoke. Lucas could taste dirt in his mouth, feel the grit in his eyes. Dunn had reflexively turned away, but now turned back, his hair and shoulders covered with grime.
"What was that?"
Lucas stepped back to the door, pushed it, pushed it again, pushed hard. It opened a foot and he looked through. On the other side, the floor was littered with river rocks, granite cobblestones the size of pumpkins, fifteen or twenty of them.
"Trap," Lucas said. He pushed the door again and a rock rolled away from it. Lucas stepped through and saw the rope from the top of the door leading up into the darkness. "They fell a long way. If one of them hit you, it'd be like getting hit by a cannonball."
"But that's not Andi?" Dunn said, following him through, looking up at the body. In the stronger light, they could now see the soles of the woman's feet, like dancing footprints above their heads.
"No. That's just bait," Lucas said. "That was to get us to run through the door without thinking about it."
"Asshole," said the fed. He was dusting himself off. "Somebody could have got hurt."