“No thanks to that bitch.”
Virgiclass="underline" “I gotta take the gun.”
“Man…”
“I know, but I gotta take it,” Virgil said.
Strait reluctantly handed it over, then looked at his truck: “Shit. It’s ruined. It looks like the Nazis machine-gunned it or something. Then I hit a couple of trees.”
There were, Virgil estimated, dozens and maybe a hundred bullet holes in the side and back of the truck. “You were lucky.”
Strait bobbed his head and then said, “I got a whole load of snake hides in the back, all curled up in bundles. They soaked up the incoming when I was on the road. Then, when I ran off the road, she must’ve thought I’d stayed in the truck. She really hosed it down.”
They walked together to the road and around the Subaru and Strait took three fast steps toward Knowles, who was still face-down on the road, and cocked a leg to kick her in the face.
Before he could do that, Virgil caught him by the collar of his shirt and yanked him back. “Don’t do that,” he told Strait. “At this point, she’s going back to jail and won’t see daylight for fifteen years. You’ll complicate things if you kick her.”
“I was only going to do it because I was overcome with emotion,” Strait said. He sounded like he was asking for permission.
Virgil said, “Uh-uh. Stay back.”
–
More cop cars were closing in on them, lights and sirens. The New Ulm cop said, “I can’t believe that nobody got hurt. There’re six empty magazines in that Subaru and on the ground. That’s, what, a hundred and twenty shots?” He looked at Strait and asked, “How many did you fire?”
“Thirty,” Strait said.
“I did six, with a shotgun,” the cop said. “A hundred and fifty-six shots and nobody got a scratch.”
“I cut my lip on the steering wheel,” Strait said.
“You’ll take that,” Virgil said.
“I guess,” Strait said. He plucked at his lip. “Hurts, though.”
Knowles looked up from the ground and snarled at Strait, “Sooner or later, your luck-”
Virgil cut her off. “Shut the fuck up.” He was easily pissed off by gunfire.
The first of the backup cops arrived in a cloud of dust and the New Ulm cop who’d followed Virgil out said, “There’s one really good thing about this whole situation.”
“What’s that?”
“I got a total lock on ‘Officer of the Month.’”
11
The New Ulm cops said they’d handle the processing of the crime and the crime scene, which would be pretty straightforward. Given that, Virgil would be treated mainly as a principal witness, with the arrest going to New Ulm.
Knowles and her companion would be taken to the Brown County jail, eventually to be charged with attempted murder, then Knowles would be transferred to Steele County district court, which had freed her on bail. Bail would no longer be a possibility.
The elderly man began to sob as one of the New Ulm cops put a hand on his head and guided him into the back of a cop car. The cop said to him, “Look at the bright side. You’re going to get lifelong free health care.”
–
They were at the scene for more than an hour before Virgil could leave. He’d have to file reports with the BCA and the New Ulm cops, but not for a day or two.
The chase and the shooting had left him feeling disoriented, and as he drove back toward New Ulm, the anger began to burn out and he started to get scared: all those bullets flying around like bees. He tried to put the thought aside and called Peck. Peck answered-Virgil could hear the sounds of dishes and silverware clinking in the background, so Peck was at dinner-and Virgil said, “A major problem came up. I’m going to be a little late… probably half an hour.”
“I’ll still be around,” Peck said. He sounded impatient, though, put-upon.
–
Virgil called Duncan and told him about the chase and the arrests, and Duncan said, “Does this have anything to do with the tigers?”
“Only peripherally-I was checking out a possibility, and one thing led to another.”
“You gotta think tigers, man.”
“Thanks for the tip, Jon.”
“Hey, I’m not trying to be tiresome, but a lot of people are looking at us, and if something doesn’t happen soon, we could be headed for a pretty unhappy conclusion.”
“I know, I’m out here pushing the boulder up the hill. We’ll get there.”
–
Virgil called Davenport and told him what happened; Strait was Davenport’s guy and he needed to know.
“Did you have a gun with you?” Davenport asked.
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t shoot it, did you?”
“No.”
“There’s the fuckin’ Flowers we all know and love,” Davenport said.
“I was chumped,” Virgil said.
“Happens to everybody, all the time,” Davenport said. “At least you got Maxine off the street. She was goofier than a fuckin’ Packers fan who’s lost his cheese.”
–
Virgil pulled into Peck’s driveway shortly after seven-thirty and climbed the steps to the front door, where Peck was waiting, smoking the butt end of a cigarette. He was wearing a knitted cardigan over a T-shirt, black jeans, and slippers.
He pushed the screen door open, said, “Come in,” and led Virgil to the living room, where two beige couches, a faux-wood coffee table, and a blue reading chair made a conversation group. He stubbed out the cigarette, took the blue chair, pointed at a couch, and asked, “What can I do for you?”
“We’re trying to track down the tigers taken from the zoo,” Virgil said, resisting the temptation to wave away the secondhand smoke. “We’re trying to figure out who in Minnesota, or close to here anyway, would have the knowledge and ability to process a dead tiger into traditional medications. We understand that you’re an expert in the area and might have some ideas about that.”
Peck rubbed his forehead, thinking, halfway scowled, and said, “The compounders of traditional medications here in the Twin Cities area work with herbs and other vegetation. Roots and so on. Not with fauna. Well, there’s one exception that I’m aware of…”
“Toby Strait?”
Peck frowned. “Is he still working? I heard he’d been shot by some animal rights nut.”
“He was,” Virgil said. “He wasn’t killed and he’s up and around again. You weren’t thinking of him?”
“No, I was thinking of Bobbie Patterson-Roberta Patterson. She processes roadkill, the carcasses of animals trapped for their fur, and bats.”
“That’s… unusual.”
“Not a profession I’d choose for myself. She was a biologist, failed to get tenure a couple of times, and decided to make some money,” Peck said. “She has an operation over in Wisconsin, east of Hudson somewhere. Always been legal, as far as I know.”
“You have an address or number for her?”
“No, but I think she’s called Patterson Biologic Resources or something close to that. She has a website.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Virgil said. “Exactly what kind of equipment would you need to process biologics?”
Peck shrugged. “Not my area. I’m more interested in traditional medicine as an academic discipline. I publish books and papers in the field; I don’t engage in the production of herbal or animal compounds. And to tell you the truth, those that do, around here, are usually a bunch of shitkickers stumbling around in the woods, trying to get something for free. They’re not exactly high-end biologists. Bobbie Patterson is the exception there.”
“But you do use some traditional medicines from time to time, right? Or at least buy some?”
Peck nodded. “Sure. I have a small, select patient list. Some of these things have a long history of efficacy against certain kinds of illnesses. Rheumatism, for example, or gout. Karl Marx suffered from gout and so did Henry the Eighth.”