"He wasn't this morning, but maybe he ran into something. We don't know. Now: Here's the price."
"Yeah?"
"We think the guy who did it is named Shadow Love.
Thirties, Sioux, skinny, tattoos on his arms. Daniel's going to release the name. Don't use it until he does, but when he does, pound it. I want Shadow Love's name on the air every ten seconds. I want you to pound on the idea that he's killing other Indians. Push Daniel for some photos-they've got good photos of him from California, and don't let them bullshit you on that. Demand the fuckin' photos. Give them as much airtime as you can. Tell the boss that if you cooperate, I feed you more exclusive stuff."
"Hammer Shadow Love," she said.
"Hard as you can," Lucas said.
Lily got nothing from the crowd. When she was done, she asked Lucas to drop her at her room: "I need some sleep, and I need to think. Alone."
Lucas nodded. "I could use some time myself."
At her door, Lily turned to him. "What the fuck are we going to do, Davenport?" she blurted, her voice low and gravelly.
"I don't know," Lucas said. He reached out and brushed a lock of dark hair away from her cheek, back over her ear. "I just can't stop with you."
"I'm having a little trouble myself," Lily said. "But I've got too much with David to make a break. I don't think I'd want to break…"
"And I don't want to lose Jen," Lucas said. "But I just can't stop with you. I'd like to take you right now…" He pushed her back into the room, and she had her arms around his neck, and they rocked together for a minute, the heat growing until she pushed him back.
"Get out of here, God damn it," she said. "I need some rest."
"All right. See you tomorrow?"
"Mmm. Not too early."
After dropping Lily off, Lucas drove back through town. Four trucks equipped with microwave dishes were clustered around the door to City Hall, black electronics cables snaking across the sidewalk into the building. On impulse, he pulled into a vacant cops-only parking spot and went inside.
The press conference was almost over. Lucas watched from the back as Daniel went through his routine. The television reporters were looking at their watches, ready to break away, while they listened to the the newspaper people ask a few final questions.
As he turned to leave, Jennifer stepped into the room and bumped him with an elbow.
"Thanks again. We were on the air an hour ago," she said quietly. "Look at Shelly…"
Shelly Breedlove, a reporter for Channel 8, was staring spitefully at them from across the room. She'd made the connection on TV3's exclusive break on Larry Hart's murder.
Jennifer smiled pleasantly back and said, "Fuck you, bitch," under her breath. To Lucas she said, "Are you on your way home?"
"Yeah."
"I've got a baby-sitter…"
Lucas slept poorly, his legs twitching, curling, uncurling. Jennifer curled against his bare back, her forehead against the nape of his neck, tears trickling down her cheeks. She could smell the perfume on him. It wasn't hers and it wasn't something he'd picked up sitting next to another woman. There'd been contact. A lot of contact. She lay awake, with the tears, and Lucas dreamed of a cold round circle of a shotgun pressed against his head, and of Larry Hart tumbling down the hillside above the Mississippi, the barges curling away, rolling down the river, their pilots unaware of the light going out on the hill above them…
CHAPTER 21
Sam Crow raged through the house while Aaron sat silently in the La-Z-Boy, bathed in flickering light from the television set. Shadow Love's picture was everywhere, views from the front and both sides, close-ups of his tattooed arms.
"That fuckin' kid is ruinin' us," Sam shouted. He crowded against Barbara, who, frightened by his anger, wrapped and rewrapped her hands with a damp dish towel and pretended to do dishes between bouts of weeping. "How could you fuckin' go along?"
"I didn't want to," she cried, "I didn't know…"
"You knew." Sam spat. "For Christ's sakes, did you think he was delivering a fuckin' Christmas card?"
"I didn't know…"
"Where'd you leave him?"
"He got out by Loring Park…"
"Where was he going?"
"I don't know… He said you wouldn't want him here. He said he had to work alone…"
"Fuck meee," Sam called out. "Fuck meee…"
Aaron appeared in the doorway. "C'mere, look at this."
Sam followed him back to the living room. For the past half-hour, they'd seen report after report from Minneapolis: from the hillside where Hart's body had been found, from the chiefs office, from Indian Country. Man-in-the-street interviews. Lily, working the crowd, an NYPD badge pinned to her coat. People talking to her, thrusting their faces in front of the camera.
Now that had changed. A room with light blue walls. An American flag. A podium with a circular American-eagle seal under a battery of microphones, and a man in a gray double-breasted suit with a handkerchief in his breast pocket.
"It's Clay," Aaron said.
"… terrorist group has now begun striking at its own people. That doesn't make them any less dangerous but will, I hope, make it obvious to the Indian people that these killers don't care any more about Indians than they do about whites…"
And later:
"… worked with Indian people during my entire career, and I'm asking my old friends of all Indian nations to call us at the FBI with any information about this group…"
And more:
"… I will be accompanied by a task force of forty specialists, men and women from around the nation who will be brought in to break this ring. We are prepared to stay in Minnesota until we are successful in this endeavor. We will remain in full and immediate contact with the Washington center…"
"Lawrence Duberville Clay," Sam said, almost reverently, as he stared at the man on the TV screen. "Hurry up, motherfucker…"
"There's somebody here," Barbara called from the kitchen, fear thick in her voice. "Somebody on the porch."
The doorbell rang as Aaron hurried into the back bedroom, where he had been sleeping, and returned with an old blue.45. The bell rang again and then the front door pushed open. A dark figure, short hair, black eyes; Aaron, flattened against the hallway wall, at first thought it might be Shadow Love, but the man was too big…
"Leo," Aaron called in delight. A smile lit the old man's face and he dropped the pistol to his side. "Sam, it's Leo. Leo's home."
CHAPTER 22
"You're sleeping with that New York cop. Lily." Jennifer looked at him over the breakfast bar. Lucas was holding a glass of orange juice and looked down at it, as if hoping it held an answer. The newspaper sat next to his hand. The headline read: CROWS KILL COP.
He wasn't a cop, Lucas thought. After a moment he glanced away from the table and then back at the newspaper and nodded. "Yes," he said.
"Are you going to again?" Her face was pale, tired, her voice low and whispery.
"I can't help it," he said. He wouldn't look at her. He turned the glass in his hand, swirling the juice.
"Is this… a long-term thing?" Jennifer asked.
"I don't know."
"Look at me," she said.
"No." He kept his eyes down.
"You can come back and see the baby, but call first. Once a week for now. I won't continue our sexual relationship and I don't want to see you. You can see the baby on Saturday nights, when I have a sitter. After Lily goes back to New York, we'll talk. We'll make some kind of arrangement so you can visit the baby on a regular basis."
Now he looked up. "I love you," he said.
Tears started in her eyes. "We've been through this before. You know what I feel like? I feel pathetic. I don't like feeling pathetic. I won't put up with it."
"You're not pathetic. When I look at you…" "I don't care what you see. Or anybody else. I'm pathetic in my own mind. So fuck you, Davenport."