"I'm going out there," Lucas said. "Right around this house behind us, and then over to the fence. Johnny, tell your guys I'll be moving out there."
He slipped away to his left, groping in the dark, behind the neighboring house, sheltered by a hedge. Once across the yard, he forced a hole in the hedge, into Wilson's yard, next to the fence. Unlikely that he could be seen: he couldn't see the window anymore. But if Cappy was out there, with a shotgun, waiting…
He got his guts up and started crawling down the fence line. Fifteen yards down the line, he crossed Cappy's trail. Thought nothing. Turned to look at the fence: couldn't see anything. Listened. Nothing. Crawled down the trail to the house, and the basement window. "Goddamnit." Never thought of the basement. He got to his feet, crouching, and dashed across the yard to Harris's post, where the others were waiting.
"He's out," Lucas said. "But there's a trail. He's five minutes ahead of us." SHRAKE VOLUNTEERED to follow the track. He was wearing a helmet and full armor, and Lucas said, "Don't forget, he had grenades. If you see him, and go after him, he could drop one on you."
"I'm not forgetting that," Shrake said. "I think about it every two seconds."
"Five-meter kill zone. Four or five seconds from the time he throws it. The time is not precise," Lucas said.
"I can handle all that," Shrake said. "The question is, will we ever see it?"
"Don't push out front-stay way back. Keep your flashlight working." THEY MOVED out in a V-shaped line two hundred yards across, fifty yards deep, with Shrake at the bottom of the funnel with a super-bright LED flashlight and a radio. The line was mostly invisible as they moved, with the exception of Shrake. As the trail went one way or another around houses, into the next street, Shrake adjusted the vector.
St. Paul Park put all their squads on the streets, moving, light racks flashing, on a perimeter, hoping to keep Cappy inside, but the snow was so heavy that he'd probably be able to cross the line. On the other hand, the flashing lights might make him cautious, and slow him down.
The search, Lucas thought, as he tramped up through the snow with his shotgun, had all the characteristics of a clusterfuck, but he couldn't think of a better alternative. He was the first man up the funnel from Shrake, twenty yards to Shrake's left, fifteen yards in front of him.
Shrake said, "He's going around the left side of the house…" They pushed through the first line of lots, into the next street, then through the next double line, the houses back-to-back. Lights were popping on here and there, people starting to check the flashing lights of the squads.
Through the second line of houses, and Shrake said, "Bearing left, bearing left." THE THIN BLOND woman was lying on the kitchen floor, her ankles taped together, and Cappy stuck a grenade between her thighs and said, "Press hard, and don't move. Don't even think. The pin is out, and if the lever goes, it'll blow you in half. And if this fuckin' key doesn't start that fuckin' truck, I'll come back here and kill you myself."
"I won't move. I won't move, please don't do this…"
"Shut up. You just lay there."
Cappy took the key and slunk back to the front window and looked out. Nothing to see. A flashing light somewhere… he could see the whip of the light on the snow, like far-off lightning. Had the cops gotten onto him?
Had to go. He said, one more time, "Don't move, lady. Keep your shit together, and don't move." HE WENT OUT to the driveway, fumbled the keys, found them again, got the door open, fired up the truck. Backed out of the driveway, and then, through the muffled air of the storm, heard a human sound, a shouting.
Had no idea where it was coming from. Left the lights off, backed into the street, and took off, and then the light-whips got brighter, fast, and a squad car pulled in front of him, another behind it, one blocking the street.
Cappy did a slide, cranked the wheel, backed around, went the other way. The second cop car came after him, and he fumbled a grenade out, pulled the pin, let the spoon fly, counted one-and and dropped it out the window.
The cop car was fifteen feet from the grenade when it went, Cappy another hundred feet down the street. The cop car went sideways and Cappy felt an exhilarating rush, a coke rush, and then saw a light to his left, coming through the snow, and then a man in front of him. Cappy hit the gas harder, holding down as far as he dared, without spinning, and aimed at the figure in the snow straight ahead… LUCAS SAW the grenade go and the cop car spin out, the truck coming straight down the street at him. He could hear Shrake shouting something, but Lucas was focused on the truck. Then Shrake fired two or three shots with his M-16, and Lucas fired his shotgun into the driver's-side windshield, took four quick steps sideways to let the truck go past, bullfighter style, put the shotgun almost against the glass of the passenger-side window and pulled the trigger again. CAPPY FELT a slug go through his thigh, the pain like being hit by a baseball bat; saw the lump out front pointing a shotgun, dropped down behind the wheel. Getting close to the end, now, Cappy: his face contorted in a rictus of a grin, teeth showing. The windshield got hit, but held; then the passenger-side window blew through the truck like the end of the world, shot smashing through his wheel hand, glass through his head and face. The truck went sideways. One hand almost gone, he pulled another grenade out of his pocket, pulled the pin. He was holding it when the truck hit a tree, and jolted to a sudden stop.
Somebody was screaming at him: "Out, out, out…"
Somebody else was yelling, "Careful, careful, careful…"
A voice close now, "Get out of there, motherfucker. Get out of there… Let me see your hands…"
Voice right there. Door was jerked open, and Cappy let go of the spoon. Cop was right there and Cappy grinned at him through bloody teeth and said, "Suck on this," but he wasn't sure he could be understood; he closed his eyes and counted, "Two-three…" THE ST. PAUL PARK cop had a shotgun almost pointing in the window and Lucas, running up, screaming, "Careful," looked in the window and saw the quick flick and grabbed the cop by his collar and yanked him back from the truck and dragged him down by the front wheel and then the grenade went.
And everything stopped.
Nothing but the sound of snow, for ten seconds, fifteen, like the film had gotten stuck in the projector.
And started again, jerking unevenly to full speed. Shrake ran up and shouted, "You guys okay? You guys okay?"
Lucas stood up, and the cop stood up, and the cop turned white-faced to Lucas and said, "Boy, I almost fucked that up."
The grenade had gone off in Cappy's lap.
He was long gone. ONE SECOND LATER, another grenade went off, most of a block away, and a woman began screaming.
23
WEATHER SLEPT LATE, for her, until six o'clock-three too many daiquiris-and as she slowly surfaced, thought first of the Raynes twins, and then, quickly, of the fact that she was alone in bed. She rolled over and patted Lucas's side, saw that it hadn't been slept in.
She sat up, scratched and stretched, the worry pulling at the back of her brain-Virgil would have woken her if anything disastrous had happened, right? She threw the covers off, made a quick stop in the bathroom, got a robe and headed downstairs, still tasting the mixture of Bacardi rum and Crest toothpaste on the back of her tongue.
Virgil was curled on the couch, watching Channel Three's good-morning show. He sat up when she walked into the living room. "Where's Lucas?" she asked.
"Down in St. Paul Park. He's fine, but there was a big shoot-out with our skinhead. Caprice M. Garner. He's dead, he blew himself up with a grenade."
"No!" She stared at the television, as though the talking heads would refute what Virgil had just said; instead, the television told her about the joys of growing winter tomatoes in your basement, using equipment available in an ordinary hardware store. "Has he been on? Lucas?"