Oh, no, something's going on. She opened her mouth to say something, but
LaChaise, behind her, said, ''This one time, I'm going to take your word for it
…''
Now there was a pleading tone in LaChaise's voice, and Weather felt the pressure from the gun muzzle move away from her ear.
THE SNIPER COULD SEE WEATHER FROM THE SHOULDER up, and all of LaChaise's head, and the muzzle of the pistol. He could hear what LaChaise was saying, but was mentally processing it in the background. Everything else was focused on the muzzle. He saw it start to move, mentally processed the words, going to take your word for it, realized that the muzzle was about to come away from
Weather's head, and then the muzzle lifted out of Weather's hair and the sniper let out just a tiny puff of breath and squeezed…
THE DISTANCE WAS SIXTY-TWO FEET. IN TWO ONEHUNDREDTHS of a second, the slug exploded from the barrel and through LaChaise's head, his skull blowing up like a blood-filled pumpkin.
LaChaise never sensed, never knew death was on the way. He was there one instant, moving the muzzle, ready to quit, even thinking about jail life; in the next instant, he was gone, turned off, falling.
WEATHER FELT THE MUZZLE MOVE, AND THE NEXT INSTANT, she was on the floor, blind.
She couldn't see, she couldn't hear, she was covered with something-she was covered with blood, flesh, brains. She tried to get to her feet but slipped and fell heavily, tried to get up, then Lucas was there, picking her up, and she began to scream…
And to push him away.
THIRTY
THREE DOCTORS, PHYSICIANS AND FRIENDS, BENT OVER Weather, trying to talk with her. She was disoriented, physically and psychologically. The explosion of blood, bone and brain had done something to her. The doctors were talking about sedatives.
''Shock,'' one of the cops said to Lucas. The doctors had pushed Lucas away-his presence seemed to make her worse. ''We'll get her cleaned up, get her calmed down, then you can see her,'' they said.
He went reluctantly, watching from the back of the room. Roux showed up, looked at the body, talked to the kid from Iowa, then came over to see Lucas.
''So it's done,'' she said. ''Is Weather all right?''
''She's shook up,'' Lucas said. ''She freaked when we shot LaChaise.''
''Well, look at her,'' Roux said quietly. ''She looks like she was literally in a blood bath. A bath of blood.''
''Yeah, I just… I don't know. I did right, I think.''
Roux nodded: ''You did right.'' She asked, ''Did you talk to Dewey?''
Dewey was the shooter. Lucas looked across the room at the Iowa kid, who had the rifle cradled in his left arm, like a pheasant hunter with a shotgun. He was chatting pleasantly with the team leader. ''Never had a chance,'' Lucas said.
''I need to thank him.''
Roux said, ''He scares the shit out of me. He seems to think the whole thing is very interesting. Can't wait to tell his folks. But he doesn't seem to feel a thing about actually killing somebody.''
Lucas nodded, shrugged, turned back toward Weather. '' Jesus, I hope…'' He shook his head. ''She acts like she hates me.''
THE PHONE IN HIS POCKET RANG AND LUCAS FUMBLED for it. Roux said, ''What about
Darling?''
''We've got some guys trying to find her over at the dome.'' Lucas got the phone out-his own phone. The ringing continued in his pocket. ''Uh-oh,'' he said, as he dug out the second phone. ''This could be bad news.''
He turned the phone on and said, ''Yes?''
''This is Johnson, over at U.S. West.''
''What'd you get?''
''The phone was registered to a Sybil Guhl, she's a realestate broker in Arden
Hills. There were forty-two calls in the last few days, both businesses and private phones…''
''Private phones,'' Lucas said.
''There were calls to a Daymon Harp residence in Minneapolis,'' Johnson said in his fussy corporate voice. ''To an Andrew Stadic residence…''
''Oh, shit,'' Lucas said.
''Beg pardon?''
''How many calls to Stadic?''
''Uh… nine. That was the most frequently called personal phone-actually, it's another cellular.''
''Who else?''
There were other calls, but they could be discounted. Lucas said ''Thanks,'' hung up and looked at Roux. ''Andy Stadic,'' he said. ''He's the guy.''
''Damnit.'' She brushed her hand across her eyes, as though that would make it go away. ''Let's get a team out to his house.''
''He's not at his house,'' Lucas said, backing away, heading toward the elevators. He looked one last time at Weather, sitting head down on the cart, the doctors crouched around her. He should stay; but he'd go. ''He's leading the hunt for Sandy Darling.''
SANDY HEARD THE KNOT OF COPS COMING UP BEHIND her. She needed to talk to somebody on a phone before she turned herself in. One of the cops-maybe one of those behind her, maybe not-would have a face that matched the photos in her pocket.
If he was behind her, she might not get a chance to talk. When she heard the cops calling back and forth, she thought about running over to the dome, but the street was too wide, too open, and they were too close. She'd been leaving tracks, but there'd been no way to avoid that. Now she ran a few feet into the street, through fresh snow, heading toward the dome. As she got into the street, onto snow compacted by traffic, she swerved left.
An old house, with four or five mailboxes mounted next to the door, was only a few dozen feet away, and behind it, a ramshackle garage. All the windows in the house were dark, but somebody had left it not long ago. A set of tire tracks came out of the garage, into the street.
Sandy hurried to the drive, tiptoed up the car track, crouched, looked around, then lifted the garage door. The door rolled up easily. The garage was empty, except for three garbage cans and a pile of worn-out tires stacked on one side.
She dropped the door, and in the pitch-blackness, felt her way across to the stack of tires and sat down.
She felt as though she'd been physically beaten, but there was hope now. If she could get to a phone…
Through the walls of the garage, as if from a distance, she could hear the cops calling back and forth, and then more sirens. She sat and waited.
STADIC AND TWO UNIFORMED COPS CROSSED THE street to the Metrodome. A ramp led up from the street to the concourse level, and they climbed it, spread out in a skirmish line. Four cars were parked in the tiny parking area above the ramp.
Footprints led from the ramp area to the doors at the base of the dome. They couldn't tell if anyone else had walked up the ramp.
''Protect yourself, boys,'' Stadic said to the others. '' Davenport might be right that she's helping out, but he don't know everything. If you come up on her, be ready.''
The uniforms nodded, and as they approached the line of doors, they saw that one was propped open with a plastic wastebasket. ''Five'll get you ten that she came in here,'' one of the cops muttered. They eased through the first set of doors, then went through a revolving door onto the circular concourse.
Nobody in sight. The concourse was only dimly lit, but somewhere, somebody was running a machine that sounded like an oversized vacuum. Stadic said, ''You guys go that way. Holler if you see anything. She could be anywhere.''
At that instant, one of the cops saw movement over Stadic's shoulder. He yelled,
''Hold it… You! Hold it.''
Stadic spun, and saw a figure in the dim light. The figurehad stopped in the center of the concourse, and then the other uniform yelled, ''Minneapolis police, hold it.'' All three of them trotted toward the figure. A man; a janitor.
''What happened?'' the man asked. He was holding a hot TV dinner in one hand, a plastic fork in the other.
''Sorry,'' the first cop said. He put his pistol away. ''You work here?''
''Uh, yeah…''
''Did you see a woman come through here? Hiding out?''
''Haven't seen anybody but the guys down working on the rug,'' the man said.
''The rug?''