Sudden Prey (39 page)

''Fuck that, I'm coming,'' Bunne said. Lucas opened his mouth to object, but Bunne pointed at the ground ahead of them: ''Look at that. Blood trail.''

They all stopped and Stadic said, ''He's right,'' and they all looked down the street toward a row of old brown brick apartment houses. ''This is them,'' Bunne said, pointing at the fresh tracks in the snow. ''See the different sizes of holes . . . that's the woman, this one guy is dragging his leg, that's the blood trail.''

''Can't see shit; it'll be light in an hour,'' the uniform cop said, looking around. He was nervous, nibbling at his brushy black mustache. ''Got snow on my glasses . . .''

They pushed into the snow, past the apartment houses and small businesses, a Dairy Queen, a jumble of parking lots and fences, the occasional hedge, Dumpsters behind buildings, all good cover: following the blood which appeared as ragged, occasional sprinkles in the snow, black in the dim light. As they moved up under a streetlight, Lucas said into his handset, ''We're tracking them . . .'' and gave the position.

No way they could get out of the neighborhood, he thought, but there was an excellent possibility that they'd take a house somewhere, and they'd have a siege. ''Better get a hostage team down here,'' he said. ''They could hole up . . .''

At that minute there was a sharp slap and Bunne said, ''Oh, Christ,'' and fell down. Lucas screamed ''Shooter,'' and they scattered. But they could see nothing, and hear nothing but sirens, the traffic on the highway and the peculiar hushed purring of the snow.

The uniform was screaming, ''Where is he? Which way, which way?''

Lucas put the radio back up and shouted, ''Man down, get a goddamn ambulance up here.'' He scrabbled crabwise toBunne and asked, ''How bad?'' while Stadic was shouting, ''Over to your left . . .''

Bunne said, ''Man, hurts . . . Can't breathe . . .''

Lucas unzipped the baseball jacket coat and found a torrent of blood pouring from a chest wound, and more, sticky and red, in the back. The hole in the coat looked more like a cut than a bullet puncture. Lucas pressed his palm against the chest wound and looked back in the street, and saw it lying against a car. A fuckin' arrow? No sound, no muzzle flash . . .

''He's shooting a bow,'' Lucas shouted at the others. ''He's shooting a bow, you won't hear it, watch it, he's shooting a bow, stay out of the streetlights.''

One of the cops yelled, ''What the fuck is this? What the fuck is this?''

An ambulance turned the corner, the lights blood-red, and Lucas waved at it. When it came in, he said to the EMT, ''Hit by an arrow, he's bleedin' bad,'' and left her to it, running after the other two men.

He found them zigzagging up the street, still following the blood. ''Ten feet at a time,'' the uniform said. The uniform was sweating with fear and was wet with melting snow. His eyes were too big behind his moisture-dappled spectacles, his breathing labored, but he was functioning. He ran left, and dropped, pointing his shotgun down the blood trail. Stadic went right, dropped. Lucas followed up the middle, dodged and dropped. Stadic went past, and then the uniform cop.

On a patch of loose snow, Lucas saw that they were only following one track.

''What happened to the other two tracks?'' he shouted.

''I don't know. They must've turned off back in the street,'' Stadic shouted back, as the uniform cop leapfrogged past him. Stadic scrambled to his feet, and as he did, he grunted and dropped, and Lucas saw an aluminum arrow sticking out of his chest and just a flicker of movement upthe trail. He fired three shots, saw another flicker, and fired two more, the last two low, and then the uniform cop fired a quick shot with his twelve-gauge.

''How bad?'' Lucas shouted at Stadic.

''Nothing. Hit the backing plate in the vest,'' Stadic said, getting to his feet. ''He's a good fuckin' shot.'' He broke the arrow off and they moved forward again, found a puddle of blood, and some blood spatter. ''You hit him,'' the uniform cop said.

''Maybe you,'' Lucas said.

''Naw, I couldn't see bullshit, was just shooting 'cause I was scared.'' He looked around and said, ''Maybe we ought to wait until daylight. He can't be far. He ain't going anywhere, he was already bleeding before you hit him.''

''I want him,'' Lucas said. He put the handset to his face and told the dispatcher that the three had broken up, two apparently together, the third hurt bad. He gave the location and said, ''We're following up.''

''There are people coming straight into that block,'' the dispatcher said. ''You're heading right into them. We've got guys with armor coming up, so take it easy . . .''

WHEN THEY SPLIT UP, SANDY HAD RUN ON AHEAD, LaChaise trailing her by fifty feet, with Martin hobbling behind. They ran a block, LaChaise catching Sandy, then a red Ford stopped at an intersection ahead of them. Sirens were coming from all directions: the Ford wasn't moving. Without breaking stride, LaChaise swerved behind it, jerked open the passenger-side door, and pointed his pistol at the driver: ''Freeze, motherfucker.''

The driver instinctively stepped on the brake, and LaChaise was inside, his gun in the redheaded kid's face. Sandy, when she saw LaChaise turn toward the car, dropped back a few steps. When he jerked open the car door, she turned and ranthe other way. When LaChaise turned back, she was gone in the snow.

''Fuck it, fuck it . . .'' LaChaise pointed his pistol at the redheaded driver: ''Take off. Slow. Go, go . . .''

He slid to his knees in the passenger-side foot well, his head below the level of the dash, the pistol pointed at the kid's chest. They went a block, then the driver said, ''No,'' and swerved, and they hit something, and LaChaise yelled, ''Motherfucker,'' and the driver put his hands up to ward off the bullet.

But LaChaise levered himself up, and the kid babbled, ''They almost hit us . . .'' and LaChaise saw the two cars-- a cop car and a four-by-four--disappearing down the street.

''Go,'' he said to the kid. ''That way. Down toward the dome.''

SANDY FOUND AN ALLEY AND STUCK WITH IT, LOPING along behind the apartment buildings. LaChaise had told her, teasing, that if she turned herself into the wrong cop, she was dead. True enough: she had his picture, but not his name.

And he'd be looking for her. Her best option, she thought, was to find a phone and call Davenport.

Now, if she could find someplace open. But what would be open at seven o'clock on a day like this? The city was a wilderness, the snow pelting down in buckets. She stepped out in the open, then back into the dark as a car roared by, then into the open again to look down the street. There was light on the side of the Metrodome. If she could get in there, there'd be lots of phones. She started that way.

LUCAS, STADIC AND THE UNIFORMED COP MOVED slowly up the blood trail, peering into the dark, starting at every shadow; the uniform fired once into a snowblower as it sat beside a house; Lucas nearly nailed a gate, as it trembledin the blowing snow. They shouted back and forth to reassure each other, and to pressure the bleeding man. Keep him moving; don't let him think about it.

MARTIN FIGURED HE WAS DYING, BUT HE WASN'T FEELING much pain. Nor was he feeling much cold. He was reasonably comfortable, for a man who'd torn open a thigh wound and had taken a gunshot hit in the butt. The butt shot had come in from the side, and nearly knocked him down. But he kept moving, feeling the blood running down his legs. He'd have to stop soon, he thought dreamily. He was running out of blood; that's probably why he felt so good. The shock was ganging up on him, and pretty soon, things would start shutting down.

One more shot with the bow, then he'd dump it. And when they came in again, for the last time, he'd go to work with the AR-15. His final little surprise, he thought, and grinned to himself.

LUCAS HIT THE GROUND NEXT TO A BRIDAL-WREATH hedge. A handful of snow splashed up in his face, and he snorted and tried to see past the corner of the apartment building, thrusting his .45 that way. He could feel Bunne's blood on the pistol stock, a tacky patina that'd be hard to get off. ''Go,'' he yelled, and the uniform went past and immediately screamed and went down, and Lucas flopped beside him, thought he saw movement, and fired, and the cop was screaming, ''Got me, he got me . . .''

Lucas pulled him back. The arrow was sticking out of the cop's leg, just above the knee: it had apparently hit the bone square on, and was stuck in it. ''Gonna be okay,'' Lucas said, and yelled at Stadic, ''Stay back, forget it, just hold your ground.'' He called for another ambulance on the handset and asked Dispatch, ''Where's the help?''

''They oughta be right ahead of you, they're all over that block.''

''You can't see the guy,'' Lucas sputtered. ''You can't see him in the snow . . .''

Stadic hunched up beside him. ''What do you want to do?''

''Hold it here for a minute. Get the ambulance . . .?''

The uniformed cop picked up on it. ''Where's the fuckin' ambulance . . . ''

An ambulance swung in behind them, and Stadic turned and ran back to wave it down.

''One more push,'' Lucas said. He spoke at the downed cop, but he was talking to himself. He got halfway to his knees, then launched into a short dash and dropped behind another hedge. Up ahead, powerful lights were breaking out around the block, and, behind the lights, he sensed moving figures.

''Davenport,'' he yelled.

''Where are you?''

''Straight ahead; I think he's between us . . .''

And somebody else shouted, ''We don't know that's Davenport, watch it, watch it . . .''

Then Lucas saw Martin. He'd been hunkered into the side of a shabby old apartment, next to a line of garbage cans. He broke across toward the next apartment, and Lucas shouted, ''There he is,'' and fired two quick shots, missing.

''He's coming around the apartment, look that way, he's coming around, watch it . . .''

And one second later, the lightning-stutter of the AR-15 lit up the back side of the apartment. Lucas half-ran that way, aware of the slipperiness underfoot, the shotgun already at his shoulder, leading the way. The automatic fire stopped before he was halfway there, then started again with a fresh clip. Glass was breaking, more cops were firing. Lucas reached the corner and peeked.

* * *

MARTIN WAS FIFTEEN FEET AWAY, IN AN ALLEYWAY stairwell. On his right, he was protected by the building. Ahead of him, and to his left, all along the length of a vacant lot, cop cars blocked the route. The cops were returning fire, but they didn't know he was below the level of the stairwell wall. With the snow, they probably couldn't see anything but the muzzle flash.

He crouched for a second, then popped up and fired another burst at one of the cars, aiming low, figuring the cops would be behind it.

LUCAS SAID TO THE HANDSET, ''TELL EVERYBODY TO cease fire. Cease fire, for Christ's sakes, you're gonna kill me. I got him if you can make them cease fire.''

Three seconds later, he heard yelling on the other side of the street, and the fire diminished. He peeked at the corner again. Martin had reloaded, and was about to pop up again, to hose down the line of cars.

Lucas shouted, ''Freeze!''

Martin turned, and his mouth dropped open. He posed like that for an instant, looking at the shotgun, then said, ''Fuck you,'' and the AR came around. Lucas waited for a microsecond longer than he should have, then shot Martin in the head.

Chapter
Twenty-Seven.

LUCAS YELLED, ''GOT HIM,'' STEPPED OUT AND WAVED, and a line of cops broke toward him. He stepped through the snow and down the steps to the body. Most of the top of Martin's head was gone, but his face looked almost placid, his eyes closed, his lips turned up in a not-quite smile.

There was little point to it--he was dead--but out of reflex Lucas patted the body, felt the solidity of the body armor under the coat. And something else. A pistol, Lucas thought, but when he touched it, it was rectangular and he slipped it out of Martin's pocket just as Stadic arrived at the top of the stairs.

''He's dead?''

Lucas said, ''Yeah,'' and stood up, a cell phone in his hand. Where'd they get it? Probably a street buy. He frowned at the phone, then stepped up the stairs toward Stadic: ''Watch the muzzle,'' he said. Stadic's shotgun muzzle had drifted toward him as Stadic peered down the stairwell to Martin. ''One down, one to go.''

''One?'' Stadic asked. ''What about the woman?''

''She's been talking to us. We're not sure about her status,'' Lucas said.

''Okay.'' Stadic nodded, and he thought: Shit. They're gonna talk with her .

Lucas brushed past him on the way up the stairs and said, ''So let's find them.''

The line of cops arrived and Lucas shouted, ''There're two more. They're headed up the street toward the dome . . .''

A PATROL LIEUTENANT TROTTED OVER AND THEY BEGAN talking search techniques, and whether they should put it off until light: Lucas wanted to keep the pressure on. Stadic watched them as they talked. Lucas still had the phone in his hand, then unconsciously stuck it in his coat pocket. Had to get it. Stadic stared at the pocket. Had to get it, had to get it, had to get it . . . the chant rang through his mind like a mantra.

''Come on,'' Lucas called to him. Stadic, jolted back to the present, said, ''I'm here,'' and Lucas clapped him on the back and led the way back behind the building. He was six feet ahead, unsuspecting. Stadic had the shotgun: and there were more cops everywhere. But the temptation . . . an accident.