Sudden prey

ELEVEN

DEL WAS IN THE HALLWAY, STRETCHED OUT ON THREE couch pillows. Small was in bed, still dressed but in stocking feet, alert. Every once in a while, he'd get out of bed and creep through the hallway, and whisper a question down to Lucas.

''Anything?''

''Nothing yet.''

Lucas yawned, pushed a button on his watch to illuminate the face. Five forty-five. More than two hours to first light. He walked carefully back toward the bathroom, navigating by feel through the darker lumps of the furniture. The bathroom was for guests, for convenience: small, with a toilet and a sink, a tube of Crest and a rack of kids' toothbrushes for aftermeal brushing. There was no exterior window. Lucas shut the door and turned on the light, winced at its brightness, splashed water in his face. His mouth tasted worse than his face looked; he rubbed a wormy inch of Crest over his teeth with his index finger, spat the green slime into the sink, and stoodthere, leaning over the sink, weight on his arms, watching the water.

There were all kinds of hints and pointers, but none of them solid. Not yet. But the case would go quickly, he thought. If he were alive, if Weather and Sarah and Jennifer and Small were all alive in a week, then it'd be done with.

It'd be done with even if they didn't stay around.

They could walk out now, catch a plane, fly to Tahiti-he had the money to do it a hundred times over-lie on the beach, and when they came back, it'd be done.

The difference of a week.

And maybe they should.

But he liked the tightening feel of the hunt.

He didn't like what it had done to Cheryl Capslock or the others, the dead, but he did like the feel of chase, God help him.

He turned out the light, opened the door and went back to the living room.

DEL WAS AWAKE. HE SAID, ''CHERYL COULDN'T FEEL much of anything after they got her out of surgery.''

''She'll feel it today,'' Lucas said. He unconsciously touched a white tracheotomy scar on his throat.

''Yeah, that's what the docs said.''

''They say anything about scars?'' Lucas asked.

''She's gonna have some, but they shouldn't be too bad. What there is, she can wear her hair over.''

''I know a plastic surgeon over at the U, friend of Weather's. If you need one.''

They sat a while in the dark. Then Del said, ''If she died, I don't know what

I'd do.''

''She'll be okay.''

''Yeah.'' Then: ''But that's not exactly what I meant. I mean, I never really thought of it until this afternoon. If shewas gone, I'd be lost. I been on the streets so long, the whole world looks like it's fucked. Cheryl keeps me from going nuts. I was going nuts before I met her. I was a crazy motherfucker…

I was such a good wino that I could've become one.''

''Made for each other,'' Lucas said, with a wry undertone cops affected when they were getting too close to sincerity.

''Yeah. Jesus, I want to kill that motherfucker…''

Then the handset: ''Lucas. Got one coming.'' A surveillance voice. Lucas grabbed the radio and stepped to the front door. He could see out the inset glass windows without being seen himself.

''White male in a pickup, moving slow. He's not delivering papers.''

''Can you see the plates?''

''I can't, but Tommy can, he's got the night scope… Tommy? He'll be there in a minute.''

''Right, I got him coming…''

''Lucas, he's coming up to the house now.''

Lucas could see the headlights on the snow, then the slowly moving pickup. ''Get the plate, get the plate.''

''He's going by, but he was looking. Jeff, what'd you think?''

''He was looking, all right.''

''We don't want to shoot a goddamn reporter, take it easy…''

Lucas said, ''Tommy, you got that plate?''

''Front plate's dirty, I can get CV. It's Minnesota…''

''Tommy, c'mon…''

''I got it, I got it…'' He read the license out, and Dispatch acknowledged.

''He's going around the corner…''

''Which way?''

''South. Wait a minute, he's stopping. He's stopping.''

''Dick, you guys get down here in the car,'' Lucas said into the handset. ''Come around the block from the back.''

''Didn't think it'd happen,'' Del said. He was wide awake, breathing hard.

''Take it easy,'' Lucas said.

Small called down the stairs: ''What's happening?''

''Nothing,'' Lucas called back, and then Del led out through the front and down the sidewalk, moving with the wintertime short-step duckwalk of a man on ice.

Lucas still had the handset. Tommy: ''He's getting something out of the back.

He's got the dome light on and he's doing something in the back.''

Lucas brought the radio up: ''Everybody take it easy, he could have anything in there.''

Dick came back: ''We're coming in, we're coming around the corner.''

Lucas said, ''Let's go,'' and they started running, moving off the sidewalk into the snow, high-stepping. At the corner, they rounded an arbor vitae, and saw the truck fifty feet away, across the street, the door open now. The driver was turning toward them, he had something in his arms…

''Hold it,'' Lucas shouted. Del was sprinting ahead, and Tommy came in from the side, his long coat whipping around his legs, and Dick came in with the car.. .

BUTTERS HAD SPIRALED IN TOWARD THE HOUSE FROM A half-mile out, quartering the neighborhood, watching faces in the few cars he'd encountered, looking for lights, looking for motion. In the woods, he'd learned to look not for the animal, but the disturbance in the animal's wake. Deer sometimes sounded like they were wearing jackboots, pounding through the woods; squirrels made tree limbs jiggle and jerk in a way that wasn't the wind; even a snake, if it was big enough, parted the grass like a ship's prow cutting through water.

He watched for the odd motion; and saw none.

Still, there was something not right about this. He understoodthat the cop might think that the kid was safe, but why would he take the chance? Putting the kid in the hotel would have been the natural thing to do.

Butters saw nothing, but he smelled something: the kid felt like bear bait, a bucket of honey and oatmeal, meant to pull them in. They had to check, because the kid might be one of their last chances to really get even. And that, he thought, made the kid even better bait.

But he turned toward the house, spiraling, moving closer…

THE UNMARKED CAR CAUGHT THE TRUCK IN ITS HIGH beams, and the man turned, hearing

Lucas's scream, saw the running men… put his back to the truck and said,

''What? What?''

Del was twenty feet away and coming in, and the man raised his hands and Del almost popped him: almost…

''Freeze. Right where you are.'' Lucas behind Del, Tommy on the edge, the doors popping on the blocking car.

''What?'' The guy was white-faced, shocked, his mouth dropping open. He stepped back away from the van.

There was movement in the van, and Tommy swiveled toward it, his shotgun raised.

A blond head. Then a child's voice, tired and frightened: ''Daddy?''

SPIRALING: AND CATCHING, DOWN A STREET THAT LED almost straight into the target house, a dark-night tableau. A car parked diagonally across the street, its headlights on a van. A man outside the van, his hands up. More men in the street.

''There you are,'' Butters said, with satisfaction. ''I knew you were out there.''

Lucas saw Butters's truck: noticed it mostly because it was identical to the truck they were standing next to.

Del was apologizing to the owner, who had just gotten home from his parents' farm, and trying to reassure the little girl, who was old enough to be frightened by the men who'd suddenly surrounded them.

The truck in the intersection paused for just a heartbeat, two heartbeats, then casually rolled on. The driver must have seen the commotion in the street, Lucas thought. ''I've got a daughter just like you, who lives up the block,'' Lucas said to the little girl. ''Do you know Sarah Davenport?''

The girl nodded without saying anything, but now the world was okay.

''Sure, she knows Sarah…'' the father was saying, and Lucas made nice and forgot about the other truck.

And walking away, a shaky, white-faced Del said, ''Jesus, I gotta ease off. I almost shot the guy. He didn't do a fuckin' thing, I just wanted to do it.. .''

STADIC THOUGHT ABOUT IT ALL THE WAY INTO THE Cities. He was exhausted from the day on duty, from the drive, from the killing. Through the thinning snow, he had flashes, almost visionlike in their clarity and intensity, of Elmore Darling sitting at the table in the instant before the gunshot. Darling was smiling, hopeful… afraid. He was alive. Then he wasn't. There was no transition, just a noise, and the smell of gunpowder and raw meat, and Elmore Darling wasn't there anymore.

The visions frightened Stadic: What was happening? Was he losing it? At the same time, his cop brain was working out the inevitable progression. He now knew where LaChaise and his friends were hiding. If he worked it right, if he came up with the right story, he could ambush them. He needed to draw them out of their house, unsuspecting.

He could set up outside the house, in the dark, next to their vehicles. Darling said the trucks would be on the street. Thenhe could prod them out. He could call and say that the cops had been tipped, that they were on the way. They'd have to run for it.

LaChaise was injured, so only Martin and Butters would be at full strength. He'd catch them as soon as they stepped out on the porch, before they could get the door shut, then he'd go in after the woman.

But how about the shotgun? Darling had been killed with 00s, maybe he ought to change to 000s? Or maybe just go with the pistol. If he was right there, real close, take them with the pistol and forget the shotgun. Of course, if LaChaise was really hurt, if he didn't come out, then he'd have to go in after him…

There'd be risk. He couldn't avoid it.

And how would he explain the sequence to the St. Paul cops? He could say he'd been tipped to the location by one of the local dopers, but he hadn't given it much credence. He'd gone to take a look, when he'd stumbled right into them.. .

But why would he go into the house? Why not fall back and call for an entry team?

Stadic chewed it over, worried it, all the way down to the Cities. If he was going to do it, he should stop down at his office and pick up a vest. But when he stopped at the office, the first thing he heard was people running in the hallways…

LUCAS STARED OUT THROUGH THE SLATS IN THE VENETIAN blinds. Still dark. ''Not coming.''

''So it was bullshit,'' Del said. He yawned.

''Maybe. Strange call, though,'' Lucas said, thinking about it. ''Came straight into me. He had the number.''

''We oughta leave a couple of guys here, just in case,'' Del said. ''I gotta get down to Hennepin and see Cheryl.''

''Yeah, take off,'' Lucas said.

Dispatch called: ''Lucas?''

He picked up the handset. ''Yes?''

''A woman called for you. Says she has some information and she wants the ten thousand.''

''Patch her through.''

''She hung up. She says her old man might hear her. But she gave her address.

She says she wants you to take her out of her house, if her old man gets… she said, 'pissed.' '' A dispatcher couldn't say ''pissed,'' but she could quote

''pissed.''

''What's the address?'' Lucas asked.

''It's over on the southeast side… you got a pencil?''

As Lucas took it down, Del asked, ''You want me to come along?''

Lucas shook his head. ''It's probably bullshit. Half the dopers in town will be calling, trying to fake us out. Go see Cheryl.''

''They'll let me in pretty soon,'' Del said. The light on his watch face flickered in the dark. ''I gotta be there when she wakes up.''

''Keep an eye out,'' Lucas said. ''The crazy fucks could be around the hospital.''

LUCAS, BEGINNING TO FEEL THE WEIGHT OF ALL THE sleepless hours, looked at the house and wondered: called to a semi-slum duplex, in the early-morning darkness.

An ambush?

''What do you think?'' he asked.

''You wait here,'' the patrol cop said. ''We'll go knock.''

The two patrol cops, one tall and one even taller, were wearing heavy-duty armor, capable of defeating rifle bullets. Two more cops sat in the alley behind the house, covering the back door.

Lucas stood by the car, waiting, while the cops approachedthe door. One of them peeked at a window, then suddenly broke back toward the door, and Lucas saw that it was opening. A woman, gaunt, black-haired, poked her head out and said something to the cops. The tall cop nodded, waved Lucas in, and then he and the taller cop went inside.

Lucas caught them just inside the door. The taller cop whispered, ''Her husband's in the back bedroom, and he keeps a gun on the floor next to the bed.

We're invited in, so we can take him.''

Lucas nodded, and the two cops, walking softly as they could over the tattered carpet, eased down the hallway, with the woman a step behind them. At the last door, the lead cop gestured and the woman nodded, and the cop reached inside the dark room and flipped on the light. Lucas heard him say, ''Police,'' and then,

''Get the gun,'' and then, ''Hey, wake up. Wake up. Hey you, wake up.''

Then a man's voice, high and squeaky, ''What the fuck? What the fuck is going on?''

The woman walked back down the hall toward Lucas. She was five-six, and weighed, he thought, maybe ninety pounds, with cheekbones like Frisbees. She said, ''I heard you're putting up the money.''

''If your information is any good,'' he said.

The two patrol cops prodded her husband out into the hallway. Still mostly asleep, he was wearing stained Jockey shorts and a befuddled expression. His hands were cuffed behind his back.

''Oh, the information is good,'' the woman said to Lucas. Then, ''You remember me?''

Lucas looked at her for a moment, saw something familiar in the furry thickness of her dark brows, mentally put twenty-five pounds on her and said, ''Yeah. You used to work up at the Taco Bell, the one off Riverside. You were

… let's see, you were hanging out with Sammy Cerdan and his band. You were what-you played with them. Bass?''

''Yeah, bass,'' she said, pleased that he remembered.

He was going to ask, ''What happened?'' but he knew.

Still smiling, a rickety smile that looked as though it might slide off her face onto the floor, she said, ''Yeah, yeah, good times.''

Her husband said, ''What the hell is going on? Who's this asshole?''

The tall cop said, ''He had a bag of shit under his mattress.''

He tossed a Baggie to Lucas: the stuff inside, enough to fill a teaspoon, looked like brown sugar.

''This is fuckin' illegal. I want to see a search warrant,'' the husband said.

''You shouldn't of hid the bag, Dex,'' the woman said to him. To Lucas, ''He never gave me nothin'. I'm boostin' shit out of Target all day and he never give me nothin'.''

''Kick you in the ass,'' Dexter shouted at her, and he struggled against the taller cop, and tried to kick at her. She dodged the kick and gave him the finger.

''Shut up,'' Lucas said to him. To the woman: ''Where are they?''

''My brother rented them a house, but he doesn't know who they are. The one guy,

Butters? He was here asking about crooked cops and houses he could rent. As soon as I saw on TV, I knew that was him.''

''You cunt,'' her husband shouted.

Lucas turned to him and smiled: ''The next time you interrupt, I'm gonna pull your fuckin' face off.''

The husband shut up and the woman said, ''I want the money.''

''If this pans out, you'll get it. What's the address?''

''I want something else.''

''What?''

''When my mom took the kids, they kicked me off welfare.''

''So?''

''So I want back on.''

Lucas shrugged. ''I'll ask. If you can show them the kids, then. ..''

''I don't want the kids back. I just want back on the roll,'' the woman said.

''You gotta fix it.''

''I'll ask, but I can't promise,'' Lucas said. ''Now, where are they?''

''Over in Frogtown,'' she said. ''I got the address written down.''

''What about the cop?'' Lucas asked. ''Who'd you send him to?''

The woman shook her head. ''We didn't know any cop. Dex just gave him names of some dopers who might know.''

Lucas turned to her husband. ''What dopers?''

''Fuck you,'' Dex said.

''Gonna give you some time to think about it,'' Lucas said, poking a finger in

Dexter's face. ''Down in the jail. For the shit.'' He held up the bag. ''If you think about it fast enough, maybe you can buy out of the murder charge.''

''Fuck that, I want a lawyer,'' Dex said.

''Take him,'' Lucas said to the patrolmen. To the woman: ''Gimme the address.''

LACHAISE WOKE UP SOBER BUT HUNG OVER. HE STOOD up, carefully, walked down to the bathroom, closed the door, found the light switch and flicked it on, took a leak, flushed the toilet.

He'd been sleeping in his jeans, T-shirt and socks. He pulled up the shirt to check the bandage on his ribs, looking in the cracked mirror over the sink, but saw no signs of blood, just the dried iodine compound. Best of all, he didn't feel seriously injured: he'd been hurt in bike accidents and fights, and he knew the coming-apart feeling of a bad injury. This just plain hurt.

The house was silent. He stepped back out of the bathroom, walked down the hall to the next room and pushed the door open. Sandy was curled on the bed, wrapped in a blanket.

''You asleep?'' he asked quietly.

There was no response, but he thought she might be awake. He was about to ask again, when there was a noise in the hall. He stepped back, and saw Martin padding down the hallway, a. 45 in his hand. When Martin saw LaChaise, his forehead wrinkled.

''You all right?'' Martin asked.

''I'm sore, but I been a lot worse,'' LaChaise said. ''Where's Ansel?''

''He went to see about that Davenport kid.''

''Jesus Christ, that's my job,'' LaChaise said.

Martin's mouth jerked; he might have been trying to smile. ''He figured you'd think that. But he thought it might be a trap and he figured, you know, you're the valuable one. You're the brains of the operation.''

''Shoulda told me,'' LaChaise growled.

''You was drunk.''

Sandy pushed herself up. Beneath the blanket, LaChaise noticed, she'd been wrapped in a parka. ''What's going on?''

''Ansel went after the cop's kid,'' LaChaise said. He looked at her in the long coat, and said, ''What's wrong with you? What's the parka for?''

''It's like a meat locker in here,'' she said, crossing her arms and shivering.

''Bullshit: she wants to be ready to run,'' Martin growled.

LaChaise turned to her: ''You run, we'll cut your fuckin' throat. And if you did get away…'' He dug in his shirtpocket, and came up with a stack of photographs. Two men sitting at a table, one black, one white. LaChaise riffled them at her like a deck of cards. ''We got a cop on the string. The only way he gets out is if we get away, or we're all dead. If you get away from us, and go to the cops, he'll have to come after you, in case you know his name. Think about that: we've got a cop who'll kill you, and you don't know who it is.'' He put the photos back in his pocket.

Sandy shivered. ''I'm not thinking about running,'' she said. ''I'm just cold.''

''Bullshit,'' Martin snorted.

''Whyn't you put some shoes on?'' LaChaise said. ''Let's go out.''

''Go out?'' she asked doubtfully. She looked toward a window: it was pitch black outside. Then she looked back at LaChaise. ''Dick, you're hurt.. .''

''Hell, it ain't that bad. There's no bleeding. And I can't be cooped up in here,'' LaChaise said. Despite the headache, he was almost cheerful.

''I'd rather stay here.''

''Don't be an asshole,'' he snapped. ''Let's go out and see what's cookin'. One of you can drive, I'll sit in the back.''

WHILE SANDY AND MARTIN GOT READY, LACHAISE turned on the television, clicked around the channels and found nothing of interest but a weather forecast. The snow would diminish during the morning, and the sun might peek through in the afternoon. Big trouble was cranking up in the Southwest, but it was several days away.

''Cold,'' Martin grunted, coming back from his bedroom. He was wearing his camo parka.

''Better for us, since they plastered pictures of me and Butters all over hell,'' LaChaise said. ''Less people on the street.''

''Nothing must've happened with Ansel. They'd be going on all channels if he'd done something.''

''Maybe backed off,'' LaChaise said. ''Maybe nothin' there.''

Martin looked at Sandy: ''You ready?''

''I'm not sure about this,'' she said. ''If somebody sees us.. .''

''We're just gonna ride around,'' LaChaise said. ''Maybe go to a drive-through and get some Egg McMuffins or something.''

''Gonna be light soon,'' Martin said.

BUTTERS GOT BACK TO THE HOUSE AND SAW THE SNOWFREE spot where Martin's truck had been parked, and the tracks leading away. Hadn't been gone for more than a couple of minutes, he thought: wonder what's going on? He parked Sandy's truck over the same spot and went inside. A note in the middle of the entry floor said, ''Cabin fever. Gone an hour. We'll check back.''

Butters shook his head: Cabin fever wasn't a good enough reason to go out. Of course, he'd been out. Still. LaChaise had once saved his life, LaChaise was as solid a friend as Butters had ever known… but nobody had ever claimed that he was a genius.

WHEN LUCAS ARRIVED AT THE PARKING LOT OFF UNIVERSITY and Lexington, the St. Paul cops were putting together the entry team under a lieutenant named Allport. Four plainclothes Minneapolis cops, all from homicide or vice, were standing around the lot, watching the St. Paul guys getting set.

Allport spotted Lucas and walked over to shake hands: ''How're you doing?''

''Anything we can do to help?''

Allport shook his head. ''We got it under control.'' He paused. ''A couple of your guys were pretty itchy to go in with us.''

''I'll keep them clear,'' Lucas said. ''Maybe we could sit out on the perimeter.''

Allport nodded: ''Sure. We're a little thin on the ground 'cause we're moving fast. We want to get going before we have too many people on the street.'' He looked up into the sky, which seemed as dark as ever with snow clouds. But dawn was coming: you couldn't see it on the horizon, but there was more light around.

''Why don't you take your guys up on the east side, up on Grotto. You'll be a block off the house, you can get down quick if something happens.''

''You got it,'' Lucas said. ''Thanks for letting us in.''

''So let's go,'' Allport said.

Lucas rounded up the Minneapolis cops: ''There'll be two squads on Grotto, which is a little thin. We'll want to spread out along the street. St. Paul will bring us in as soon as the entry team pops the place.''

A sex cop named Lewiston said, ''St. Paul don't have a lot of guys out here.''

''There's a time problem,'' Lucas said. ''They want to get going before they have too many civilians on the street.''

Lewiston nodded, accepting the logic, but Stadic said, ''I wish we were doing the entry. These fuckin' shitkickers…''

Lucas grinned and said, ''Hey.'' Then: ''We don't even know if it's anything.

Could be bullshit.''

The entry team left, followed by the other cops in squads and their personal cars, a morose procession down through the narrow streets of Frogtown, staying two blocks from the target, walking in the last block.

STADIC HUNG BACK AS THEY WALKED, HIS SHOTGUN under his arm. He'd been caught up in the rush around theoffice, when word got back that Davenport's source might have something. Now he was worried: if they got tight on the house, they just might pull some people out of it alive…

Davenport pushed on ahead, walking fast with two other Minneapolis cops. This was his first chance, and probably his last: Stadic stepped behind a dying elm, took his cellular from his pocket and pushed the speed-dial button.

''Yeah?'' LaChaise answered in two seconds, as though he'd been holding the phone.

''Get out of there,'' Stadic rasped. ''There's a St. Paul entry team coming in right now. Go out the back, go east, they're thin up there. Get out.''

After a second of silence, LaChaise said, ''We ain't there.''

''What?''

''We're in the truck. Where're you at?''

''Old house in St. Paul, north of the freeway a few blocks

… If that's your place, you stay away. I can't talk, I gotta go.''

He heard LaChaise say ''Shit'' and then Stadic turned the phone off and hurried to catch the others.

BUTTERS HAD WALKED UP THE STAIRS TOWARD THE bathroom when he glanced out a back window and saw the man dart through the streetlight a block over. The motion was quick, but heavy. Not a jogger, a soldier. He knew instantly that the cops were at the door.

He was still wearing his camo parka. He ran light-footedly down the stairs to the hall, where Martin had stacked the weapons in an open hall closet, out of sight but easy to get to. Butters grabbed the AR-15, already loaded, and four loaded magazines. He jammed the mags in his pocket and jacked a shell into the chamber and kept going, right to the back door.

The rear of the house was still dark, and he listened for amoment. He couldn't hear anything, but the door was the place they'd come. He turned back, crossed the house to the darker side away from the back door, went into Martin's bedroom, and tried a window. Jammed. He went to the next, turning the twist lock, lifting it. There was a vague tearing sound as old paint ripped away; the smell of it tickled his nose, but he had been quiet enough, he thought. The oldfashioned storm windows opened behind some kind of withered, leafless bush.

He looked out, saw nobody, pushed open the storm window and peeked. Still nothing, too dark. He took a breath and snaked over the windowsill into the snow behind the hedge.

The snow crunched beneath his weight where dripping water from the eaves had stippled the surface with ice. He lay still for a moment, listening. Listening was critical in the dark: he'd spent weeks in tree stands, turning his head to the tweaks and rustles of the early morning, the deer moving back to bedding areas, the foxes and coyotes hunting voles, the wood ducks crunching through dried-out oak leaves, the trees defrosting themselves in the early sun, the grass springing up in the morning. Ansel Butters had heard corn grow; and now he heard footsteps in the snow, coming from the back, and then more, from the front.

Butters went down the side of the house, listening to the crunch of feet coming in: they wouldn't hear him, he decided. They were making too much noise on their own, city people in the snow, carrying heavy weapons. He went left, to the house next door, pressed himself against its weathered siding. Trying to see, trying to hear…

And here they came, through the backyard, three or four of them, he thought.

Staying low, he moved to the corner of the house, then around it, to the east.

He really had no choice about which way to go…

The loudspeaker came like a thunderbolt:

''Halt. By the house, freeze…''

And he thought, Night scope. Before the last words were out, he fixed on the position of the men coming up from the back.

He could sense the motion.

Butters ran sideways and fired a long, ripping burst across the group, thirty rounds pounding downrange, his face flashing in the muzzle flash like a wagon spoke in a strobe light.

The return fire was short of him, of where he had been. Moving all the time, he punched out the magazine and slammed in another, looking for muzzle flashes, squirting quick three- and four-shot bursts at them, more to suppress than to hit.

And still the return fire was short…

Then he was behind a garage; he sensed something in front of him and slowed just in time. He touched and then vaulted a four-foot chain-link fence, crossed a yard, went over the next fence, pushed through a hedge, scratching his face, took another fence, then another, heard garbage cans crashing behind him, screams, another burst of gunfire which went somewhere else, more screams.

He could hear himself breathing, gasping for air, trying to remember about how many shells would be left; he thought maybe six or eight, plus the third magazine in his pocket.

He felt good, he was moving, operating, he was on top of it.

Heading east.

THE LOUDSPEAKER AND THE GUNFIRE TOOK THEM BY surprise, Lucas and the other cops standing behind cars, talking quietly among themselves. They stiffened, turned, guns coming out, men crouching behind cars. Then radios began talking up and down the block, and Lucas, running to a St. Paul squad, said, ''What? What?''

''Shit, one of them's out, he's maybe coming this way,'' a patrol sergeant said.

Lucas ran back toward his own people, touched them, ''Watch it, watch it, he could be coming…''

Butters ran hard as he could, made it to the end of the block, passed between two houses, and in the dark space between them, ran almost headlong into a small tree. The blow knocked him down, but he held on to the rifle. Blood trickled into his mouth, and the sting told him that he'd cut his lip, probably badly. He crawled toward the street, gathered himself.

Across the way, he could hear people talking; more gathered behind him. He had no choice. He slapped the magazine once to make sure it was seated, and ran out into the street.

There: a cop-someone-dead ahead, behind a squad car, not much to see, turning toward him, crouching, hand coming up…

Butters, still running, fired a burst at the cop behind the car, saw him go down.

Another cop opened up from his right, then a third, and then he was hit: a stinging blow, as if somebody had struck his bare butt with a hickory switch. He knew what it was, and even as he returned the fire he passed through the line of cars, and cops were firing into each other as they tried to get him, men spilling themselves into the snow to get away from the bullets, others screaming

…

And Butters ran.

A house, straight ahead, with lights on. And there was some pain now, more than an ache, more like a fire, in his thigh. He ran up four steps of the porch of the lighted house, to a stone-faced entry and an almost full-length glass pane in the front door. He fired a short burst at the glass, blew it out, and went through the door.

A man in pajamas stood at the bottom of a stairway; a woman stood at the top, looking down.

Butters pointed the gun at the woman and screamed at her: ''Get down here.''

And a kid yelled, ''What? What's going on? Mom?''

LUCAS SAW HIM COMING, DOWN TO THE RIGHT. HE fired twice, thought he might have hit him once, but the man was very fast, and ran in an odd, broken, jerky two-step that made him hard to track, especially with the bad light. The man fired a burst and Lucas felt a hard, scratching rip at his hairline, not hard, like a slug, but ripping, like a frag. Then Butters went through the line of cops and Lucas could see muzzle flashes coming at him and he dropped, screaming,

''Hold it, Jesus…''

And when the firing stopped, he lurched up on his elbows in time to see Butters sprint up the porch steps, and the muzzle flash from the gun as he went through the glass door…

''Around back, somebody around back,'' Lucas shouted.

Two St. Paul cops, frozen by the fire, broke toward the side of a nearby house, heading toward the back, and Lucas and another Minneapolis cop-Lewiston-moved in toward the porch.

''Take him?'' Lewiston asked.

''Get in tight,'' Lucas said. ''Let's…''

''You're hit,'' Lewiston said. ''There's blood running out of your head.''

''Just cut myself, I think,'' Lucas said. ''You go right…''

BUTTERS POINTED THE AR-15 AT THE WOMAN ON THE stairs and screamed, ''Get down here.''

And then the kid called, ''Mom?''

The woman shouted, ''Jim, go back in your room. Jimmy…''

Butters couldn't think. His leg was on fire, and the man in the pajamas was frozen, the woman was yelling at the kid: a car rolled by outside and he turned, looked that way, couldn't see anything. The woman was shouting at the kid and

Butters yelled at her, ''Get your ass down here, goddamnit, or I'll fuck your old man up…''

He pointed the gun at the pajama man and the woman came down the stairs, red-faced, terrified, watching his eyes. She wore a flannel nightgown, and something about it, the nightgown, the man's pajamas…

Then the kid came to the head of the stairs. He was wearing a T-shirt and Jockey shorts, skinny bare legs, and he looked frightened and his hair stood up where his head had been on a pillow.

And Butters remembered: the winter the cops came, and they got his mother and his old man out of bed, and Butters had come to the stairs in his shorts, just like this… He remembered the fear, and the guns the cops wore on their hips, and the way his old man seemed to crawl to them, because of the guns, and his mother's fear… They stank of it. He stank of it.

And all of this was exactly the same, but he had the gun.

''Don't hurt us,'' the woman said.

''Fuck this,'' Butters said.

He popped the magazine from the rifle, slapped in the third full one, checked to make sure that the half-empty one was ready, easy to reach in his pocket.

''You go back to bed, kid,'' he said.

He ran straight out the door, across the porch, at the two cop cars that were parked up the street to the right. There were two men close by, one left, one right, and the one to the right looked familiar and he decided to take that one.

He turned toward Lucas and raised the rifle, and saw Lucas's gun hand coming up but knew that he was a quarterinch ahead…

STADIC WAS COMING UP THE MIDDLE, BUT WAS STILL thirty yards out, when Butters came through the door. Davenport and Lewiston were too close to the porch, and below it, to see Butters as he came through, but Stadic, back in the dark, had just enough time to set his feet and lift the shotgun.

Butters turned toward Davenport, the gun coming up. Davenport reacted in a fraction of a second, and maybe an entire lifetime, behind Butters. The shotgun reached out, a cylinder of flame, reached almost to Butters's face, it seemed.

And blew it off.

Butters went down like an empty sack.

THE COPS ALL AROUND FROZE, LIKE A STUCK VIDEOTAPE. After one second, they started moving again. Radios scratching the background. Everything, Stadic thought, moving in slow motion. Moving toward Butters, Davenport looking at him

…

''Man,'' Davenport said. ''He had me. You saved my ass.''

And Davenport clapped him on the shoulder. Back in the furthest recess of his numbed mind, Stadic thought: That's two.

LUCAS CLAPPED THE WIDE-EYED STADIC ON THE SHOULDER and then ran down the block toward the car where a cop had been hit. Lucas had seen him go down in the flash of fire from Butters, a fact stored in the back of his head until he could do something about it.

At that moment, a helicopter swept overhead, pivoted around in a tight circle, and they were bathed in light. A cameraman was sitting in the open door, filming the scene in the street.

Two St. Paul cops reached the downed man just as Lucas did. Lucas knelt: the man had been hit in the head, and the top of his skull was misshapen. There was blood out of his nose and ears, and his eyes were dilated, but still moving.

''Gotta take him, can't wait for an ambulance,'' Lucas shouted at one of the St.

Paul cops. ''Get him in the car…''

Together they picked up the wounded man and put him in the backseat of a squad; one of the St. Paul cops got in the back with the wounded man, and the driver took off, the back doors flapping like big ears as he turned the corner, followed by the lights from the chopper.

''Jesus Christ, get the fuckin' chopper out of here,'' Lucas yelled at another of the St. Paul cops, a sergeant. ''Get them out of here.''

The sergeant was leaning against the hood of a squad, and he suddenly turned, head down, and vomited into the street. Lucas started away, thinking now: the house. More people coming in? What happened down there?

Then the sergeant said, ''We just never had a chance to say anything…''

''Yeah, yeah…'' And he ran back down the street to the body of the shooter.

Butters's face had been obliterated by the shotgun. He was gone.

All right-the house.

He stood, and stepped that way, and saw more running figures, cops, coming in.

Another St. Paul lieutenant, a patrol officer, one he didn't recognize.

''What happened…?''

''Got him, and we got one of your men shot. He's bad, he's on his way in.''

''Jesus Christ.''

''What happened at the house?''

''Jesus Christ, who got hit?'' The lieutenant looked around crazily. ''Who's hurt?''

''The house, the house,'' Lucas said. ''What happened?''

''Empty. Nobody there. Guns,'' the lieutenant said.

''Shit.''

The lieutenant ran down to the patrol sergeant, who'd stopped vomiting, and was standing shakily against the hood of the squad. ''Who was it, Bill, who was it?''