Sudden prey

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?''

''Yeah, you know, the Astroturf.''

''All right: we're looking for a woman. If you see anybody, you let us know.

We'll be walking around the concourse.''

''What'd she do?'' the janitor asked.

''She's that woman with the guys killing the cops,'' Stadic said.

''Yeah?'' This was something different. ''Is she, like… armed?''

''We don't know,'' Stadic said. ''Don't take any chances. If you see her or any of your guys see her, get to a phone.'' He waved over his shoulder. There were phones all along the concourse. He scribbled a number on a business card. ''Call this number. It'll ring me, right here, and we'll come running.''

The janitor took the card. ''I'll tell the other guys. We don't try to take her?''

''No. Don't go near her,'' Stadic said. ''We know her sister used to shoot people for sport.''

''I'll tell you what I can do-I can go up on top and look down,'' the janitor said. ''We can get up there, see almost everything inside.''

''Good. Give me a call,'' Stadic said. To the uniforms hesaid, ''You guys go that way. Check all the stairwells, go up and down, look in the women's cans.

I'll meet you on the other side.''

''Got it.''

''And I'll go up on top,'' the janitor said.

CARS WENT BY EVERY FEW MINUTES, SOME FAST, SOME slow. Sandy could hear nothing else, except the whisper of the falling snow. Finally she stood up and edged back to the door, lifted it two feet, squatted and looked out. Nobody. She pushed it up another foot, duckwalked out into the snow. She looked at the house, the windows still dark, then across the street at the dome. She could knock on the door of the house, maybe get somebody up, get a phone.

But there had to be a phone right there, across the street. No cars coming.

She ran across the street and up the approach ramp. A number of car and foot tracks went up the ramp. As she followed them, she brushed past a green pole set into the concrete. The pole was a modernistic phone kiosk, with a phone hanging on the other side-dial 911, no charge-but she never saw it.

Instead, she went on to the door, opened it, stepped through into the dead space between the inner and outer doors, then pushed through the revolving door onto the concourse. Nobody in sight, just a bunch of wet foot tracks. But she could hear rock music coming from somewhere. Tom Petty, she thought.

Down the hall she saw a sign: rest rooms and phones. She went that way and found a bank of phones. She picked up a phone, listened, got a dial tone, punched in

911. The call was answered instantly.

''This is Sandy Darling…''

''Ms. Darling, where are you?''

''I'm at the Metrodome, I'm inside.''

''Okay. We'll put you through to Chief Davenport. He's on his way there.''

A moment later they clicked through. ''Ms. Darling? This is Lucas Davenport. The policeman working with LaChaise- his name was Andy Stadic?''

''I don't know,'' Sandy said. ''They wouldn't tell me. They said if I turned them in, the cop was paid to come kill me. I've got some pictures of him. I took them out of Dick's pocket.''

''Okay. I'm two minutes away and we've…''

''Listen, I think Dick is going to the hospital where your wife works. You've got to get over there first.''

''Dick LaChaise was killed at the hospital,'' Lucas said.

''He's dead?''

''Yes.''

''Thank God…'' She said it half to herself, but Lucas picked it up.

''I'm just about there and we've got more people on the way,'' Lucas said.

''Stadic is in the dome with you, so you've got to stay out of sight.''

''He's in the dome?'' She could hear voices and footsteps.

''Yes.''

''Oh, God,'' she whispered. ''Somebody's coming.''

''Run,'' Lucas said. ''Run and hide.''

Sandy dropped the phone and ran across the hall. Two doors and a stairway led down to the first tier of seats: she pulled on a door, not expecting it to open.

It did. She went through, down the stairs to the field of blue plastic seats, and turned left. Below her, on the football field, a half-dozen people were doing something to the dark green carpet. Stretching it? She couldn't tell.

She went down six rows, apparently unseen by the people on the field, slid halfway down the row of seats, and lay onher back. They'd have to look down every single row to see her, and she only had two minutes to go. Two minutes,

Davenport had said. She thought she saw movement at the peak of the roof, but when she focused on the spot, there was nothing.

Less than two minutes, she thought.