Rose Marie Roux. The chief was pale, nearly speechless: She said, ''This…'' and then shook her head and they ran inside, Lucas banging the doors out of the way.
Del, covered with blood, stood in the hallway, talking to a doctor in scrubs:
''Sometimes she gets stress headaches in the afternoon and she takes aspirin.
That's all. Wait, she drinks Diet Coke, that's got caffeine. I don't know if she took any aspirin this afternoon…''
He saw them coming, Lucas and Rose Marie, and stepped toward them.
''He hit her hard,'' he said. He seemed unaware that tears were running down his seamed face: his voice was absolutely under control. ''But if there aren't any complications, she'll make it.''
''Aw, Jesus, Del,'' Lucas said. He tried to smile, but his face was desperately twisted.
''What happened?'' Del said. He looked from one of them to the other. ''What else happened?''
''Danny's wife's been shot; she's dead. And we can't find Mike Sherrill.''
''The motherfuckers,'' Del rasped.
Then Danny Kupicek banged through the entryway, a kid tagging along behind, still in his hockey uniform, wearing white Nikes that looked about the size of battleships, a shock of blond hair down over his eyes. He seemed impressed by the inside of the hospital.
''Del,'' Kupicek said, ''Jesus, how's Cheryl? Is she okay?''
''Danny…'' said Lucas.
Ten minutes later, they found Mike Sherrill. Marcy Sherrill arrived just in time to see the cops gathering around the Firebird, and thrust through them just in time to see the door pop open, and look straight into her husband's open eyes, upside down, dead.
She turned, and one of the uniforms, a woman, wrapped her up, and a moment later she made a sound a bit like a howl, a bit like a croak, and then she fell down.
LACHAISE WAS THE FIRST TO GET BACK TO THE HOUSE. Martin had called from a pay phone and LaChaise sent him to get Butters.
''You bad?'' Martin had asked, his voice low, controlled.
''I don't know, but I'm bleeding,'' LaChaise told him. ''Hurts like hell.''
''Can you breathe?''
''Yeah. I just don't want to,'' LaChaise said.
''Can you get in the house?''
''Think so. Yeah.''
''Get inside. We'll be there in fifteen minutes.''
LaChaise hurt, but not so bad that he couldn't make it to the house. That encouraged him. Except for the burning pain, which was localized, he didn't feel bad. There was no sense of anything loose inside, anything wrecked.
But when he got in the house, he found he couldn't get the jacket off by himself. When he lifted his arm, fire ran down his rib cage. He slumped on the living-room rug, and waited, staring at the ceiling.
Martin came in first, Butters, stamping snow off his sleeves, just behind him.
''Let's take a look,'' Martin said.
''You get yours?'' LaChaise asked.
Martin nodded and Butters said, ''Yep. How about you?''
''I got somebody, there were ambulances all over the place…''
They helped him sit up as they talked, and LaChaise told them about making the call, and then Del popping up behind his wife. ''And the fucker recognized me. .. careful, there…''
They peeled the parka off, then the vest, then the flannel shirt, each progressively heavier with blood. His undershirt showed two small holes and a bloodstain the size of a dinner plate.
''Better cut that,'' Butters muttered.
''Yeah.'' Martin took out his knife, and the Jockey T-shirt split like tissue paper. ''Roll up here, Dick…''
LaChaise tried to roll onto his left side and lift his arm; he was sweating heavily, and groaned again, ''Goddamn, that hurts.''
Martin and Butters were looking at the wound. ''Don't look like too much,''
Butters said. ''Don't see no bone.''
''Yeah, but there's an in-and-out…''
''What?'' LaChaise asked.
''You just got nicked, but there's a hole, in-and-out, besides the groove. Maybe cut you down to the ribs, that's the pain. The holes gotta be cleaned out.
They'd be full of threads and shit from the coat.''
''Get Sandy down here,'' LaChaise said. ''Call her-no, go get her. I don't know if she'd come on her own… She can do it, she used to be a nurse.''
Martin looked at Butters and nodded. ''That'd be best, she might have some equipment.''
''Some pills,'' Butters said.
''Get her,'' LaChaise moaned.
NINE
THE SANDHURST WAS A YELLOW-BRICK SEMIRESIDENTIAL hotel on the west edge of the business district. The building was three stories higher than anything else for two blocks around, and easily covered. The clients were mostly itinerant actors, directors, artists and museum bureaucrats, in town visiting the Guthrie Theater or the Walker Art Center.
Lucas and Sloan brought Weather in through the back, down an alley blocked by unmarked cars. Two members of the Emergency Response Team were on the roof with radios and rifles.
''… everything I've been trying to do,'' Weather was saying. Lucas's head was going up and down as he half-listened. He scanned each face down the alley.
His hand was in his pocket and a. 45 was in his hand. Sloan's wife was already inside.
''It won't be long,'' Lucas said. ''They can't last more than a couple of days.''
''Who? Who can't last?'' Weather demanded, looking upat him. ''You don't even know who they are, except this LaChaise.''
''We'll find out,'' Lucas said. ''They're gonna pay, every fuckin' one of them.'' His voice left little doubt about it, and Weather recoiled, but Lucas had her arm and marched her toward the hotel.
''Let go of my arm,'' she said. ''You're hurting me.''
''Sorry.'' He let go, put his hand in the small of her back, and pushed her along.
The two hotel entries, front and back, met at the lobby: Franklin and Tom Black,
Sherrill's former partner, sat behind a wide rosewood reception desk, shotguns across their thighs, out of sight. The largest cop on the force, a guy named
Loring, read a paperback in one of the lobby's overstuffed chairs. He was wearing a pearl-gray suit and an ascot, and looked like a pro wrestler who'd made it small.
In the entry, a uniformed doorman turned and looked at them when he saw movement down the back hall. Andy Stadic raised a hand, and Lucas nodded at him and then they were around a corner and headed down toward the elevators.
''You know, anybody could find out where we are,'' Weather said.
''They can't get in,'' Lucas said. ''And they can't see you.''
''You said they were Seed people, and Seed people are supposed to be in these militias,'' Weather said. Weather was from northern Wisconsin, and knew about the Seed. ''What if they brought one of those big fertilizer bombs outside?''
''No trucks are coming down this block,'' Lucas said. ''We got the city digging up the streets right now, both sides.''
''You can't hold it, Lucas,'' Weather said. ''The press'll be here, television. ..''
Lucas shook his head: ''They'll know you're here, but they won't get inside. If they try, we'll warn them once, then we'llput their asses in jail. We're not fucking around.''
He took her up to the top floor, and down the hall to a small two-room suite with walls the color of cigar smoke; the rooms smelled like disinfectant and spray deodorant. Weather looked around and said, ''This is awful.''
''Two days. Three days, max,'' Lucas said. ''I'd send you up to the cabin but they know about us, somehow, and I can't take the chance.''
''I don't want to go to the cabin,'' she said. ''I want to work.''
''Yeah,'' Lucas said distractedly. ''I gotta run…''
FOR TWO HOURS AFTER THE KILLINGS, ROSE MARIE Roux's office was like an airport waiting room, fifty people rolling through, all of them weighed down with their own importance, most looking for a shot on national television. The governor stopped, wanted a briefing; a dozen state legislators demanded time with her, along with all the city councilmen.
Lucas spent a half hour watching Sloan and another cop interrogate Duane Cale, who didn't know much about anything.