''Ready,'' he said simply. Butters had a thick blue vein that ran down his temple to his cheekbone: the vein was standing out in the thin light, like a scar.
''How about you?'' LaChaise asked Martin.
Martin was at full draw again, focused on form: THUMMwhack. ''Been ready,'' he said.
LaChaise parted the drapes with two fingers, looked out again. The streetlights were on and it was snowing. The snow had started at noon, just a few flakes at first, the weather forecasters saying it wasn't much. Now it was getting heavier. The closest streetlight looked like a candle.
LaChaise turned back into the room, stepped to a chair, and picked up three sheets of paper. The papers were Xerox copies of a newspaper article from the
Star Tribune. He'd outlined the relevant copy with a pen:
Officers Sherrill, Capslock, Franklin and Kupicek were removed from active duty pending a hearing before a weapons review board, a routine action always taken after a line-of-duty shooting incident. Deputy Chief Davenport and Officer Sloan did not discharge their weapons and will continue on active duty.
So Sherrill, Capslock, Franklin and Kupicek were the shooters.
''What?'' asked Martin. He opened his eyes and looked up at LaChaise.
''Eye for an eye,'' LaChaise said.
''Absolutely,'' Martin said. He was pulling on his coat. ''So let's go.''
MARTIN DROVE HIS TRUCK TO WEST END Buick-Oldsmobile. He'd called earlier, and asked for the salesman by name: ''I talked to you a couple of days ago about a
'91 Pontiac, that black one…''
''The Firebird?'' The salesman had sounded uncertain, since he hadn't talked to anyone about the Firebird.
''Yeah, that's the one. You still got it?''
''Still looking for an owner,'' the salesman had said. ''There's a guy coming around tonight, but nobody's signed anything yet.''
Martin had grinned at the car-sales bullshit. ''I'll come by in an hour or so.''
''I'll be looking for you,'' the salesman had promised.
Martin carried a Marine Corps combat knife with a fiveinch serrated blade. He'd bought it as a Christmas gift for himself, through a U.S. Cavalry catalog, and carried it in a sheath, on his belt. The knife was the only gift he'd gotten in the past few years, except that LaChaise had given him a bottle of Jim Beam the year before he went to prison.
Martin was thinking about the Jim Beam when he got to the Buick store. He parked across the street: he could see light from the windows, but the snow had continued to thicken, and the people on the other side of the glass were no more than occasional shadows.
He had ten minutes. He closed his eyes, settled in and thought about the other men he'd killed. Martin didn't worry about killing: he simply did it. When he was a kid, there was always something around the farm to be killed. Chickens, hogs, usually a heifer in the fall. And there was the hunting: squirrels, rabbits, raccoons, doves, grouse, deer, bear.
By the time he killed his first man, he didn't much think about it. The man,
Harold Carter, was owed money by LaChaise, that LaChaise had borrowed to set up his motorcycle parts store. Carter was talking about going to court. LaChaise wanted him to go away.
Martin killed Carter with a knife on the back steps of his own home, carried the body out to his truck and buried the man in the woods. Nothing to it; certainly not as hard as taking down a pig. A pig always knew what was coming, and fought it. Went squealing and twisting. Carter simply dropped.
His second killing had been no more trouble than the first. His third, if he did it right, should be the easiest yet, because he wouldn't have to deal with the body. Martin closed his eyes; if he were the type to sleep, he might have.
LACHAISE, DRIVING ELMORE'S TRUCK, DROPPED BUTTERS at the Rosedale Mall. Butters carried both pistols, the short. 380 in his left jacket pocket, and the nine-millimeter, with the silencer already attached, in a Velcroed flap under his arm.
He cruised past TV Toys. A tall woman talked to a lone customer, and a thin balding man in a white shirt stood behindthe counter. Butters stepped to a phone kiosk, found the paper in his pocket, and dialed the number of the store. He watched as the man in the white shirt picked up the phone.
''TV Toys, this is Walt.''
''Yes, is Elaine there?''
''Just a moment.''
The man in the white shirt called over to the tall woman, who smiled and said something to her customer and started toward the counter. Butters hung up and glanced at his watch.
Five-twenty. LaChaise should be getting to Capslock's place.
CAPSLOCK'S WIFE WAS A NURSE AT RAMSEY GENERAL Hospital, according to her insurance file. She finished her shift at three o'clock.
LaChaise stopped at a Tom Thumb store, bent his head against the storm, punched in her phone number-the insurance forms had everything: address, employer, home and office phones-and waited for an answer.
Like Butters, LaChaise carried two pistols with him, but revolvers rather than automatics. He didn't care about the noise he made, so he didn't have to worry about a silencer; and he liked the simplicity of a revolver. No safeties or feed problems to think about, no cocking anything, just point and shoot.
Cheryl Capslock answered on the fourth ring. ''Hello?''
''Uh, Mrs. Capslock?'' LaChaise tried to pitch his voice up, to sound boyish, cheerful. ''Is Del in?''
''Not yet. Who is this?''
''Terry-I'm at the Amoco station on Snelling. Del wanted, uh, he wanted to talk to me and left a number. Could you tell him I'm around?''
''Okay, your name is Terry?''
''Yeah, T-E-R-R-Y, he's got the number.''
''I'll tell him,'' Cheryl Capslock said.
MARTIN WALKED ACROSS THE STREET TO THE CAR LOT. The Firebird was in a display stand, forty feet from the main side window on the dealership. He walked once around the car, then again, then bent to look in the side window.
As he rounded the car the second time, he saw a salesman, in the lighted room, pulling on a coat. Martin took the knife out of the sheath and put it in the right side pocket of his coat. Ten seconds later, the salesman, shoulders humped against the snow, trotted out to the car. His coat hung open, showing a rayon necktie.
''She's a beaut,'' he said, tipping his head at the car.
''You're Mr. Sherrill?'' asked Martin.
''Yeah, Mike Sherrill. Didn't we meet last week sometime?''
''Uh, no, not really… Listen, I can't see the mileage on this thing.''
Sherrill was in his mid-thirties, a onetime athlete now running to fat and whiskey. A web of broken veins hung at the edges of his twice-broken nose, and his once-thick Viking hair had thinned to a blond frizz. ''About fifty-five thousand actual. Let me pop the door for you.''
Sherrill skated around the car, used a gloved hand to quickly brush the snow off the windshield, then fumbled at the locked keybox on the door. Martin looked past him at the dealership. Another salesman stood briefly at the window, looking out at the snow, then turned away.
''Okay, here we go,'' Sherrill said. He got the key out of the keybox and unlocked the car door.
Martin didn't mess around, didn't wait for the better moment. He stood to one side as Sherrill opened the door. When Sherrill stepped back, he moved close against the other man, put one hand on his back, and with the other, delivered the killing thrust, a brutal upward sweep, like a solar plexus jab.