The knife took Sherrill just below the breastbone, angling up, through the heart.
Sherrill gasped once, wiggled, started to go down, his eyes open, surprised, looking at Martin. Martin guided his falling body onto the car seat. He pushed
Sherrill's head down, caught Sherrill's thrashing legs and pushed them up and inside. Sherrill was upside down in the car, his feet over the front seat, his head hanging beneath the steering wheel. His eyes were open, glazing. He tried to say something, and a blood bubble came out of his mouth.
''Thanks,'' Martin said.
Martin pushed down the door lock, slammed the door and walked away. There was nobody in the dealership window to see him go.
BUTTERS WAITED UNTIL THE MAN IN THE WHITE SHIRT had a customer and the woman was free. He walked into the store, his hand on the silenced pistol. At the back of the store, near the door to the storeroom, was a display for DirecTV. He headed that way, and Elaine Kupicek followed. She was a nice-looking woman, Butters thought, for a cop's wife.
''Can I help you?'' She had a wide, mobile mouth and long skinny hands with short nails.
''I own a bar, down in St. Paul.''
''Sure…''
''If I put in DirecTV, would I be able to get, like, the Green Bay games, even when there's no broadcast over here?''
''Oh, sure. You can get all the games…''
The man in the white shirt had moved with his customer to a computer display, where they were talking intently about TV cards for a Windows 95 machine.
''We have a brochure that shows the options…''
Butters looked at her, then put the fingers of his left hand to his lips. She stopped suddenly in midsentence, puzzled, and then he took the. 380 out of his left pocket and pointed it at her.
''If you scream, I'll shoot. I promise.''
''What…''
''Step in the back; this is a robbery.''
He prodded her toward the door. She stepped backward toward it, caught the knob with her hand and her mouth opened and Butters said, conversationally, ''Be quiet, please.''
She went through, her eyes looking past Butters, searching for the man in the white shirt, but Butters prodded her further into the room, and then closed the door behind them.
''Don't hurt me,'' she said.
''I won't. I want you to sit down over there… just turn over there.''
She turned to look at the chair next to a technician's desk: a brown paper lunch sack sat on the table, with a grease stain on one side. Her lunch sack, with a baloney sandwich and an orange. She stepped toward the desk and said, ''Please don't.''
''I won't,'' he promised, in his gentle southern accent. She turned back to the chair and when her head came around, he took the nine-millimeter out of the
Velcroed flap in one swift, practiced motion, put it against the back of her head and pulled the trigger once.
Kupicek lurched forward and went down. Butters halfturned, and waited, listening. The shot had been as loud as a hand-clap, accompanied by the working of the bolt. Enough noise to attract attention in an ordinary room, but the door was closed.
He waited another two seconds, then stepped toward the door. Elaine Kupicek sprawled facedown, unmoving. Buttersput the pistol back in the Velcroed flap, and the. 380 decoy gun in his pocket.
When he opened the door, the man in the white shirt was still talking to the customer. Butters strolled out easily, hands in his pockets, got to the tiled corridor outside the store, looked both ways and then ambled off to the left.
LACHAISE CROSSED THE STREET IN THE SNOW, UP THE walk to the left-hand door of the town house. He carried the. 44 in his right hand, and pushed the doorbell with his left. He stepped back, and a gust of snow hit him in the eyes. The gust came just as the door opened, and he wondered later if it was the snow in his eyes that was to blame…
A woman opened the inner door, then half-opened the storm door, a plain woman, half smiling: ''Yes?''
''Mrs. Capslock?''
''Yes?''
He was coming around with the gun when Del loomed behind her: a shock, the sudden movement, the face, then Del's mouth opening…
Capslock swatted his wife and she went sideways and down, and Capslock screamed something. LaChaise's gun, halfway up, went off when Capslock screamed, and
Capslock's arm was coming up. LaChaise's gun went off again and then Capslock had a gun, short and black with the small hole coming around at LaChaise's eyes, and LaChaise slammed the storm door shut as Capslock fired. Splinters of aluminum sliced at LaChaise's face and he backed away, firing the Bulldog again, aware that the door was falling apart, more slugs coming through at him.
The muzzle flashes were blinding, the distance only feet, then yards, but he was still standing and Capslock was standing: and then he was running, running toward the truck, anda slug plucked at his coat and a finger of fire tore through his side…
DEL FIRED FIVE TIMES, CUTTING UP THE DOOR, SMASHING the glass, then stopped, turned to Cheryl, saw the blood on her neck, dropped next to her, saw the wound, and her eyes opened and she struggled and he rolled her onto her side and she took a long, harsh, rattling breath.
''Hold on, hold on,'' he screamed, and he ran back to the phone and dialed 911 and shouted into it-was told later that he shouted. He remembered himself talking coldly, quietly, and so he listened to the tape and heard himself screaming…
LACHAISE WAS BLEEDING.
He drove the truck, looking at himself in the rearview mirror. Shrapnel cuts on the face, agony in his side. He was holding his side with his hand, and when he looked at his hand, it was wet with blood. ''Motherfucker…'' he groaned.
A spasm of fear seized his heart. Was he dying? Was this how it would end, with this pain, in the snow?
A cop car went screaming past, lights blazing, then another, then an ambulance.
Hit somebody, he thought, with a thread of satisfaction. God, it hurt…
The man must have been Capslock himself; and he was fast with a gun, blindingly fast. And what had he screamed? He'd screamed LaChaise…
So they knew.
LaChaise looked into the rearview mirror.
He was bleeding…
LUCAS WAS ON THE WEST SIDE OF MINNEAPOLIS, PUSHING the Explorer up an I-394 entrance ramp, when a dispatcher shouted, ''Somebody shot Capslock's wife,'' and a second later, Del patched through: ''LaChaise shot Cheryl.''
''What?'' Lucas was on the ramp, moving faster. To his right, an American flag as big as a bedsheet fluttered in the gloom. ''Say that again.''
''LaChaise shot Cheryl…'' From behind Del's voice, Lucas could hear a jumble of noise: voices, highway sounds, a siren. Del seemed to be out of breath, gasping at his radio.
''Where are you?'' Lucas asked.
''Ambulance. We're going into Hennepin.'' Now the words were tumbling out, like a coke-fired rap. ''I saw him, man. LaChaise. I shot at him. I don't know if I hit him or not. He's gone.''
''What about Cheryl?''
''She's hit, she's hit…'' Del was shouting; several words came through garbled, then he said, ''It's our wives, man; he's going after the families. Eye for an eye…''
Weather.
She'd be in the clinic, doing minor patch-up work on postop patients. The fear caught Lucas by the throat; Del said something else, but he missed it, and then
Del was gone.
The dispatcher blurted, ''We lost him, he closed down.''
''I'm going to the U Hospitals. I want Sherrill, Franklin, Sloan and Kupicek on the line now,'' Lucas said. He fumbled a cellular phone out of an armrest box and punched the speeddial button for Weather. A secretary answered, then transferred him to the clinic, where another secretary, bored, said Weather was busy with a patient.