One more shot with the bow, then he'd dump it. And when they came in again, for the last time, he'd go to work with the AR-15. His final little surprise, he thought, and grinned to himself.
LUCAS HIT THE GROUND NEXT TO A BRIDAL-WREATH hedge. A handful of snow splashed up in his face, and he snorted and tried to see past the corner of the apartment building, thrusting his. 45 that way. He could feel Bunne's blood on the pistol stock, a tacky patina that'd be hard to get off. ''Go,'' he yelled, and the uniform went past and immediately screamed and went down, and Lucas flopped beside him, thought he saw movement, and fired, and the cop was screaming, ''Got me, he got me…''
Lucas pulled him back. The arrow was sticking out of the cop's leg, just above the knee: it had apparently hit the bone square on, and was stuck in it. ''Gonna be okay,'' Lucas said, and yelled at Stadic, ''Stay back, forget it, just hold your ground.'' He called for another ambulance on the handset and asked
Dispatch, ''Where's the help?''
''They oughta be right ahead of you, they're all over that block.''
''You can't see the guy,'' Lucas sputtered. ''You can't see him in the snow.. .''
Stadic hunched up beside him. ''What do you want to do?''
''Hold it here for a minute. Get the ambulance…?''
The uniformed cop picked up on it. ''Where's the fuckin' ambulance
… ''
An ambulance swung in behind them, and Stadic turned and ran back to wave it down.
''One more push,'' Lucas said. He spoke at the downed cop, but he was talking to himself. He got halfway to his knees, then launched into a short dash and dropped behind another hedge. Up ahead, powerful lights were breaking out around the block, and, behind the lights, he sensed moving figures.
''Davenport,'' he yelled.
''Where are you?''
''Straight ahead; I think he's between us…''
And somebody else shouted, ''We don't know that's Davenport, watch it, watch it
…''
Then Lucas saw Martin. He'd been hunkered into the side of a shabby old apartment, next to a line of garbage cans. He broke across toward the next apartment, and Lucas shouted, ''There he is,'' and fired two quick shots, missing.
''He's coming around the apartment, look that way, he's coming around, watch it
…''
And one second later, the lightning-stutter of the AR-15 lit up the back side of the apartment. Lucas half-ran that way, aware of the slipperiness underfoot, the shotgun already at his shoulder, leading the way. The automatic fire stopped before he was halfway there, then started again with a fresh clip. Glass was breaking, more cops were firing. Lucas reached the corner and peeked.
• • •
MARTIN WAS FIFTEEN FEET AWAY, IN AN ALLEYWAY stairwell. On his right, he was protected by the building. Ahead of him, and to his left, all along the length of a vacant lot, cop cars blocked the route. The cops were returning fire, but they didn't know he was below the level of the stairwell wall. With the snow, they probably couldn't see anything but the muzzle flash.
He crouched for a second, then popped up and fired another burst at one of the cars, aiming low, figuring the cops would be behind it.
LUCAS SAID TO THE HANDSET, ''TELL EVERYBODY TO cease fire. Cease fire, for
Christ's sakes, you're gonna kill me. I got him if you can make them cease fire.''
Three seconds later, he heard yelling on the other side of the street, and the fire diminished. He peeked at the corner again. Martin had reloaded, and was about to pop up again, to hose down the line of cars.
Lucas shouted, ''Freeze!''
Martin turned, and his mouth dropped open. He posed like that for an instant, looking at the shotgun, then said, ''Fuck you,'' and the AR came around. Lucas waited for a microsecond longer than he should have, then shot Martin in the head.
TWENTY-SEVEN
LUCAS YELLED, ''GOT HIM,'' STEPPED OUT AND WAVED, and a line of cops broke toward him. He stepped through the snow and down the steps to the body. Most of the top of Martin's head was gone, but his face looked almost placid, his eyes closed, his lips turned up in a not-quite smile.
There was little point to it-he was dead-but out of reflex Lucas patted the body, felt the solidity of the body armor under the coat. And something else. A pistol, Lucas thought, but when he touched it, it was rectangular and he slipped it out of Martin's pocket just as Stadic arrived at the top of the stairs.
''He's dead?''
Lucas said, ''Yeah,'' and stood up, a cell phone in his hand. Where'd they get it? Probably a street buy. He frowned at the phone, then stepped up the stairs toward Stadic: ''Watch the muzzle,'' he said. Stadic's shotgun muzzle had drifted toward him as Stadic peered down the stairwell to Martin. ''One down, one to go.''
''One?'' Stadic asked. ''What about the woman?''
''She's been talking to us. We're not sure about her status,'' Lucas said.
''Okay.'' Stadic nodded, and he thought: Shit. They're gonna talk with her.
Lucas brushed past him on the way up the stairs and said, ''So let's find them.''
The line of cops arrived and Lucas shouted, ''There're two more. They're headed up the street toward the dome…''
A PATROL LIEUTENANT TROTTED OVER AND THEY BEGAN talking search techniques, and whether they should put it off until light: Lucas wanted to keep the pressure on. Stadic watched them as they talked. Lucas still had the phone in his hand, then unconsciously stuck it in his coat pocket. Had to get it. Stadic stared at the pocket. Had to get it, had to get it, had to get it… the chant rang through his mind like a mantra.
''Come on,'' Lucas called to him. Stadic, jolted back to the present, said,
''I'm here,'' and Lucas clapped him on the back and led the way back behind the building. He was six feet ahead, unsuspecting. Stadic had the shotgun: and there were more cops everywhere. But the temptation… an accident.
Nobody would believe it.
Had to get him alone. He had a piece-of-shit Davis. 380 in his pocket. A piece of shit but it'd do the job, but he had to have him alone. Alone with either
LaChaise or the woman would be best… But Christ, who knew what would happen in that chase?
Davenport was electric, animated, and if you didn't know what was going on, you might think Happy. Stadic thought about the arrows coming out of the snow, silent razors in the dark, the whack in the chest. If it'd been eight inches higher, it'd have carved a hole right through his throat and he'd belying in the street with a plastic bag over his face. He shuddered, and followed Davenport.
THE SEARCH GOT UNDER WAY. GROUPS OF COPS SWEPT the streets, parking lots and yards inside a perimeter thrown up in the first few minutes after finding
LaChaise's location. Any house that showed fresh tracks was approached, the door banged on, the occupants asked and warned. But there were few of them this early in the day.
Lucas stayed along Eleventh, the billowing top of the dome a few blocks straight ahead, like the Pillsbury Doughboy's butt. Then a uniformed cop who'd lost his hat and gloves, his blond hair soaked with snow, his hands white as ice, ran up and said, ''We've f-f-f-found a line of t-t-t-tracks. Small tracks, a woman or a kid, and whoever it was kept stopping behind b-bushes and around c-corners.. .''
''That's her,'' Lucas said. ''Show me the way.''
They ran off together, Stadic a few steps behind. Four uniformed guys with flashlights and shotguns were leapfrogging up the track, which wandered through the maze of old houses, apartments, small brick businesses and parking lots.
They were moving quickly, but nervously: everybody'd heard about the arrows.