''I DON'T WANT TO TALK ON THE PHONE ANYMORE,'' Lucas said. ''I want to talk face-to-face. I want to see if Weather's okay, what you've done to her…''
''I haven't done nothin' yet,'' LaChaise growled.
''I'm gonna push open this other door. I won't have any cover. I'm gonna keep my gun in my hand. You shoot her, you're a dead man. But come on out here-talk to me.''
Lucas pushed the second door open, and stood in the center of the hall, his gun by his side, the phone still by his face.
''Trick of some kind,'' LaChaise called down the hall.
''No. We're just trying to get everybody out of here alive,'' Lucas said. ''Your friend Martin would probably tell you to give it up. He went down shooting, but he seemed happyenough to be alive on the way to the hospital.''
''You swear that's true-man to man,'' LaChaise said.
''Yeah, I do,'' Lucas said. ''Now let me see your face.''
After a moment of silence, LaChaise said, ''We'll come out to talk. Your old lady'll be in front of me and the gun'll be pointing right at her head. Anybody tries any shit…''
''Nobody's gonna try any shit,'' Lucas said.
LaChaise looked at Weather. ''He is a tough guy,'' La-Chaise said. ''Let's go out there. You just stay right ahead of me.''
''Don't hurt me,'' Weather said.
''Let's see what happens. Maybe this'll work out.''
She touched him with her fingertips. ''You should give yourself a chance. You're a smart man. Give it a chance.''
Then she stepped in front of him, and felt the cold steel of LaChaise's gun muzzle touch her scalp just behind her ear. They edged into the hall together, and LaChaise nervously looked behind him-nothing but a blank wall-and then down at Davenport, who loomed large and dark standing in the double doors. He held the gun at his side and LaChaise again thought, ''Cowboys.''
If he got out of this-he was thinking that way, now-if he got out of this, it'd be a long time before he played any cowboy games again.
''I'm here by myself,'' Davenport said from the doors. ''And I'm pleading with you. Weather takes care of little kids… that's what she's doing. For
Christ's sake, if you gotta shoot somebody, go for me; let her go.''
''You killed my Georgie…'' But now Georgie was a bargaining chip.
''We didn't want to. Look, for Christ's sake, don't shoot her by accident, huh?
Look, here is my gun.''
Weather could feel the muzzle on the bone just behind her ear. But she wasn't thinking about it. She was listening toLucas's tone of voice, and she thought,
Oh, no, something's going on. She opened her mouth to say something, but
LaChaise, behind her, said, ''This one time, I'm going to take your word for it
…''
Now there was a pleading tone in LaChaise's voice, and Weather felt the pressure from the gun muzzle move away from her ear.
THE SNIPER COULD SEE WEATHER FROM THE SHOULDER up, and all of LaChaise's head, and the muzzle of the pistol. He could hear what LaChaise was saying, but was mentally processing it in the background. Everything else was focused on the muzzle. He saw it start to move, mentally processed the words, going to take your word for it, realized that the muzzle was about to come away from
Weather's head, and then the muzzle lifted out of Weather's hair and the sniper let out just a tiny puff of breath and squeezed…
THE DISTANCE WAS SIXTY-TWO FEET. IN TWO ONEHUNDREDTHS of a second, the slug exploded from the barrel and through LaChaise's head, his skull blowing up like a blood-filled pumpkin.
LaChaise never sensed, never knew death was on the way. He was there one instant, moving the muzzle, ready to quit, even thinking about jail life; in the next instant, he was gone, turned off, falling.
WEATHER FELT THE MUZZLE MOVE, AND THE NEXT INSTANT, she was on the floor, blind.
She couldn't see, she couldn't hear, she was covered with something-she was covered with blood, flesh, brains. She tried to get to her feet but slipped and fell heavily, tried to get up, then Lucas was there, picking her up, and she began to scream…
And to push him away.
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.