Undersheriff Schneider peered through his windshield into the cafe. A sticker on the door announced that the Cat's Meow was a member of the Mentor, Minnesota, Chamber of Commerce. A doughnut case was at one end of the counter near the cash register. He knew that six booths were ranged along the north wall. Two customers sat at the booth he could see. He counted four diners at the counter, sitting on stools, their backs to the window. Ketchup bottles and napkin dispensers were visible between their elbows. A large and gleaming stainless steel coffee urn was against the wall. The door to the kitchen was near the coffeemaker. RayAnne was putting a plate in front of the largest man at the counter. He was wearing a tan jacket and a green baseball cap. He lifted a fork and bent to the plate. It had to be Nikolai Trusov.
Schneider reached for his clipboard. On it was the bulletin given every Minnesota law officer that morning. He read again about the Russian. "Sweet Jesus, I don't want to do this."
Deputy Mike Dickerson pulled his patrol car into the slot next to Schneider, who waved him toward the passenger seat of Schneider's car. Dickerson stepped toward the cafe, but then saw that his boss was not getting out of the car. He squinted in puzzlement through the window, then opened the door and slid into the passenger seat.
"I got some bad news for our lunch plans," Schneider began. "You see that man at the counter, last one on the right?"
"Yeah," Dickerson said. "The big guy?"
"That's the Russian we were told about at lineup this morning. Same guy that's on the FBI bulletin."
Dickerson stared into the cafe. The deputy had a long face and a chin that protruded beyond his lips. He wore a burr cut with almost no hair showing under his cap. He was a veteran of twelve months in the sheriff's department. "What're we going to do?"
"We're going to do what the taxpayers pay us for. Arrest him."
The deputy asked, "Shouldn't we call in reinforcements?"
Schneider rubbed a temple. "There's two of us. He's sitting peaceably at that counter. He doesn't even know we're here yet. I'm going to walk right up to him and stick the Remington barrel into his face and tell him he's under arrest. I don't need reinforcements for that."
"He's tough." Dickerson wet his lips. "You read what he did to that gas jockey in Cleveland."
The undersheriff's eyes seemed to have moved even closer together. "He's not tougher than my shotgun. We're going in."
"The Russian is a commando. According to what I read, he's been at war for most of his life. He's probably pretty good at it."
"Probably," Schneider granted.
"I ever tell you I've got a three-year-old son?"
"For Christ sake, Mike, I've eaten dinner at your house a half dozen times, your kid sitting there oinking down his food each time. I know you've got a kid." He paused. "Hell, what's the Russian doing now?"
Nikolai Trusov was rising from the stool. He placed his napkin on the counter next to his plate. He spoke several words to RayAnne, who pointed over her shoulder toward the rear of the cafe. He walked behind the other counter customers, then disappeared down the aisle between the booths.
"He's going back to take a leak."
"There's no rear door back there, is there?" Dickerson asked.
"Just the bathrooms. Mike, the men's room has a window in it. As I recall, it might be big enough for a man to climb through. You go around the north side of the cafe and wait next to the window. I'm going in the front door."
Dickerson nodded and unsnapped his holster.
The undersheriff laid a hand on Dickerson's arm. "Mike, we only need to make an attempt to arrest this guy. If the son of a bitch looks sideways at you, shoot him. Don't give him a break. He won't give you one."
Dickerson yanked the door handle. He pulled his pistol from the holster as he exited the car. The deputy rounded the patrol car and the Caprice, then disappeared around the north corner of the cafe. The undersheriff clicked the pump shotgun from its mount. After he got out of the vehicle, he thumbed the safety off. He entered the cafe.
A few customers turned toward him. Acquaintances nodded, then stared at the shotgun. His eyes on the rest-room hallway, Schneider sidled up to the doughnut case. Her hand at her mouth and wide eyes on the shotgun, RayAnne Folger moved to the end of the counter.
Schneider said, "That big fellow who just went back into the hallway. What'd he just say to you?"
She had the look of a deer caught in headlights. Her voice was scratchy. "He asked for the men's toilet."
"He speak with an accent?"
She pounced at the question. "Yeah, he did. Pretty bad one, even those few words I heard."
The undersheriff slowly walked down the aisle toward the rest-room hall. The customers followed him with their eyes, their burgers and fries forgotten. He passed a high chair, two stacked booster chairs, and the pay phone. He held the 12-gauge in front of him like an infantryman, expecting the Russian to emerge from the rest room at any moment. The door remained closed.
Schneider paused in front of the door. He could feel his blood pump, and his tongue seemed stitched to the top of his mouth. He whispered hoarsely, "Christ save me, I don't want to do this."
But he did. The undersheriff lurched forward, his shoulder slamming into the rest-room door, which jumped back and banged against the wall. He charged into the room.
One hand on his belt and the other on his privates as he stood in front of the urinal, Don Hansen dried up. His mouth fished open, and he backstepped, still exposed and dribbling.
Schneider ignored him. He turned to the stall and kicked in the door. He jabbed the shotgun into the space. It was empty.
"What the hell, Mel?" Don Hansen demanded. He adjusted his pants. "All I'm doing is relieving myself here. That ain't against no law I know of."
The window was closed and the sill was dusty. Nobody had used it. Schneider turned a full circle. Don Hansen, and that was it. A knot formed between the undersheriff's eyebrows. He turned back to the stall, staring at the toilet-paper dispenser, as if a man could hide somewhere in there. How had the Russian disappeared? He shook his head slowly and gestured vaguely toward Hansen.
Schneider pulled open the rest-room door to return to the hall. And across from him was the door to the women's rest room. And then he understood.
Knowing he was too late and just going through the motions, he lowered the shotgun, and bulled his way into the women's head. No one was in the room. A breeze poured through the open window, freshening the air. The window exited south, the opposite side of the building from the deputy. Nobody in the two stalls.
Schneider hurried from the room and sprinted down the aisle. Customers' eyes followed him once again. The under-sheriff said aloud, "How did the bastard spot us?"
He stopped in front of the stool where the Russian had been sitting. He stared across the counter to the backbar. Reflected in the stainless steel coffee urn was the parking lot behind him, and his patrol car, clear as day, just like in a mirror. He moved by the stools and yanked the cafe's front door open. He went on his tiptoes and looked south. The Caprice was a block away and accelerating. The green baseball cap was visible through the rear window.
He yelled, "Mike, hurry up."
Undersheriff Schneider was going to give chase, but when he reached for his door handle, he had to bend slightly lower than usual. He glanced back. The rear tire had been slashed and the car had sunk to the wheel rim. Schneider stepped around to Dickerson's patrol car. It, too, was low on its rear axle. RayAnne and her customers were at the window staring at Schneider.