‘That’s right, Rick. But in a completely different role here. Before Jill Patterson and the children were taken away from here with the mayor she had time to say how they will be eternally grateful to Detective Oz for his courage, and that they are praying he will survive the ordeal.’
Survive. Liza’s hands went to her mouth. She took deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. Breathe. And then she did something she hadn’t done for so long she couldn’t even remember when the last time was. She prayed. God, let him survive. I don’t ever have to see him again if that’s what you want in return. But dear God, don’t let him die.
Kay Myers ran crouching past the police cars outside the taxidermist’s store and didn’t straighten up until she was behind the big SWAT vehicle where Walker was standing. A few feet away Springer and O’Rourke seemed to be in the middle of a heated discussion.
‘What’s going on?’ Kay asked, panting to get her breath back.
‘Springer wants SWAT to take Lunde out,’ said Walker. ‘O’Rourke says that’ll put Oz’s life in danger.’
Kay turned toward the two men.
‘No!’ she screeched.
They stopped their discussion and turned to look at her.
‘No, you mustn’t try to take Lunde out.’
‘Thanks but we can get along without any interference from you, Myers,’ Springer snorted. At least he remembered the ‘s’ in her name this time.
‘Shut up and listen,’ said Kay. ‘Oz and Lunde know each other.’
‘Kay, don’t...’ Walker began — but it was too late to stop her and they both knew it.
‘Lunde won’t kill Oz,’ said Kay. ‘But you, Springer, you idiot, you just might do that.’
With a half-laugh Springer shook his head. ‘According to our information Detective Oz is an unstable, alcoholic police officer who has been suspended for disobeying orders and is responsible for putting himself in this current situation. He has risked the lives of three innocent civilians, he’s no hero, he just wants to look like one. That’s understandable, given the fucked-up state of his own life. You say he and Lunde are friends, maybe that’s why he keeps sabotaging SWAT’s snipers by blocking their line of fire.’
Kay noticed the saliva spray from her own mouth and how some of it landed on Springer’s pinstriped jacket as she answered: ‘But can’t you get it through your thick head that Bob Oz is in a position to get Mike Lunde to hand himself over?’
‘Superintendent, we don’t have time for this,’ said Springer. ‘Can you talk to this Fury?’
Kay waited to feel Walker’s big hand land on her shoulder. But she didn’t. When she turned she saw Walker was looking directly at Springer.
‘Why?’ said Walker. ‘Sounds to me like she has a point.’
Springer glanced at O’Rourke as though looking for support.
‘I don’t know who it was gave Bob Oz his nickname Kentucky Fried,’ said O’Rourke. ‘All I know is Bob Oz just went in there unarmed and got three hostages released. And I’m not willing to risk the life of a man like that. Not as long as only those two in there are in danger.’
‘Let me give you the short version,’ said Springer with a deep sigh, as though he were dealing with dull-witted children. ‘I’ve talked to my bosses and they tell me Lunde is someone who has murdered one decent citizen, Cody Karlstad, tried to kill one of Patterson’s bodyguards, and in the process traumatised Patterson’s family. Like any other terrorist, Lunde’s wet dream is to commit these evil deeds and get himself arrested so that every microphone in the media gets pushed into his face so he can broadcast his sick, political message to the nation. Now that is not necessarily something we want. Got that?’
Kay wasn’t sure she had heard properly. Didn’t they want to take Lunde alive? Who were we? And who were my bosses? She had a feeling she wouldn’t get any answers if she asked Springer. On the other hand, maybe Springer was making all this up because he would prefer a dead body to a live terrorist telling the whole world how he’d tricked Springer. Lunde had given the MPD and the JTTF all the leads they needed, but still Springer’s anti-terrorist group hadn’t managed to stop him kidnapping the mayor’s family.
Kay glanced across at Walker. He looked a little less upset than she did. Was it because he knew something she didn’t, something to do with having a top job at city hall, and knowing what it takes to climb even higher? Something about how not to trip up? Or was she just under pressure and seeing daylight ghosts?
‘Give Bob five minutes,’ she said. ‘Or I’m going over there...’ Kay nodded toward the KSTP-TV bus further down the street. ‘And I’ll tell them exactly what you just said, Springer.’
Kay wasn’t looking at Springer, she was looking at Walker. His head was on one side, and he was smiling at her. Not encouragingly, not happily, but proudly. And regretfully. The way he might smile at someone who’s done the right thing, something he perhaps would have done himself back in the day, when he had the guts for it. The way you might smile at someone you’d like to help back up on their feet, but when winter comes, and a place like this gets iced up, then all you can do is look after number one.
53
Hunting Trophy, October 2016
‘I made a hunting trophy for Karlstad a couple of years ago,’ said Mike as he folded his hands behind his head. Like someone who’s finished a piece of work, thought Bob. ‘A buck he wanted above his fireplace. I didn’t know then that he was a local big shot in the NRA. I went to his house out in the suburbs to have a look at the fireplace. Wife, three children. Cody Karlstad had everything I didn’t have. In his opinion what we needed to reduce crime was more guns, not fewer. He thought the gun was our foremost symbol of liberty, he thought we should be like certain other countries, have an automatic weapon as part of our flag.’
‘Did you hate him?’
‘No. Actually I quite liked him. He seemed a caring kind of person.’
‘But all the same you shot him?’
‘As I said before, it’s about more than revenge.’
‘The message.’
‘Yes.’
‘Which is?’
‘That one day the gun you make is going to be aimed at you.’
‘And the dead are to communicate this message?’
‘That’s what taxidermists do.’
‘Do you really think people will listen to your message?’
Mike shrugged. ‘The noise level is so high these days you have to shout loudly to be heard. Which is why I hope people will understand my use of such radical methods. But those involved at least died for a good cause. Even that corrupt detective became, in the end, a part of the work of art.’
‘Oh?’
‘I gather an anonymous artist has exhibited him in Arb Park. Minus his head.’
Bob studied Mike’s face, not sure whether he was speaking metaphorically or meant it literally.
‘What happened to the head?’
‘Ah, I wanted to cleanse it of everything it has ever seen or heard. And done. Cleanse it completely.’ Mike turned his innocent blue eyes on Bob.
Bob swallowed. ‘So now the head is...?’
Mike nodded toward his workshop. ‘The leather beetles are busy.’
Bob took a deep breath. Was about to ask the name of the detective but changed his mind.
‘The gun. Who is it pointed at now?’
‘At me.’
And sure enough, Bob saw that the barrel was pointing at Mike Lunde’s own chin. ‘Tell me, Mike — was I ever a part of the plan?’
‘Not the plan. You were a good listener.’
‘But I might have stopped you. Ruined everything. You told me all I needed to know. If I’d only gone a little deeper...’