Extreme Prey

by John Sandford

  The explosive in the bomb, it turned out, had come from a National Guard dump, and the Guard hadn’t known about the missing C4 until the FBI showed up to ask about it.

  The FBI anti-terrorism team had also searched the Purdy property, where they’d discovered a cache built into the back wall of the stone foundation of the barn. They’d found the black rifle there, the one Cole used to shoot Robertson; ballistics had nailed that down.

  Betsy Skira was found to have been the source of the menstrual fluid on the sheets from the motel in the town of Amazing Grace, near Lennett Valley. She refused to talk about it, on the advice of her attorney. Her ex-husband, Harrison John Williams III, on the other hand, on the advice of his attorney, and in the face of DNA findings that confirmed that the dried semen on the sheets was his, rolled over on everybody, and gave up Grace Lawrence and Russell Madsen, her mountain-man boyfriend from back in the day.

  Williams told prosecutors that Lawrence and Madsen had stolen the dynamite from the farm in Wisconsin, and the farmers, when questioned, agreed that the dynamite had been stolen and that they’d informed the county sheriff of the theft.

  That put the dynamite in Grace Lawrence’s hands. Lawrence, Skira, and Madsen eventually pled to second-degree murder and got fifteen years in prison, no parole, which would put them all close to eighty before they’d get out. Lawrence got another ten, to be served concurrently, for aggravated assault in the shooting of Lucas. Williams got ten years, with five suspended, in return for his testimony.

  The Anson Palmer case remained unsolved, but Lucas and Bell Wood both testified that they believed Grace Lawrence had killed him. She was not charged, as there was essentially no evidence—no fingerprints were ever found, no DNA discovered. But there were three known killers in the case, Lawrence and the two Purdys. Marlys Purdy had been interviewed by Lucas the day of Palmer’s killing, and couldn’t have done it. A time card at the golf course where Cole worked was found by DCI agents, and the card indicated that Cole had been cutting grass all that afternoon. That left Lawrence.

  —

  JESSE PURDY WAS ARRESTED and charged with conspiracy to commit murder, but there was no evidence that he knew of the plot, and there was evidence that he’d cooperated with investigators and that his mother and brother had conspired to get him thrown in jail so he couldn’t interfere with the attack on Bowden.

  On the advice of his attorney, he told the prosecutors to suck on it, although there was some Latin involved in the actual phrasing of his plea, and eventually he was cut loose.

  Not to go back to the farm, though.

  —

  EVERY SINGLE PERSON wounded in the Purdy attack, and every single survivor of a dead person, sued the Purdy estate. The eventual suits added up to a hundred and thirty-odd million dollars, while the Purdy assets added up to a hundred and ten thousand, after an auction sale of the house, equipment, and land. Of the hundred and ten, the lawyers got ninety-six.

  Then everybody sued the state fair for failing to provide adequate security.

  —

  WILLIE PURDY DIDN’T want to have anything to do with Caralee, who’d been recovered from Marlys’s quilting friend. Caralee and Jesse eventually moved up the highway to Des Moines, where Jesse got a good-paying job working for an old high-school buddy, selling Colorado marijuana to real estate agents, and started saving for a truck farm of his own. He stopped drinking.

  —

  A NUMBER OF television cameras and dozens of iPhones had captured movies of Bowden and Henderson crawling among the dead and wounded. Bowden was so soaked with blood that she looked like a victim herself. At the end, she cried, and the crying alone moved her up nine points in the polls against likely Republican challengers. Henderson didn’t cry, but he moved up with her, while Gardner, who’d run from the explosion, was knocked out of the race altogether.

  —

  THE DCI AGENTS, and especially Greer, Wood, and Robertson, were anointed as heroes, the glow of which lasted nearly a month. Pole was transferred to a job as assistant director of the Iowa Department of Elder Affairs.

  Ricky Vincent, the Des Moines cop who shot Marlys Purdy, was cleared of wrongdoing in the shooting. He remained a hero to some people, and a pariah to others. Wood told Lucas that the Des Moines cops were looking to lose him, as soon as they could do it without too much publicity.

  —

  EVERY TIME LUCAS WENT to Iowa that summer and fall, he’d stop to talk to Robertson.

  “One second in your life, everything changes, and you don’t see it coming,” Robertson said. “I got out of your truck, and I woke up in the ICU, wondering what the fuck happened. One second. I played football up in Okoboji, you know? I had a date with this chick after a game, a party at a friend’s house, and I wound up in a bedroom making out with a guy named Carl. I went back in the bedroom to take a leak, and bumped into Carl, and he gave me a squeeze, and . . . I kissed him. One second in my life, and everything changed, and now it’s happened again.”

  “Thanks for sharing,” Lucas said.

  Robertson tried to laugh, and failed, because it still hurt. “I owe you big, man,” he said. “If you ever come back to Iowa . . .”

  Robertson would take nearly a year to recover, and he never recovered fully—he’d lost enough lung that serious running was a challenge. He eventually took a full disability pension from the DCI, and after circulating a résumé, became an investigator for State Farm Insurance.

  —

  AT TEN O’CLOCK in the morning on a cool day in October, after a last walk around the cabin, Lucas helped Jimi the carpenter fold up her table saw, and he and Virgil Flowers carried it out to her pickup. The cabin was done: now it needed a fish on the wall, and maybe a deer head or a bearskin, some decent wildlife art, and it’d all be good.

  Lucas and Virgil dropped the table saw into the bed of the pickup. Jimi said, “Thanks,” as she settled into the driver’s seat, and they waved as she drove away. Virgil said, “I gotta tell you, Jimi probably has the best ass north of Highway 8.”

  “I never noticed,” Lucas said.

  Flowers looked at him closely, then said, “You lie like a Persian carpet.”

  Virgil’s friend Johnson Johnson had come out the door carrying a fly rod, in time to hear the Persian carpet comment, and said, “Lies like a Persian carpet? I don’t get it.”

  Virgil said, “Some common, ordinary people like you, Johnson, lie like a rug. Smart people, see . . .”

  “. . . lie like Persian carpets,” Johnson Johnson said. “Okay, I get it. Are we going fishing, or you guys gonna sit around and bullshit about floor coverings?”

  Elle Kruger, the nun, came to the door carrying another fly rod. She asked, “Where should I put my fishing pole?”

  Johnson Johnson said, “It’s a fly rod, honey, not a fishing pole. Leave it out on the front deck.”

  Lucas said to Johnson Johnson, “You and Virgil go on out. I’m going to run into town and get the steaks and another case of Leinie’s.”

  “Not as good as fishing, but a worthwhile task,” Johnson Johnson said. “I only wish I was still drinking.”

  Lucas’s phone rang and he looked at the screen, where he saw one word: Mitford. He smiled and answered: “Yeah?”

  “You need to be at the governor’s office at ten o’clock sharp, tomorrow,” Mitford said.

  “I’m up at my cabin. I’m no longer at the beck and call of—”

  “Ten o’clock,” Mitford said, and he hung up.

  “What was that?” Virgil asked.

  “Mitford,” Lucas said.

  “Ah—something’s up,” Virgil said.

  —

  LUCAS HAD BROUGHT UP his friends for the inauguration of the enhanced cabin. Virgil and Johnson had come up early with Virgil’s girlfriend, Frankie; Elle Kruger, the nun, had been an overnight guest who’d ridden up with
Weather, Sam, and Gabrielle; and five minutes after the steaks went on the grill, Kidd and his wife, Lauren, showed up with their son, followed by Del Capslock, wife, and kid.

  Good group; and stuffed with meat and fried potatoes and pecan pie, they pestered Lucas about the events in Iowa, about the details. Lucas spun the story out, and finished by adding, “Kidd and Elle pointed me in the right direction. If they hadn’t—if Kidd hadn’t told me where the Purdys came from, if Elle hadn’t convinced me that it was a serious threat, Bowden would be dead. And all the other people, too.”

  “The history of the United States would be different,” Del said. “She’s probably going to win. If she’d been killed . . .”

  “Glad we could help,” Kidd said. “Kinda wish I could have been there.”

  Elle nodded: “But it was so awful. So awful.”

  Frankie said, “Sometimes the world does seem like it’s going nuts. Then, you go to a party like this one, with your friends, and you realize how wonderful everything really is. With all the bullshit—it’s still wonderful.”

  They drank to that—quite a bit.

  —

  VIRGIL, FRANKIE, and Johnson left when the stars came out, followed into the dark by Kidd and Lauren and their son, and then by the Capslocks. Elle Kruger was put in the new guest room, the kids in the second bedroom. “Great weekend,” Weather said, as she and Lucas headed back to the bedroom. “Hated to see it end.”

  “It ain’t over yet,” Lucas said.

  All during the sex, Weather kept moaning, “Be quiet, Elle’s gonna hear us,” and Lucas said, “I’m not making any noise.”

  —

  THEY HAD TO LEAVE early in the morning to get back to St. Paul; Lucas took the boat out at six o’clock for a fast ten minutes of throwing musky baits, and by seven they were on their way south. At a little before ten o’clock, Lucas showed up at the governor’s office, wearing a medium gray Cesare Attolini sport coat over midnight blue slacks from Brioni, a snappy white shirt and no tie. Black oxfords from Anthony Cleverley.

  Henderson was waiting, with Bowden, Mitford, and Norm Clay, Bowden’s weasel.

  “We thought we ought to chat,” Henderson said. “Everything seems to be winding down in Iowa, and since Mike was passing through town . . .”

  Lucas took a chair. “Go ahead. Chat.” Then he turned to Bowden. “By the way, are you going to ask the governor to be your running mate?”

  Henderson held up a finger, as if afraid to hear the answer, but before he could say anything, Bowden said, “Probably. If he doesn’t screw up between now and the convention.”

  Mitford said, “It’s also possible that the governor could be asking you to be his running mate . . .”

  “Shut up,” Clay said. “It’s all over but the shouting.”

  “Shut up, both of you,” Bowden said. She turned to Lucas. “Has anyone given you our invitation to join the Friends of Mike, an opportunity for affluent supporters?”

  “Someone tried,” Lucas said. “I managed to sneak away.”

  Bowden smiled and the smile even touched her normally cool eyes. She said, “Lucas. I never had a chance to thank you. You saved my life—you and Dan. You as much as Dan.”

  “How is he?”

  “We hope to get him back to work before Christmas,” Bowden said. “He thinks he’ll never have all the strength back in his left arm, but I told him that we paid him more for his brain than his muscle. He seemed to like that.”

  “He made an amazing move to cover you,” Lucas said.

  “Yes, he did—I’ve seen it a hundred times on TV. I still can’t believe it,” she said. “Now, the question is, what does Lucas Davenport want?”

  Lucas shrugged. “Why would Lucas Davenport want anything in particular? To tell you the truth, when it’s all said and done, I had a pretty good time down there.”

  Mitford looked at Bowden and said, “It’s true. He likes that kind of shit.”

  “That’s fine, but I don’t like the feeling of walking around, owing something to somebody,” Bowden said. “I mentioned that to the president when I saw him last week.”

  “The president?” Lucas’s eyebrows went up.

  “Yes, he doesn’t like that feeling, either. Since he owes me, and he wanted to get rid of that particular obligation, we worked something out. Just between him and me, after consultation with Governor Henderson. Would you like to be a U.S. marshal?”

  Lucas was caught off-balance: “A marshal? Jeez, I’d like a decent badge, but I don’t know. I don’t know much about what they do. I know they move prisoners around, and I have zero interest in anything like that—”

  “We had something different in mind,” Bowden said. “In addition to the courtroom stuff, marshals do some very rough criminal investigations. As we see it, you’d stay here, in St. Paul. You can have an office in the federal building, if you want one, nothing that would attract the eye of the media. You’d get to decide what you want to do—we want you working, but you’d decide. We’d give you complete independence. Most of the time, anyway. Investigate whoever you want, chase whoever you want, anywhere in the country. Or the world, for that matter.”

  “Uh . . . you slipped in that ‘most of the time.’ What does that mean?” Lucas asked.

  “Governor Henderson mentioned to me that he’d found it quite useful to have a smart, hardworking, discreet law enforcement officer available to work on special cases. Like the Taryn Grant case. From time to time, after I’m elected, I may want you to handle a special case for me.”

  “A special case? Do you have one in mind?” Lucas asked.

  “No, but I’ve been assured by the president that after I’m elected, a few will come up,” Bowden said, smiling again.

  Lucas looked around the room. Nobody else was smiling. Everyone was intent. A deal was going down and they were all serious about deals. “When do you need an answer?”

  Bowden said, “Soon. I’m sure you’ll want to look into the idea. But soon.”

  “Give me a week,” he said. “I need to talk to some guys.”

  “Go ahead,” Bowden said. “Keep my name out of it, for both our sakes.”

  “Okay,” Lucas said. He looked around the room again. “Hey, this could be interesting.”

  “Yes,” Bowden said. Then, “The rest of us have some other items on the agenda, and we don’t want to delay you.”

  She was telling him to go away, and he went.

  Walked out behind the Capitol to his car, whistling. Couldn’t wait to tell Weather. U.S. marshal. Sounded like something he could get used to.

  U.S. marshal. He stopped: Was marshal spelled with one l, or two?

  He’d have to look it up.

  About the Author

  John Sandford is the author of twenty-six Prey novels; eight Virgil Flowers novels, most recently Deadline; three young adult novels, written with Michele Cook; and the science fiction thriller Saturn Run, written with Ctein. He lives in New Mexico.

  johnsandford.org

  facebook.com/JohnSandfordOfficial

  twitter.com/J_Sandford

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