Lucas Davenport Collection

by John Sandford

  “Well, shoot. That would mean we’re not done. Still looking for an Arab, but a tall thin one with a mustache. Somebody who would know Shaheen. Who would know that Shaheen would look enough like himself to throw us off, especially ... Hmm.” His eyes flicked at her.

  “Especially if I were gone,” she said, brightly.

  “Yeah. That would pretty much be the icing on the cake. For the doc, I mean.” He looked around. “Where’s Jenkins?”

  “I got him blowing snow. I want to get down to look at the twins.”

  Virgil listened, heard the snowblower. “Okay. Soon as the driveway’s clear, we’ll head out. Full convoy again. Though, I think Garner was the designated hitter.”

  SHE LEFT THE HOUSE at nine-thirty in the convoy, headed to the hospital. Lucas said he was on the way back, and would take a nap.

  At the hospital, Virgil left Weather at the ICU, with Jenkins leaning against the door, while he headed back to the cafeteria. Two Minneapolis cops were drinking coffee, and Virgil squatted next to their table. “Who’s running things today?”

  “Nobody much—I guess Lee Hall would be the senior guy,” one of them said.

  “Know where I could find him?”

  “Let me buzz him,” the cop said. He did, told the cop that Flowers was looking for him, hung up and said, “He’ll be right down. He was up watching crime scene picking up blood.”

  Virgil took a table, and a call from Lucas. “I got a call from the ME,” Lucas said. “Between the time Garner ran, and we got him, somebody operated on his toe. You hit him in the little toe. The ME says it’s a professional job.”

  “And Shaheen was completely dead by that time.”

  “Totally.”

  “All right, we knew that,” Virgil said. “The guy we want looks like a tall, skinny Shaheen.”

  Even with that information, it took Virgil almost four hours to find him.

  “WE WERE so blessed to have this team,” Lucy Raynes said. “This whole thing has been so unbelievable.”

  “Not finished yet,” Weather said.

  “There’s so much to do, I can’t begin to cope,” Lucy Raynes said. “I’ve got a notebook just to write it all down. There’ll be educational therapy, physical therapy—they’re physically so far behind where they should be, because they haven’t been able to move on their own. We’ve got Sara’s heart operation, and, if there are any adjustments to the caps, or any emergencies ...”

  Sara woke up, whimpered. She’d spent her short life sleeping on her back, always with torque from her twin, and now she seemed almost stuck that way, until she suddenly jerked her head to the right, and her face came around without resistance and Weather imagined she saw a flash of surprise on the baby’s face.

  “You know what the most amazing thing is? They always slept and woke up together, because ... they were physically connected. Now, look—Sara wants to eat, and Ellen’s sound asleep. That sounds so trivial, but ...”

  She started leaking tears.

  “I’ll see you two tomorrow,” Weather said. Then, “How are things, financially?”

  “They’re fine,” Larry Raynes said. “I took my vacation for the operation, and the insurance covered all but twenty percent, and the church raised money in town and about everybody gave something ... Heck, if we could do this every couple years, we could start turning a pretty good profit.”

  His wife swatted him and he said, “Ow,” and Weather walked away thinking that that had been the first sign of humor she’d seen from either of them.

  THEY WENT BACK to the house by convoy, and Lucas got up, still tired, and they sat around and talked about it, and Virgil said, “I got the Minneapolis cops looking for another Arab, but a tall thin one, this time.”

  “Call me when you get him,” Lucas said.

  A LITTLE AFTER two o’clock a Minneapolis cop called and identified herself as Marilyn Crowe. “I heard you were looking for a tall, thin, Arab-type guy who sort of looks like Dr. Shaheen.”

  “Yup.”

  “Well, Shaheen’s best friend, supposedly, is named Alain Barakat, and he works in the emergency room at MMRC,” Crowe said. “My partner and I interviewed him about Shaheen. Barakat is probably six-two, one-eighty, got a black brush mustache.”

  Virgil smiled into the phone: “You know where he is?”

  “He’s in the emergency room until three o’clock,” Crowe said.

  Virgil said, “Thank you.”

  LUCAS SCOUTED the hallway outside the ER, found a spot, took Weather by the arm and parked her where they could see through the scuffed Plexiglas window into the main room. “Do not move.”

  A moment later, Marilyn Crowe walked into the ER, looked around, found a nurse, and Crowe asked, “Is Dr. Barakat here?”

  Barakat appeared a minute later, spotted Crowe, and walked over. “I wanted to let you know,” she said, “because of all the other stuff, it looks like it’ll be at least a couple weeks before the ME can release the body. Did you call the uncle?”

  Barakat nodded. “Yes. They were completely devastated. He was the golden boy of the family. You know this phrase? Golden boy?”

  “I do ...” she said. “If you go down to the medical examiner’s office, they can tell you how to get the forms you need to fly the body back to Lebanon ...”

  OUT IN THE HALL, Weather whispered, “That’s him. That’s the guy.”

  “No doubt in your mind?”

  “None. That’s him.”

  BACK AT THE HOUSE, Marcy said, “Every time I come here, I wind up eating buns.” Shrake wiggled his eyebrows at her, and she said, “Shut up,” and took another bite.

  Virgil said, “So to sum up, at this point, we have, on our friend Barakat, what is technically referred to as ‘jack shit.”’

  “That’s where you’d be wrong, surfer boy. We’ve got that bandage on Garner’s toe. If we find any DNA on it, and it’s a good possibility, because Barakat was wrapping quite a bit of sticky tape, we got him. Or, if there’s any up on those boxes up north, where they killed Ike ...”

  “Might sound like a good possibility to you, Deputy Chief, but it sounds thin to me,” Virgil said.

  “I’m with Virgil,” Lucas said. “I suggest we try to find a judge who’ll give us a search warrant on his house, based on Weather’s identification. We hit his house tomorrow morning when he’s at work.”

  “Tell you what,” Marcy said. “Why don’t we see if there’s any hint of DNA...”

  And so they wrangled on into the afternoon.

  JOE MACK POKED OUT of the dimness next to the support pillar: “That you?”

  “It’s me,” Honey Bee whispered. “Oh, God, Joe, I’m so sorry about everything.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Joe said. “What about you and the cops?”

  “I think they suspect everything, but they don’t know anything, for sure. They’re tearing up the world looking for you, though. They think you went to Mexico.”

  “I almost did,” Joe Mack said. “Listen, did you bring the money?”

  “Yeah. Right here ...” She dug it out of her purse.

  Joe Mack waved her off. “Put it back in the bank box,” he said. “Everybody’s dead. I’m turning myself in.”

  “Oh, Joe!”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “You been a good friend, Honey Bee. I’ll probably wind up doing some heavy time. Maybe you could give, like, ten K to the attorney ... Keep the bar going, send me some spare change now and then.”

  “Is there anything I can do now?” she asked.

  “Just keep the bar running.”

  “Well, I meant, you know ... you need a little friendship, or anything?”

  He hadn’t thought of it, but looked quickly around the parking ramp. They could use Eddie’s van, tell Eddie to take a walk. He looked at his watch. “I gotta be outa here before three o’clock,” he said. “But we got fifteen minutes.”

  BARAKAT COULD no longer keep track of the world.

  He was high most of the time, b
ut still operating; but the whole business of planning, of figuring out the future, had gone away. He now lived thirty seconds at a time, one twist at a time. He’d had the pound of cocaine for less than a week, and already had the feeling that he was running dangerously low.

  Had to find an outlet for the dope he had. Had to find a way to move it.

  Couldn’t plan.

  Needed another twist.

  Looked at the kid’s sprained ankle, couldn’t focus. Said, “I’ll be right back. I don’t think it’s broken.”

  Needed the twist.

  JOE MACK SAT in the snow, in the dark, actually inside the hedge. He was wearing insulated coveralls, his Carhartt coat draped over his shoulders, with his hands pulled inside. He was wearing gloves and boots and a black watch cap pulled down over his ears.

  He’d been waiting since twenty after three, head down, not moving: a technique he’d perfected hunting deer, back when it snowed during Wisconsin deer season.

  Three-thirty came and went, then four o’clock. Moved only twice, to stretch his legs out in front of him.

  Cold and clear; the storm was done, the cold coming in behind it. At four-twenty, a car turned into the driveway, bucked up the hump. The drive hadn’t been shoveled.

  The car stopped, and Barakat stepped out. Joe Mack saw his face when the car’s interior lights went on. The tall man got out and slammed the door, slipped a bit as he turned in the snow to head around the nose of the car. When he did, Joe Mack rose out of the dark behind him.

  Joe Mack threw his right forearm around Barakat’s neck, his hand catching the inside of his own left elbow, while his left hand went behind Barakat’s neck. The other man struggled, tried to turn, but Joe Mack held him fast, bending Barakat’s neck over his forearm.

  He said, “You killed my family, you motherfucker.”

  Barakat tried to choke out some words, but failed. He actually heard his neck break; an instant later, he was gone.

  24

  AFTER THE DISCUSSION the night before, Lucas and Marcy decided they should watch Barakat for a couple days, until they knew what possibilities the DNA samples might hold. If he tried to move what might have been the drugs, if he visited a place where the drugs might be stashed, they’d have that.

  And they’d figure something out.

  AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK the next morning, Marilyn Crowe called Marcy for the third time and said, “Still no movement. I’m thinking I should knock on his door.”

  “Still a problem ...”

  “We know he was supposed to be at work. The phone is ringing in there. The car’s here ... I think I should go knock.”

  Marcy exhaled, then said, “All right, but take Dick with you. The excuse sounds pretty weak. He’s gonna know we’re watching him.”

  “But something’s not right,” Crowe said. “If he’s skipped ...”

  “Okay. Knock on the door,” Marcy said.

  She was a little annoyed when Crowe called her back thirty seconds later and said, “He’s here.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “He’s on the ground in front of his car,” Crowe said. “Dick says somebody snapped his neck.”

  THEY ALL RECONVENED at Lucas’s place, which was only a mile from Barakat’s and the crime scene, and Lucas ran through the logic. “Four guys rob the place. One of them is the doc, Barakat, who set it up, and we know he’s the right guy, because we find that load of drugs in his house. The other three are Chapman, Haines, and Joe Mack. Haines gets scratched, and Joe Mack and Barakat are seen. The Macks and the doc decide that Chapman and Haines have to go. Probably because they know that Haines was scratched, and that we were going to identify him when we ran the DNA. Maybe they figure that they have to take out Chapman, too, because he and Haines were old buddies.

  “So they do that. They bring in Garner to do the killing, because they know Garner’s a killer. He kills Chapman and Haines. He takes a shot at Weather, because Weather has seen Joe Mack and Barakat, close up. He misses. Then Joe Mack freaks out when we jump him, and he runs. He kidnaps Jill MacBride, takes her to the airport. Garner comes to pick him up, and probably kills MacBride.

  “Now they’ve got a bigger problem. Now we’ve got Joe Mack for a capital crime. Garner and Barakat start to worry about Joe dealing them, so they decide to cut the Macks out of the deal, and the idea is to kill them and keep the drugs. They get Lyle and Ike, but miss Joe.

  “But they still want to get Weather, because she also saw Barakat, in the elevator. They get close in, but then Virgil and I jump him in the hospital, and Virgil shoots him in the toe.”

  “Nice shot, Flowers,” Shrake said.

  “I was shooting to wound,” Virgil said.

  “Shut up,” Lucas said. “I’m talking here. So we track down Garner, and he’s killed. There’s no one left standing, now, except Joe Mack and Barakat. Joe Mack knows who killed his family, so he ambushes Barakat and breaks his neck.”

  “That’s the weakest point,” Weather said. “You don’t know that.”

  “In this whole episode, the only really tall guy was Joe Mack. He’s taller than me, and stronger. The ME says the guy who killed Barakat was probably taller than Barakat, and had to be exceptionally strong to snap his neck like that. Joe Mack is the obvious candidate,” Lucas said. “Killed him out of revenge. He knew that Barakat had killed Lyle and Ike.”

  “So Weather’s okay,” Virgil said.

  “I’m a little better than that,” Weather said. “I think I’m excellent.”

  Marcy: “You have the logic. If the DNA comes in on Garner, for killing MacBride, I’ll buy the whole enchilada.”

  “I’ll bet you a hundred dollars it does,” Lucas said.

  Virgil said, “I’m going home, soon as my shirts get out of the dryer.”

  HE STARTED packing up, Marcy headed for Minneapolis, Shrake and Jenkins were talking about an ice-fishing tournament on White Bear Lake.

  LUCAS AND WEATHER were sitting in the kitchen, alone, and Weather went through the whole sequence of the final operation.

  “So the kids are going to be okay,” Lucas said.

  “Well ... they’re going to have problems. With a good family, by the time they’re in first grade, they should be, you know, more or less okay. There’ll still be some issues.”

  “A happy ending,” Lucas said.

  “As for me, I’m going to get pregnant again,” Weather said.

  “You got the daddy picked out?”

  “Yup.”

  “You’re too old,” Lucas said.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You’re too busy.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Well. Okay, then.”

  VIRGIL CAME down the hall with his bag and shotgun case, and said, “Thanks for your hospitality. Let’s not do it again.”

  “Drive carefully,” Weather said. “The roads are terrible.”

  Lucas’s phone rang, and he dug it out of his pocket. Caller unknown.

  He pushed the answer button: “Hello?”

  “Mr. Davenport?”

  He couldn’t quite place the voice, but it was familiar. State Farm? “Yes?”

  “This is Joe Mack.”

  Virgil was turning away, but Lucas held up a finger, and he stopped. “Joe Mack? Joe—how you doing?”

  Joe Mack laughed and said, “Well, not real fuckin’ good, you know? After crackin’ Al’s neck last night, I went out and got seriously in the bag. Where I still am.”

  “In the bag?”

  “In the bag. Anyway, I’m down at the bar, if you want to come get me.”

  “Give me fifteen minutes,” Lucas said.

  “HOW’D HE KNOW your phone number?” Virgil asked, as Lucas got his coat on.

  “I gave my card to Honey Bee, wrote my home number on it. He’s been talking to her.”

  They took Virgil’s truck, with its flashers, and made it in ten, even with the snow, driving around the last block to come in from the back. With their guns dra
wn, they tried the back door, but found it padlocked from the outside, with crime-scene tape over the door. They eased around to the front door, where another lock had been broken off.

  The window, broken by Jenkins, had been repaired with a piece of plywood, but they could hear the jukebox going inside: Robert Earl Keen, “The Road Goes on Forever.”

  And they could see Joe Mack sitting at the bar, a drink in front of him.

  LUCAS LED the way in, Virgil a step behind, and then breaking away to the side. Joe Mack looked at them, with their guns, and said, “I don’t got a gun.”

  Lucas and Virgil watched him for a minute, then Virgil put his gun away and said, “So, ready to go?”

  “Give me a minute to finish my drink,” Joe Mack said. “I got some stuff I want to say, too.”

  Lucas glanced at Virgil, who nodded, and Lucas said, “Any help you can give us, man.”

  Joe Mack snorted: “Help, my ass.” He sipped at the glass of bourbon, then said, “Mostly, I want to say that Honey Bee didn’t know nothin’ about all of this. Nothin’. I’m not gonna tell you nothin’ that will help you put me in jail, but I’ll tell you that.”

  “You said something on the phone about crackin’ Barakat’s neck,” Lucas said.

  Joe Mack said, “Prove it.”

  VIRGIL WALKED up behind him and said, “I don’t want to seem unfriendly, but would you mind standing up, so I can pat you down? I’d like to get myself a beer, but I worry about how you might have a gun. I hate guns.”

  Lucas had seen Virgil operate before, and though he was uncertain about the concept of a beer, he let him go.

  Joe Mack slid off the stool and Virgil carefully patted him down, and then looked under the stool, where a gun might be stuck, and found nothing. “Got no gun,” Joe Mack said, taking the stool back.