''Are we in a hurry, I hope?'' Sloan asked as they rolled north along the
Mississippi.
''Yeah,'' Lucas said. As soon as they got on I-94 at Cretin, he called Dispatch and asked them to contact the Wisconsin highway patrol, to tell that he was coming through on an emergency run. They dropped on the interstate at noon, and at 12:20 crossed the St. Croix bridge into Wisconsin. Lucas put the snap-on red flasher in the window and dropped the hammer, cranking the Porsche out to one-twenty before dropping back to an even hundred.
The countryside looked as though it had been carved out of ice, hard sky, round hills, the creek lines marked by bare gray trees, snapped-off golden-yellow cornstalks sticking out of the snow, suburban homes and then isolated farmsteads showing plumes of straight-up gray wood smoke.
Sloan watched it roll by for a few minutes, then said, ''I get to drive back.''
DUNN COUNTY SHERIFF BILL LOCK WAS A FUSSY, officious, bespectacled man, a little overweight, who, if he'd put on a fake white beard, would make an adequate departmentstore Santa. He met Lucas and Sloan among the coffins in theEternal
Comfort Room at Logan's Funeral Home, where Logan had set up coffee and doughnuts for the cops.
''Come on and take a look,'' Lock said. ''We'd appreciate it if one of our guys could talk to Duane Cale-you still got him over there in Hennepin County jail.
He might have some ideas where they went.''
''No problem,'' Lucas said. He dug out a card, scribbled a number on the back and handed it to Lock. ''Ask for Ted, tell him I said to call, and what you want to do.''
''Good enough.'' Lock walked them through the staging room, where the bodies of
Georgie and Candy LaChaise were still waiting for a funeral. ''You want to look?'' he asked.
''No, thanks,'' Lucas said hastily. ''So what happened?''
''Logan says LaChaise insisted that he open the coffins. They came back here and he opened them. Then LaChaise asked if there was a Coke machine around, and
Logan told them where the machine was. That was one of the cooler things he did: he was so routine, taking his time with the bodies, saying good-bye, then asking for a Coke…''
Lock walked them through it, a couple other deputies standing around, watching.
They wound up in the back room, next to the Coke box. Sand's body was still on the floor, in the middle of a drying puddle of blood. Sand looked small, white and not particularly tough, his head cocked up at an odd angle, his chin squarely on the floor, his nose off the ground.
''Logan figures he was gone for five minutes. When he came back to the staging room, there was nobody here. He looked into the back, and found this.''
''Never saw LaChaise again?'' Lucas asked.
''Never saw him again,'' Lock said, shaking his head. ''Never heard any noise, nothing. Now we got the sonofabitch running around the countryside somewhere.''
''He's long gone,'' Lucas said.
''Yeah, but we're doing a house-to-house check anyway,'' Lock said.
''He had to have help.'' Lucas walked around the body, squatted, and looked at
Sand's hands as they stuck out of the cuffs. ''There aren't any defensive cuts, so it wasn't like LaChaise pulled a shank on him.'' Lucas stood up and made a hand-washing motion. ''If LaChaise was cuffed and wearing leg irons, there's no way he could have taken this guy without some kind of fight. There must've been somebody else here.''
''Unless he'd cut a deal with Sand to turn him loose, and make it look like an escape-then double-crossed him.''
''Huh. What'd he have to offer Sand? Candy and Georgie were dead, so the source of money had dried up…''
''We're checking with Michigan, see if Sand had any problems back there.
Something to blackmail him with…''
''Nobody saw him walking away.'' Lucas made it a statement.
''Nope. Nobody saw nothing.''
Sloan jumped in: ''I heard his mother says he's coming after us.''
''That's what she says,'' Lock said, nodding. ''And she could be right. Dick is nuts.''
''You know him?'' Lucas asked.
''From when I was a kid,'' Lock said. ''I used to run a trap line up the Red
Cedar in the winter. The LaChaises lived down south of here on this broken-ass farm-Amy LaChaise is still out there. I used to see the LaChaise kids every now and then. Georgie and Dick. Their old man was a mean sonofabitch, drunk, beat the shit out of the kids…''
''That's how it is with most psychos,'' said Sloan.
''Yeah, well, I wouldn't be surprised if somebody told me he'd been screwing
Georgie, either. She always knew too much, there in school.'' Lock scratched his head, caught him-self and slicked back his thinning hair. ''The old man came after me once, said I was trespassing on his part of the river, and they didn't even live on the river.''
''What happened?'' Sloan asked.
''Hell, I was seventeen, I'd baled hay all summer, built fence in the fall and then ran the trap line. I was in shape, he was a fifty-year-old drunk: I kicked his ass,'' Lock said, grinning at them over Sand's body.
''Good for you,'' Sloan said.
''Not good for his kids, though-living with him,'' Lock said. ''The whole goddamn bunch of them turned out crazier'n bedbugs.''
''There's more? Besides Georgie and Dick?'' Lucas asked.
''One more brother, Bill. He's dead,'' Lock said. ''Ran himself into a bridge abutment up on County M, eight or ten years back. Dead drunk, middle of the night. There was a hog in the backseat. Also dead.''
''A hog,'' said Sloan. He looked at Lucas, wondering if Lock was pulling their legs.
Lock, reading Sloan's mind, cracked a grin. ''Yeah, he used to rustle hogs. Put them in the car, leave them off at friends' places. When he got five or six, he'd run them into St. Paul.''
''Hogs,'' Sloan said, shaking his head sadly.
Lock said the only two people who'd showed up for the funeral were Amy LaChaise and Sandy Darling, Candy's sister. ''They're both still sitting out there. They say they don't know what the heck happened.''
''You believe them?'' Sloan asked.
''Yeah, I sorta do,'' Lock said. ''You might want to talk to them, though. See what you think.''
AMY LACHAISE WAS A MEAN-EYED, FOULMOUTHED waste of time, defiant and quailing at the same time, snappingat them, then flinching away as though she'd been beaten after other attempts at defiance.
''You're gonna get it now,'' she crowed, peering at them from beneath the ludicrous hat-net. ''You're the big shots going around killing people, thinking your shit don't stink; but you're gonna see. Dickie's coming for you.''
SANDY DARLING WAS DIFFERENT.
She was a small woman, but came bigger than her size: her black dress was unconsciously dramatic, the silver-tipped black boots an oddly elegant country touch, both sensitive and tough.
She faced them squarely, her eyes looking into theirs, unflinching, her voice calm, but depressed.
Sandy had seen Lucas arrive with Sloan, had seen them talking with the sheriff.
The big tough-looking guy wore what she recognized as an expensive suit, probably tailored. FBI? He looked like an FBI man from the movies. The other man, the thin one, was shifty-looking, and dressed all in shades of brown. They went in the back, where the dead guard was, and a few minutes later came back out, and talked to Amy LaChaise. She could hear Amy's crowing voice, but not the individual words.
After five minutes, the two men left Amy LaChaise and walked over to where she was sitting. She thought, Hold on. Just hold on.
''Mrs. Darling?'' The big guy had blue eyes that looked right into her. When he smiled, just a small polite smile, she almost shivered, the smile was so hard.
He reminded her of a Montana rancher she'd met once, when she'd gone out to pick up a couple of quarter horses; they'd had a hasty affair, one that she remembered with some pleasure.
The other guy, the shifty one, smiled, and he looked like Dagwood, like a nice guy.
/>
''I'm Lucas Davenport from Minneapolis,'' the big guy said, ''And this is
Detective Sloan…''
She caught Lucas's name: Davenport. Wasn't he…? ''Did you shoot my sister?'' she blurted.
''No.'' The big man shook his head. ''Detective Sloan and I were at the credit union, but neither one of us fired a gun.''
''But you set it up,'' she said.
''That's not the way we see it,'' Lucas said.
Sandy's head jerked, a nod: she understood. ''Am I going to be arrested?''
''For what?'' the thin man asked. He seemed really curious, almost surprised, and she found herself warming to him.
''Well, that's what I want to know. I came to the funeral, and now they won't let me go anywhere. I've got to ask before I go to the bathroom. Nobody'll talk to me.''
''That's routine,'' the thin man said. ''I know it's tiresome, but this is a serious thing. A man's been murdered.''
The thin man-Sloan?-made it sound so reasonable. He went on. ''We'll talk to the sheriff, see if we can get you some information on how much longer it'll be. I imagine you'll have to make a formal statement, but I'd think you'd be home for dinner.''
''If you're not involved,'' Davenport said. She was sitting in a big chair, and he dropped into another one at a right angle to her. ''If you've got anything to do with this, if you know where LaChaise is at, you better say so now,'' he said. ''Get a lawyer, get a deal.''
She shook her head, and a tear started down her cheek. ''I don't know anything,
I just came to say good-bye to Candy…''
Three things were going on in her head. When Lucas said, ''Say so now,'' she thought, deep in her mind, Oh, right. At another level, she was so frightened she could hardly bear it. And in yet another place, she really was thinking aboutCandy, dead in a coffin not ten yards away; and that started the tear down her cheek.
LUCAS SAW THE TEAR START, AND HE GLANCED AT Sloan. A wrinkle appeared between
Sloan's eyes. ''Take it easy,'' Sloan said gently. He leaned forward and touched her hand. ''Listen. I really don't think you had anything to do with this, but sometimes, people know more than they think. Like, if you were Dick LaChaise, where would you go? You know him, and you both know this territory
…''
They talked with her for another fifteen minutes, but nothing came of it. Sandy showed tears several times, but held her ground: she simply didn't know. She was a horse rancher, for God's sakes, a landowner, a taxpayer, a struggling businesswoman. She didn't know about outlaws: ''Candy and I… she moved out of the house when I was in ninth grade and we didn't see her much after that.
She was always running around with Dick, doing crazy stuff. I was afraid she'd wind up dead.''
''What'd your folks do?'' Sloan asked.
''My dad worked for the post office-he had a rural route out of Turtle Lake.
They're both gone now.''
''Sorry,'' Sloan said. ''But you don't know anybody they might have run to?''
She shook her head: ''No. I didn't have anything to do with that bunch. I didn't have time-I was always working.''
''So how crazy is LaChaise?'' Lucas asked. ''His mother says he's gonna come after us.''
Sandy flipped her cowboy hat in her hands, as though she was making an estimate.
''Dick is… strange,'' she said, finally. ''He's rough, he was good-looking at one time, although… not so much now. He was wild. He attracted all the wild guys in the Seed, you'd hear about crazy stunts on his bike, or sleeping on the yellow line. He really did sleepon the yellow line once-on Highway 64, outside a tavern. Dead drunk, of course.''
''Do you think he'll come after us?'' Lucas asked.
''Are you worried?'' asked Sandy, curiously. The big guy didn't look like he'd worry.
''Some,'' Lucas said. '' 'Cause I don't know enough about him. And his wife and his sister-excuse me for saying this, I know Candy was your sister-the things they did were nuts.''
Sandy nodded. ''That's from Dick,'' she said. ''Dick is… he's like an angry, mean little boy. He'll do the craziest stuff, but then, later, he'll be sorry for it. He once got drunk and beat up a friend, and when he sobered up, he beat himself up. He got a two-by-two and hit himself in the face with it until people stopped him and took him to the hospital.''
''Jesus,'' Sloan said, looking at Lucas, impressed.
''But he can be charming,'' Sandy said. ''And you can shame him out of stuff.
Like a little boy. Unless he's drunk, then he's unstoppable.''
''You keep talking about drinking. Is he drunk a lot?''
''Oh, yeah,'' Sandy nodded. ''He's an alcoholic, no question. So are most of his friends. But Dick's not one of those guys who's drunk all the time-he'll go dry for a while, but then he'll go off on a toot and be crazy for two weeks.''
''Somebody cut this prison officer's throat while he was cuffed up and laying on the floor. You think LaChaise could do that?'' Lucas asked.
''He could if he was in one of his bad-boy moods,'' Sandy said. ''No question. I don't know if I'm getting this across- but when I say like a mean little boy, I mean just like that. He has tantrums, like fits. He scares everybody when he has one, because he's nuts, and because he's so strong. That's what's going on now: he's having one of his tantrums.''
''But a kid's tantrum only lasts a few minutes…''
''Well, Dick's can go on for a while. A week, or a couple of weeks.''
''Is that how he came to get involved in this murder over in Michigan? A tantrum?''
''Oh, no, he wasn't involved in that,'' she said. ''The cops framed him.''
Lucas and Sloan both glanced away from her at the same moment, and she smiled, just a bit. ''So you don't believe me-but they did,'' she said. ''I testified at the trial. There was this guy named Frank Wyatt, who killed another guy named
Larry Waters. The prosecution said that Waters stole some dope from Wyatt, and that Dick owned part of the dope-which he may have, I don't know. Anyway, the night that the dope was stolen, the prosecution said Dick and Wyatt got together at a tavern in Green Bay and talked about killing Waters.''
''That was the conspiracy,'' Lucas said.
''Yes.'' Sandy nodded. ''They had this informant. They let him off some dope charges for his testimony. He testified that he was at the tavern when Wyatt and
Dick talked. Wyatt shot Waters the next day.''
''And you say LaChaise wasn't at the tavern?'' Sloan asked.
''I know he wasn't,'' Sandy said. '' 'Cause he was at my place. I had a filly who broke a leg, shattered it. There was nothing we could do about it, the break couldn't be fixed, we had to put her down. I hate to do that; just hate it. Dick and Candy were in town, and I mentioned it to them. Dick said he'd take care of it, and he did. That was the night he was supposed to be in Green Bay. I had it written in ink on my income-tax calendar. In fact, Dick and Candy were there that whole week… But the jury didn't believe me. The prosecution said,
'She's his sister-in-law, she's just lying for him.' ''
''Well.'' Lucas looked at Sloan again, who shrugged, and Lucas said, ''We know it happens. You get some asshole- excuse me-who goes around wrecking people's lives, and you get a shot at him, and some cops'll take it.''
''Sort of like you took with Candy and Georgie?'' Sandy asked.
''We didn't cheat with Candy and Georgie,'' Lucas said, shaking his head. ''They went to the credit union to rob it- nobody made them do it, or suggested that they do it. They did it on their own hook: we were just watching them.''
She looked steadily at him, then nodded. ''All right,'' she said. ''If I was a cop, I'd have done the same thing.''
THEY TALKED FOR A FEW MORE MINUTES, BUT NOTHING developed that would help. Lucas and Sloan said good-bye to the sheriff and headed for the car.
''What do you think about Sandy Darling?'' Lucas asked as they skated down the sidewalk.
Sloan shook his head. ''I don't know. She's a tough one, and she's no dummy. But she was
scared.''
''The cops scared her,'' Lucas said. ''They were pushing her pretty hard.''
''Not scared that way,'' Sloan said. Lucas tossed him the car keys and Sloan popped the driver's-side door. ''She was scared like…''
They got in, and Sloan fired the car up, and after another moment, continued:
''… she was scared like she was afraid she'd make a mistake. Like she was making up a story, and was afraid we'd break it down. If she isn't involved, she doesn't need a story. But I felt like she was working on one.''
Lucas, staring out the window as they rolled through the small town, said,
''Huh.'' And then, ''You know, I kind of like her.''
''I noticed,'' Sloan said. ''That always makes them harder to arrest.''
Lucas grinned, and Sloan let the car unwind down the snaky road toward the I-94.
''We better take a little care,'' Lucas said finally. ''We'll get the word out, that we're looking for anybody asking about cops. And get some paper going on the guy, and his connections. Roust any assholes who might know him.''
''I've never had any comebacks,'' Sloan said. ''A few threats, nothing real.''
''I've had a couple minor ones,'' Lucas said, nodding.
''That's what you get for sneaking around in the weeds all those years,'' Sloan said. Then: ''Bet I beat your time going back.''
''Let me get my seat belt on,'' Lucas said.
LACHAISE STRETCHED OUT ON A BED, A SOFT MATTRESS for the first time in four years, and breathed the freedom. Or looseness. Later, he made some coffee, some peanut-butterand-Ritz-cracker sandwiches, listened to the radio. He heard five or six reports on his escape and the killing of Sand, excited country reporters with a real story. One said that police believed he might be on foot, and they were doing a houseby-house check in the town of Colfax.
That made him smile: they still didn't know how he'd gotten out.
He could hear the wind blowing outside the trailer, and after a while, he put on a coat and went outside and walked around. Took a leak in the freezing outhouse, then walked down to the edge of the woods and looked down a gully. Deer tracks, but nothing in sight. He could feel the cold, and he walked back to the trailer.
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