by Chuck Logan
Instead she aimed right between Carol Lennon's eyes.
Seeing the pistol bore in, Carol went limp as if overcome by shock and resignation. In that instant, Angel relaxed, took a breath . . .
But Carol uncoiled like a spring, kicking wildly at the gun hand, and screamed, "HELP, SOMEBODY, HELP!"
No one had fought back before.
Angel froze for an instant. In that pause, Carol windmilled both fists, knocking the gun hand askew.
Angel pulled the gun back in line with Carol's face—feral now, teeth bared, a grimace wrinkling her brow and cheeks like war paint—and jerked the trigger.
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!
The angry face spun away as a loud pain punctured Angel's ears. The three shots sounded like bombs going off. Then Angel got it. Silencer gone, ripped off in the struggle.
Carol was down, pitched forward on all fours. She struggled for one wobbly beat to push up, then collapsed. Angel knelt, picked up the medallion, and stuffed it in the wreckage of Carol face. Then Angel froze.
Very close, just on the other side of the fence, a man shouted, "What the hell . . . ?" Then, "Carol, Carol; you all right?" He had an adrenaline foghorn for a voice.
Not supposed to happen. Not.
Scrambling now, freeing the dangling silencer from the gun barrel. Hold on. Don't drop it. Christ, the spent cartridges? But there was no time. She dashed for the gate.
Footsteps. Rapid, scuffing in the alley, also headed for the gate.
Angel shrank back against the fence as a short thick man thrust open the gate and stepped into the illumination of the yard light. He wore shorts and a green tank top that rode up over his flab. At his waist, next to the tiny cell phone, Angel saw red dots on a ring of flab. Heat rash. And she realized that if she could see his rash, he could see her face.
She raised her left elbow in front of her head to hide her face and came around the gate swinging the clubbed pistol. Her left hand held the green plastic bottle. The half-blind swing landed with panic strength on the man's forehead. He pitched to his knees, waving his arms.
Angel felt his heat and sweat against her bare legs as she shoved past him. But she was out, in the alley, running fast. By the time she turned onto the street, she could hear him screaming, "Nineone-one? Yes, goddammit, this is life and death."
Oh, shit. The cell phone.
For the first time, it occurred to her that she could be caught.
Chapter Thirty-five
Now Mouse drove at a slow, almost solemn tempo. After dropping Harry off at St. Joseph's Hospital in St. Paul, he and Broker settled into their own thoughts. Broker had contracted a case of the Harry-Gloria blues, the main symptom being a heavy reluctance to follow through on the suspicions that Gloria Russell had convicted Ronald Dolman with a pistol when she couldn't get him in court; and that Harry had erred hugely on the side of omission. He stared at the green box of shell casings sitting on the pile of printouts in the foot well of Mouse's car. He had no interest in confronting Gloria Russell. Other people would have to do that.
He was done with this.
As if clairvoyant, Mouse picked up the theme. "I ain't going to pick her up for questioning. Uh-uh. Not me. John's back tonight. He can make that call. I mean, what have we really got? Some shell casings. Gloria's going to say, sure, they're from my gun—but my gun was stolen just before Dolman was whacked."
"And you still have two different things going on—Moros
wasn't killed with a thirty-eight; he was a twenty-two," Broker said.
"I hate this thing," Mouse said.
"Yeah, but you gotta get a warrant. You gotta at least look," Broker said.
"Yeah, I know." Mouse finally roused himself, pulled out his cell, and punched numbers.
"Where are you?" he asked when Benish answered the phone. "You're at home firing up the grill. Listen, Harry gave us some pretty compelling stuff on Gloria being the Saint. Yeah, I shit you not. Meet me at the shop. We're gonna need a warrant for her home, her car, her office, and anyplace else she might hide a thirtyeight-caliber Colt Detective Special. Get Lymon in gear and have him run a background check on Gloria purchasing the gun last summer. And put somebody on her place, try to get a line on her movements. We're going to want to talk to her." He paused. "Harry? He went . . . quietly. Yeah, give him a couple of days to come down; then we'll go out and take a statement."
They were coming through Lake Elmo, going northeast on Highway 5. Mouse's car radio grumbled occasionally, the volume turned down.
Broker reached down and pulled up the sheaf of printouts he'd taken from Harry's bag. He started to flip through them, then sat up straight and said, "Holy shit, Mouse."
"What?"
"This. Holy fuckin' shit! Lookit the top sheet—it's the complaint against Moros."
"Yeah?"
"And we got a real problem here because the second sheet is about someone taking pictures of a little girl putting on a bathing suit," Broker said.
"So?"
"A. J. Scott."
It took Mouse a second. "Our A. J. Scott from this morning?"
"Address checks," Broker said, tapping the sheet of paper.
"Jesus Fucking Christ!" Mouse pulled onto the shoulder and put the car in neutral. "We made some assumptions . . ."
Broker nodded. "Heart medication in his bathroom cabinet doesn't have to equal heart attack in his yard."
"There was no medallion," Mouse said.
"There was no mouth to find it in."
"Jesus, you're right. The dogs could have taken it," Mouse said. "And even if somebody shot Scott, how the fuck could you tell—"
"You better call Joe Timmer over at the ME and tell him to start looking for bullet holes in all that hamburger," Broker said.
"Two shootings in Stillwater in one week?" Mouse said, steering back on the road. "Give me a fucking break."
Five minutes later, they were swinging around the LEC, heading for the underground ramp, when the dispatcher's voice surged up out of the routine static: "Anyone in the vicinity of Beech Street, North Hill Stillwater. We have a possible fatal shooting and an armed suspect fleeing on foot. Address is six thirty-eight Beech."
Mouse hit the brakes and locked eyes with Broker.
"Get a name," Broker said.
Immediately, Mouse snatched his radio handset and keyed it: "One hundred, this is one oh six. Do you have a name on the victim?"
"Wait. Two cars talking. One oh six, go ahead."
"This is one oh six. Do you have a name on the victim?"
"Ah, wait. Everybody else shut up on the net. Two oh seven, come in."
"Two oh seven."
"Do you have an ID on the victim?"
"Ah, roger that. Carol Lennon. Schoolteacher, Timberry High."
"Let's get to that shooting," Broker said, holding up the printouts. "She's the fourth sheet."
When all hell breaks loose, women make the best dispatchers.
"Ten thirty-three, emergency traffic only. All units, shots fired in Stillwater, victim down . . ."
It had something to do with multitasking.
"Suspect fled west down Maple on foot from six thirty-eight Beech Street . . . suspect described as white female in dark running shorts and dark tank top." The dispatcher's voice strove for calm. "Use caution; suspect's got a gun."
It was ninety-nine dead-still degrees out, the humidity 82 percent. The surge of radio ten codes hot-wired the moisture in the air. A dozen cops leaned forward, stepped on the gas, and fired up their adrenaline jets. A computer program immediately set in motion the units nearest to the address. At the Washington County Comm Center, Dispatch—call sign one hundred—and the first cop on the scene worked on basic emergency first aid.
"Clear the airway, see if she's breathing. EMS en route."
"She ain't breathing, and there's something stuck in her mouth . . ."
Broker's fist slammed down on the dashboard. "Aw, shit!"
"Some kind of locket on a chain."
> Mouse loosened the safety strap on his holster and stepped on the gas. Lights and sirens. Broker put out his hand to steady himself on the dashboard as Mouse plunged into the summer traffic.
Broker's heart kept pace with the runaway cop radio rap.
"One hundred, two twelve is twenty-five on scene. Confirm ten seventy-two: Victim is DOA. Stop EMS. We want to keep the scene as clean as possible."
"Ten-four, all units copy—victim is dead. Use caution. Two twelve, one hundred. What about the neighbor?"
"He's got a lump on the head, but he's ambulatory; after questioning we'll run him to Lakeview emergency.
"Ten-four."
Mouse pushed the Crown Vic through a grid of residential blocks, toward the sound of sirens. He held his radio handset in his left hand. His right hand tapped on the computer keyboard.
"One hundred, one oh six, en route."
"Ten-four."
"Two twelve. One hundred. What's your status?"
"We got another one like the priest."
"Calm down out there."
Now they could hear the wolf pack sirens starting to gather in on the neighborhood. Mouse shook his head, tapped on his computer keys. "The only thing missing is a full moon," he said.
Broker noticed the display on Mouse's MDT screen flicker, bringing up a screen full of different color type. White lines of type blipped to blue lines. "What's going on?"
"This is the duty roster. White is off duty; blue is on duty. Guys are piling on." Mouse tapped one of the blue lines. "See, seven niner just logged in blue. That's Lymon. He's in ahead of us."
Cross streets named after trees: Linden, Laurel, Maple. Broker turned onto Beech. An ambulance from Lakeview. Six squads: two from Stillwater, two county, Oak Park Heights, and Bayport. Cops with flashlights working the lawn, the fence line. Light and movement and sound coming in from the adjoining streets, where more cops were cordoning the neighborhood. Stopping cars. Asking questions.
A Stillwater cop was standing on the front lawn of the address. He waved at Broker and Mouse. "In the back. In the back." They parked and ran to the back of the house.
Badge number two twelve, the Stillwater sergeant who was commanding the scene, leaned over a street map unfolded on
the hood of a squad. A county deputy held a flashlight on the map.
The sergeant nodded to Mouse and Broker as they walked up. "You hear? We got another one," he said. "And this time it's out in plain view. Still in her mouth." Then he opened the gate and pointed toward a well-lit solarium porch.
Carol Lennon lay sprawled on her back in front of a futon couch, starkly naked in the askew orange kimono.
The sergeant went on, "The neighbor found her facedown, he was talking to nine-one-one, he turned her over to try CPR."
Her eyes were stuck open, exaggerated by blood from the wound in her face that had pooled in the eye sockets. The elbow and the wrist of one arm were twisted at an unnatural angle of stress. Shards of shattered wineglass sparkled on the floor.
Broker could see a long swirl of dark hair soaking in a wide pool of blood on the terra-cotta tiles. A tall snake plant was tipped over, the hairy roots exposed, the long green blades bordered with blood.
The sergeant pointed to the stocky man in shorts and a lime tank top who was holding a gauze pad to his forehead. "He's the nextdoor neighbor. Charlie Ash. He was out watering his lawn and heard shots and breaking glass. So he came to investigate and the shooter whacked him in the head when he came through the gate."
The guy nodded. "I went to check Carol, like the nine-one-one operator told me, and I turned her over to, you know, clear the airway, and she had this thing in her mouth."
"We heard," Mouse said.
"Where do you want us?" Broker asked.
The sergeant drew a semicircle on the map with his finger encompassing the area west of their present location. "We're clamping off everything to the west and stopping anyone moving on the streets or driving out of the cordon." He turned to the neighbor. "You're sure this was a female?"
The guy nodded wearily. "Even with blood in my eye, I noticed she was pretty built from behind. Definitely a female."
"So we're looking for a female, dark shorts, dark sports top," the sergeant said.
A county deputy approached with a big black-and-tan shepherd on a leash.
"Good, we can get a track started," the sergeant said. The he stuck his head in the squad and keyed his radio. "One hundred, two twelve. Status on the state police helicopter?"
"Trooper nine is airborne. ETA fifteen minutes."
"Ten-four."
A squall of voices competed in the static.
"All units not directly involved in perimeter go to alternate channel . . ."
Then out of a jitter of static: "One hundred, seven niner. Woman running north on McKusick, along the lake." The voice sounded agitated, as if it was spinning in a washing machine.
The radio channel went dead silent.
Mouse said, "Lymon."
Broker nodded, recognizing the shaken voice.
"Leaving the car. Won't stop. Told her to halt. Just turned off the path and ducked into trees north end of the lake. Will pursue on foot."
"Take the mobile, take the mobile," Mouse said, gritting his teeth.
"What?" Broker asked.
Mouse hunched over the map, tapped his finger, and said, "I know exactly where he's at. The lake ends here, and then there's this swamp. He's chasing her down this wooded finger that runs in between." Mouse bit his lip. "It gets real fucked in there, broken ground, this woods on the other side of the lake before you get to this single windy street."
Broker saw the problem. Lymon was chasing someone into a
marshy woods in the dark. And it sounded like he didn't take his mobile radio. Broker also sensed that most of the squads converging on the area, which had started to set up a perimeter, now were bolting toward the lake.
The radio squawked a confirmation: "Gimme a cross street on McKusick . . ."
"Which end of the Lake . . . ?"
The cops were talking at once, stepping on their transmissions. A cluster was taking shape in the night.
The sergeant reached in his car and grabbed his handset. "Units on perimeter, it's tricky in there, no through streets; you have to swing around east end of lake. Copy?
"Ten-four."
"I gotta stay here, wait for John," Mouse said.
The sergeant nodded, barked to the Stillwater cop blocking the gate. "Terry, go in around the other side of the lake and see if you can get ahead of this goddamn footrace."
The cop nodded and started toward his car.
"You going or staying?" Mouse said to Broker.
Broker pointed to the Stillwater cop, followed him, and piled in his car. Lights, no siren, they raced around the lake. Broker saw in detail the difficult terrain Mouse had warned about. The solitary curving road they drove down had few streetlights. And the houses dissolved into darkness. The street ended in a cul-de-sac.
"I don't like this," said Terry, the Stillwater cop. "Only a couple of streets on this side, and they wind all over."
"Lymon's in there, no radio," Broker said, squinting into the darkness. "Person he's chasing could be armed and maybe just killed somebody."
They got out of the car and walked between the houses. Immediately the ground slanted downhill in a jumble of treacherous footing.
"I don't know," Terry said, slapping his long-handled flashlight against his palm. To turn it on was to give away their position. So he strained to see in the dark. Then he cupped his hands to his ears, listening.
Broker figured there were twenty cops on the scene now, and like him, they were bracing for a melee of shooting in the dark. He and Terry edged to the extreme limit of the yard.
"Now what?" Terry said.
"We wait and listen, maybe—" Broker was cut off by a yell about one hundred yards ahead of them.
"Halt. Police. Halt. Police."
A flashlight s
tabbed the darkness. Immediately, Broker and Terry started into the broken ground, feeling their way toward the commotion.
"No, no." A gasping hysterical female voice.
"They got her," Terry said; then he switched on his flashlight and crashed forward into the dark. Broker followed at a much more cautious pace.