Lucas Davenport Novels 6-10

by John Sandford

  “Cold,” Martin grunted, coming back from his bedroom. He was wearing his camo parka.

  “Better for us, since they plastered pictures of me and Butters all over hell,” LaChaise said. “Less people on the street.”

  “Nothing must’ve happened with Ansel. They’d be going on all channels if he’d done something.”

  “Maybe backed off,” LaChaise said. “Maybe nothin’ there.”

  Martin looked at Sandy: “You ready?”

  “I’m not sure about this,” she said. “If somebody sees us . . .”

  “We’re just gonna ride around,” LaChaise said. “Maybe go to a drive-through and get some Egg Mc-Muffins or something.”

  “Gonna be light soon,” Martin said.

  BUTTERS GOT BACK to the house and saw the snow-free spot where Martin’s truck had been parked, and the tracks leading away. Hadn’t been gone for more than a couple of minutes, he thought: wonder what’s going on? He parked Sandy’s truck over the same spot and went inside. A note in the middle of the entry floor said, “Cabin fever. Gone an hour. We’ll check back.”

  Butters shook his head: Cabin fever wasn’t a good enough reason to go out. Of course, he’d been out. Still. LaChaise had once saved his life, LaChaise was as solid a friend as Butters had ever known . . . but nobody had ever claimed that he was a genius.

  WHEN LUCAS ARRIVED at the parking lot off university and Lexington, the St. Paul cops were putting together the entry team under a lieutenant named Allport. Four plainclothes Minneapolis cops, all from homicide or vice, were standing around the lot, watching the St. Paul guys getting set.

  Allport spotted Lucas and walked over to shake hands: “How’re you doing?”

  “Anything we can do to help?”

  Allport shook his head. “We got it under control.” He paused. “A couple of your guys were pretty itchy to go in with us.”

  “I’ll keep them clear,” Lucas said. “Maybe we could sit out on the perimeter.”

  Allport nodded: “Sure. We’re a little thin on the ground ’cause we’re moving fast. We want to get going before we have too many people on the street.” He looked up into the sky, which seemed as dark as ever with snow clouds. But dawn was coming: you couldn’t see it on the horizon, but there was more light around. “Why don’t you take your guys up on the east side, up on Grotto. You’ll be a block off the house, you can get down quick if something happens.”

  “You got it,” Lucas said. “Thanks for letting us in.”

  “So let’s go,” Allport said.

  Lucas rounded up the Minneapolis cops: “There’ll be two squads on Grotto, which is a little thin. We’ll want to spread out along the street. St. Paul will bring us in as soon as the entry team pops the place.”

  A sex cop named Lewiston said, “St. Paul don’t have a lot of guys out here.”

  “There’s a time problem,” Lucas said. “They want to get going before they have too many civilians on the street.”

  Lewiston nodded, accepting the logic, but Stadic said, “I wish we were doing the entry. These fuckin’ shitkickers . . .”

  Lucas grinned and said, “Hey.” Then: “We don’t even know if it’s anything. Could be bullshit.”

  The entry team left, followed by the other cops in squads and their personal cars, a morose procession down through the narrow streets of Frogtown, staying two blocks from the target, walking in the last block.

  STADIC HUNG BACK as they walked, his shotgun under his arm. He’d been caught up in the rush around the office, when word got back that Davenport’s source might have something. Now he was worried: if they got tight on the house, they just might pull some people out of it alive . . .

  Davenport pushed on ahead, walking fast with two other Minneapolis cops. This was his first chance, and probably his last: Stadic stepped behind a dying elm, took his cellular from his pocket and pushed the speed-dial button.

  “Yeah?” LaChaise answered in two seconds, as though he’d been holding the phone.

  “Get out of there,” Stadic rasped. “There’s a St. Paul entry team coming in right now. Go out the back, go east, they’re thin up there. Get out.”

  After a second of silence, LaChaise said, “We ain’t there.”

  “What?”

  “We’re in the truck. Where’re you at?”

  “Old house in St. Paul, north of the freeway a few blocks . . . If that’s your place, you stay away. I can’t talk, I gotta go.”

  He heard LaChaise say “Shit” and then Stadic turned the phone off and hurried to catch the others.

  BUTTERS HAD WALKED up the stairs toward the bathroom when he glanced out a back window and saw the man dart through the streetlight a block over. The motion was quick, but heavy. Not a jogger, a soldier. He knew instantly that the cops were at the door.

  He was still wearing his camo parka. He ran light-footedly down the stairs to the hall, where Martin had stacked the weapons in an open hall closet, out of sight but easy to get to. Butters grabbed the AR-15, already loaded, and four loaded magazines. He jammed the mags in his pocket and jacked a shell into the chamber and kept going, right to the back door.

  The rear of the house was still dark, and he listened for a moment. He couldn’t hear anything, but the door was the place they’d come. He turned back, crossed the house to the darker side away from the back door, went into Martin’s bedroom, and tried a window. Jammed. He went to the next, turning the twist lock, lifting it. There was a vague tearing sound as old paint ripped away; the smell of it tickled his nose, but he had been quiet enough, he thought. The old-fashioned storm windows opened behind some kind of withered, leafless bush. He looked out, saw nobody, pushed open the storm window and peeked. Still nothing, too dark. He took a breath and snaked over the windowsill into the snow behind the hedge.

  The snow crunched beneath his weight where dripping water from the eaves had stippled the surface with ice. He lay still for a moment, listening. Listening was critical in the dark: he’d spent weeks in tree stands, turning his head to the tweaks and rustles of the early morning, the deer moving back to bedding areas, the foxes and coyotes hunting voles, the wood ducks crunching through dried-out oak leaves, the trees defrosting themselves in the early sun, the grass springing up in the morning. Ansel Butters had heard corn grow; and now he heard footsteps in the snow, coming from the back, and then more, from the front.

  Butters went down the side of the house, listening to the crunch of feet coming in: they wouldn’t hear him, he decided. They were making too much noise on their own, city people in the snow, carrying heavy weapons. He went left, to the house next door, pressed himself against its weathered siding. Trying to see, trying to hear . . .

  And here they came, through the backyard, three or four of them, he thought. Staying low, he moved to the corner of the house, then around it, to the east. He really had no choice about which way to go . . .

  The loudspeaker came like a thunderbolt:

  “Halt. By the house, freeze . . .”

  And he thought, Night scope. Before the last words were out, he fixed on the position of the men coming up from the back.

  He could sense the motion.

  Butters ran sideways and fired a long, ripping burst across the group, thirty rounds pounding downrange, his face flashing in the muzzle flash like a wagon spoke in a strobe light.

  The return fire was short of him, of where he had been. Moving all the time, he punched out the magazine and slammed in another, looking for muzzle flashes, squirting quick three- and four-shot bursts at them, more to suppress than to hit.

  And still the return fire was short . . .

  Then he was behind a garage; he sensed something in front of him and slowed just in time. He touched and then vaulted a four-foot chain-link fence, crossed a yard, went over the next fence, pushed through a hedge, scratching his face, took another fence, then another, heard garbage cans crashing behind him, screams, another burst of gunfire which went somewhere else, more screams.

/>   He could hear himself breathing, gasping for air, trying to remember about how many shells would be left; he thought maybe six or eight, plus the third magazine in his pocket.

  He felt good, he was moving, operating, he was on top of it.

  Heading east.

  THE LOUDSPEAKER AND the gunfire took them by surprise, Lucas and the other cops standing behind cars, talking quietly among themselves. They stiffened, turned, guns coming out, men crouching behind cars. Then radios began talking up and down the block, and Lucas, running to a St. Paul squad, said, “What? What?”

  “Shit, one of them’s out, he’s maybe coming this way,” a patrol sergeant said.

  Lucas ran back toward his own people, touched them, “Watch it, watch it, he could be coming . . .”

  Butters ran hard as he could, made it to the end of the block, passed between two houses, and in the dark space between them, ran almost headlong into a small tree. The blow knocked him down, but he held on to the rifle. Blood trickled into his mouth, and the sting told him that he’d cut his lip, probably badly. He crawled toward the street, gathered himself.

  Across the way, he could hear people talking; more gathered behind him. He had no choice. He slapped the magazine once to make sure it was seated, and ran out into the street.

  There: a cop—someone—dead ahead, behind a squad car, not much to see, turning toward him, crouching, hand coming up . . .

  Butters, still running, fired a burst at the cop behind the car, saw him go down.

  Another cop opened up from his right, then a third, and then he was hit: a stinging blow, as if somebody had struck his bare butt with a hickory switch. He knew what it was, and even as he returned the fire he passed through the line of cars, and cops were firing into each other as they tried to get him, men spilling themselves into the snow to get away from the bullets, others screaming . . .

  And Butters ran.

  A house, straight ahead, with lights on. And there was some pain now, more than an ache, more like a fire, in his thigh. He ran up four steps of the porch of the lighted house, to a stone-faced entry and an almost full-length glass pane in the front door. He fired a short burst at the glass, blew it out, and went through the door.

  A man in pajamas stood at the bottom of a stairway; a woman stood at the top, looking down.

  Butters pointed the gun at the woman and screamed at her: “Get down here.”

  And a kid yelled, “What? What’s going on? Mom?”

  LUCAS SAW HIM coming, down to the right. He fired twice, thought he might have hit him once, but the man was very fast, and ran in an odd, broken, jerky two-step that made him hard to track, especially with the bad light. The man fired a burst and Lucas felt a hard, scratching rip at his hairline, not hard, like a slug, but ripping, like a frag. Then Butters went through the line of cops and Lucas could see muzzle flashes coming at him and he dropped, screaming, “Hold it, Jesus . . .”

  And when the firing stopped, he lurched up on his elbows in time to see Butters sprint up the porch steps, and the muzzle flash from the gun as he went through the glass door . . .

  “Around back, somebody around back,” Lucas shouted.

  Two St. Paul cops, frozen by the fire, broke toward the side of a nearby house, heading toward the back, and Lucas and another Minneapolis cop—Lewiston—moved in toward the porch.

  “Take him?” Lewiston asked.

  “Get in tight,” Lucas said. “Let’s . . .”

  “You’re hit,” Lewiston said. “There’s blood running out of your head.”

  “Just cut myself, I think,” Lucas said. “You go right . . .”

  BUTTERS POINTED THE AR-15 at the woman on the stairs and screamed, “Get down here.”

  And then the kid called, “Mom?”

  The woman shouted, “Jim, go back in your room. Jimmy . . .”

  Butters couldn’t think. His leg was on fire, and the man in the pajamas was frozen, the woman was yelling at the kid: a car rolled by outside and he turned, looked that way, couldn’t see anything. The woman was shouting at the kid and Butters yelled at her, “Get your ass down here, goddamnit, or I’ll fuck your old man up . . .”

  He pointed the gun at the pajama man and the woman came down the stairs, red-faced, terrified, watching his eyes. She wore a flannel nightgown, and something about it, the nightgown, the man’s pajamas . . .

  Then the kid came to the head of the stairs. He was wearing a T-shirt and Jockey shorts, skinny bare legs, and he looked frightened and his hair stood up where his head had been on a pillow.

  And Butters remembered: the winter the cops came, and they got his mother and his old man out of bed, and Butters had come to the stairs in his shorts, just like this . . . He remembered the fear, and the guns the cops wore on their hips, and the way his old man seemed to crawl to them, because of the guns, and his mother’s fear . . . They stank of it. He stank of it.

  And all of this was exactly the same, but he had the gun.

  “Don’t hurt us,” the woman said.

  “Fuck this,” Butters said.

  He popped the magazine from the rifle, slapped in the third full one, checked to make sure that the half-empty one was ready, easy to reach in his pocket.

  “You go back to bed, kid,” he said.

  He ran straight out the door, across the porch, at the two cop cars that were parked up the street to the right. There were two men close by, one left, one right, and the one to the right looked familiar and he decided to take that one.

  He turned toward Lucas and raised the rifle, and saw Lucas’s gun hand coming up but knew that he was a quarter-inch ahead . . .

  STADIC WAS COMING up the middle, but was still thirty yards out, when Butters came through the door. Davenport and Lewiston were too close to the porch, and below it, to see Butters as he came through, but Stadic, back in the dark, had just enough time to set his feet and lift the shotgun.

  Butters turned toward Davenport, the gun coming up. Davenport reacted in a fraction of a second, and maybe an entire lifetime, behind Butters. The shotgun reached out, a cylinder of flame, reached almost to Butters’s face, it seemed.

  And blew it off.

  Butters went down like an empty sack.

  THE COPS ALL around froze, like a stuck videotape. After one second, they started moving again. Radios scratching the background. Everything, Stadic thought, moving in slow motion. Moving toward Butters, Davenport looking at him . . .

  “Man,” Davenport said. “He had me. You saved my ass.”

  And Davenport clapped him on the shoulder. Back in the furthest recess of his numbed mind, Stadic thought: That’s two.

  LUCAS CLAPPED THE wide-eyed Stadic on the shoulder and then ran down the block toward the car where a cop had been hit. Lucas had seen him go down in the flash of fire from Butters, a fact stored in the back of his head until he could do something about it.

  At that moment, a helicopter swept overhead, pivoted around in a tight circle, and they were bathed in light. A cameraman was sitting in the open door, filming the scene in the street.

  Two St. Paul cops reached the downed man just as Lucas did. Lucas knelt: the man had been hit in the head, and the top of his skull was misshapen. There was blood out of his nose and ears, and his eyes were dilated, but still moving.

  “Gotta take him, can’t wait for an ambulance,” Lucas shouted at one of the St. Paul cops. “Get him in the car . . .”

  Together they picked up the wounded man and put him in the backseat of a squad; one of the St. Paul cops got in the back with the wounded man, and the driver took off, the back doors flapping like big ears as he turned the corner, followed by the lights from the chopper.

  “Jesus Christ, get the fuckin’ chopper out of here,” Lucas yelled at another of the St. Paul cops, a sergeant. “Get them out of here.”

  The sergeant was leaning against the hood of a squad, and he suddenly turned, head down, and vomited into the street. Lucas started away, thinking now: the house. More people coming
in? What happened down there?

  Then the sergeant said, “We just never had a chance to say anything . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah . . .” And he ran back down the street to the body of the shooter. Butters’s face had been obliterated by the shotgun. He was gone.

  All right—the house.

  He stood, and stepped that way, and saw more running figures, cops, coming in. Another St. Paul lieutenant, a patrol officer, one he didn’t recognize.

  “What happened . . . ?”

  “Got him, and we got one of your men shot. He’s bad, he’s on his way in.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “What happened at the house?”

  “Jesus Christ, who got hit?” The lieutenant looked around crazily. “Who’s hurt?”

  “The house, the house,” Lucas said. “What happened?”

  “Empty. Nobody there. Guns,” the lieutenant said.

  “Shit.”

  The lieutenant ran down to the patrol sergeant, who’d stopped vomiting, and was standing shakily against the hood of the squad. “Who was it, Bill, who was it?”

  LUCAS LOOKED DOWN at Butters. Gone.

  He squatted, felt under Butters’s butt. The dead man kept his wallet on the left. Lucas lifted it out, opened it, started riffling through the paper: a Tennessee driver’s license, current. The picture was right.

  Stadic came around the car, his eyes wide, staring at the dead man. “I hope I just, I hope I just . . .”

  “You did perfect,” Lucas said. Lewiston came up, and Lucas said, “You okay?”

  “Fine. Freaked out.”

  “Why don’t you run Andy into Ramsey?” Lucas suggested.