Storm Prey Part 8

But he was scared.

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THE NOOGIE made her laugh, at least a bit, and then Lucas went off to talk to the cops again, leaving her, and suddenly, for the first time in years, she flashed back to a winter day with a motorcycle crazy named d.i.c.k LaChaise, at Hennepin General Hospital in Minneapolis.

LaChaise and two killer friends had come to town looking for Lucas, because Lucas had led a major crimes squad that had killed LaChaise's wife and sister during a bank robbery. LaChaise had taken Weather hostage at the hospital. Lucas had come to negotiate in person, to talk LaChaise out of killing her.

At least, that's what Weather had thought, and LaChaise, too.

But as soon as LaChaise moved the muzzle of his pistol an inch from Weather's skull, a concealed sniper had shot him in the head. Weather went down, covered with blood, brains, and fragments of skull.

She hadn't been able to stay with Lucas after that; it had taken years to get back. But they had had gotten back, and now here was another motorcycle hoodlum coming for her on the highway, and suddenly she was there again, in the hallway, and LaChaise's head was exploding behind her ... gotten back, and now here was another motorcycle hoodlum coming for her on the highway, and suddenly she was there again, in the hallway, and LaChaise's head was exploding behind her ...

"No." She shook it off.

She might flash back again, she thought, but she wasn't having it, this time. She'd worked all through it. LaChaise was dead, and this had nothing to do with d.i.c.k LaChaise or Lucas Davenport.

Lucas touched her on the shoulder. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah."

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I suddenly got scared," she said. "Before, I was too busy to be scared."

CAPPY SWORE and tried to grab the gun, fumbled it, then heard the scream of an angry engine, looked back, and realized that the b.i.t.c.h was coming after him. He hit the accelerator, felt the rush as the front wheel lifted free, cut down a center line and was gone. He watched her lights and saw her swerve left, and she was gone up the off-ramp. He took the next one, quick right at the top, then a left, down through the dark streets, careful about the leftover snow, and the black ice at intersections. Three blocks from Central High School, four minutes after he made the attempt on Weather, he stuck the bike between a couple of parked cars, walked a crooked route down to Central, watching his trail, to where Joe Mack was waiting in his van.

"Missed," Cappy said, climbing into the pa.s.senger seat. "b.i.t.c.h saw me and came after me with her car. G.o.dd.a.m.n near ran me down. I lost the f.u.c.kin' gun."

Mack stretched his neck, looking out of the van in all directions: "You're clean? n.o.body's behind you?"

"Nah, that part went fine. Dropped the bike, walked away, n.o.body saw my face with the scarf and all."

"The gun ..."

"Gun's clean, too. Hated to lose it, though. I needed that gun. I never fired a shot. I dunno."

Two minutes and they were back on I-94, headed east. Joe Mack said, "I'm thinking about going over to Eddie's. You know? Got some guys who'll say I've been around for a couple weeks, had the haircut all the time."

"Yeah?" Cappy wasn't too interested. He was thinking about what had happened; the lack of respect. And he'd noticed the alcohol that Joe Mack was breathing all over him: that didn't seem right. Your pickup guy shouldn't be getting drunk.

He said, "That b.i.t.c.h tried to run me down. I was coming beside her, running good, and all of a sudden, she like, jukes into my lane. I G.o.dd.a.m.n near ran up her tailpipe. I got only one hand on the handbar, and I freak and I drop the gun, but I get back on top of the bike and the next thing I know, she's about six feet behind me and coming for me. What kind of b.i.t.c.h is that?"

"The thing about Eddie's is, you know, you ever been in f.u.c.kin' Green Bay?"

"I oughta kill the b.i.t.c.h for free, after that," Cappy said.

"What?"

Cappy looked at him and realized that Joe was dead drunk. "Pull over," he said. "Let me drive."

CAPPY DROVE back to his room, in an old house in St. Paul Park, and Joe said he was fine, took the keys and headed back to Cherries. Lyle was waiting in the back.

"No go," Joe Mack said. He told Cappy's story, then shook his head. "I think we made a mistake bringing Cappy into it. If this chick talks to the cops, they'll be looking at bikers. Before, they weren't looking at bikers. If they start showing her pictures, I might turn up."

Lyle Mack said, "I didn't think of that."

Joe Mack said, "You know, maybe we're not smart enough to pull this off. Maybe we oughta run on down to Mexico for a couple years."

Lyle Mack looked around at the bar: "But what'd we do with Cherries?"

Joe Mack said, "I don't know. Once, you said, we maybe should sell it to Honey Bee. On paper. You know, to keep our names out of it. Maybe--"

"Aw, man. We gotta do better'n that." Lyle c.o.c.ked an ear to the front room, where "Long Haired Country Boy" was booming out of the jukebox. "How could we leave this?"

A SNOW FLURRY had just crossed the Mississippi when Virgil showed up. He got out of his truck and a squad car pulled to the side of the street and two cops rolled out, and Lucas stuck his head through the front door and yelled, "He's good."

The cops waved and moved on. Virgil, watching them go, said, "Heavy."

Virgil was a tall man, nearly as tall as Lucas, but wiry, with shoulder-length blond hair like a surfer's. Lucas, on the other hand, was heavy through the shoulders, and dark.

Virgil lifted a duffel bag out of the truck and came up, and Lucas stepped out on the porch. "They sent a guy after her on a Yamaha sport bike," he said. "St. Paul found it ditched off Snelling Avenue. He picked her up right at the hospital, so they must have a spotter inside. He had a handgun that fires .410 sh.e.l.ls. The idea was to pull up beside her and put the barrel one inch from the window and blow her out the other side of the car."

"Who's the owner of the bike?"

"A guy ... d.i.c.k Morris. St. Paul checked him out. He says the bike was stolen from his garage while he was at work, and the St. Paul guys believe him. He's pretty straight, a business guy--he seemed pretty scared when he found out what was going on. He rides with a couple clubs, lots of people knew about his bike."

"The shooter who came after Weather would have to be a good rider," Virgil said. "Good rider with a good bike gun, who knew what he was doing."

Lucas said, "I think so."

"You had some trouble with the Seed," Virgil said. "Weather was involved."

"A long time ago," Lucas said. "And this gun came out of California."

"Still."

Lucas thought about it, and then said, "It's the robbery. I doubt they even know who she is. Still, could be a Seed guy with the gun. They've got some kind of deal with the Angels, they've been coming across the river."

The Bad Seed was a Wisconsin club, originally out of Green Bay and Milwaukee; the Angels dominated the Twin Cities.

"All those guys are getting old, they're merging," Virgil said. "I've seen Banditos over on the West Side, riding with their colors."

"Hmm. Don't think we need to bother Weather about it," Lucas said. And, "You got your gun?"

Virgil smiled. "I knew you were going to ask." He patted his side. "Right here, boss. And I got a twelve-gauge in the truck. I'll get it later."

As they went back inside, Lucas asked, "You know what she did? After she saw the gun?"

"What?"

"Tried to run his a.s.s down," Lucas said.

"Semper fi," Virgil said.

INSIDE, LUCAS introduced Virgil to Marcy Sherrill, who'd stopped to talk about the attempt on Weather. "She's a deputy chief over in Minneapolis," Lucas said.

They shook hands and Virgil said, "Yeah, we met a few years ago--the Yellow Peril thing," Virgil said. "Don't know if you remember. I was working with Jim Locke, before he retired."

"I remember," Marcy said. "Jeez, that must have been six or eight years ago."

Lucas said, "I don't remember--"

"I think that was after you got kicked off the force, and before you came back," Marcy said. "Some a.s.shole ..."

"Louis Barney," Virgil said.

"Yeah--Louis X. Barney ... He stole a bunch of five-gallon cans of methanol from some race-car guy's garage. He told the judge that he just thought it was alcohol. And he figures what the heck, the winos wouldn't know any different. He blended it with pineapple juice and started selling it on the street. We had four people go blind, and two people die, before we caught him."

Virgil: "Wonder if he's out yet?"

"He got twenty years ... but I think that was under the old two-thirds rule ... so not yet, but he's getting close."

"Pretty stiff, for a semi-accident," Lucas said.

"The judge didn't believe him," Marcy said. "Barney was a drunk himself, but he he didn't drink any of it." didn't drink any of it."

WEATHER CAME IN, carrying a coffeepot, followed by the housekeeper with a tray full of cookies, and Weather kissed Virgil on the forehead and messed up his hair, and said, "Your nose looks fine." And to Marcy: "The last time I saw him, he had this big aluminum thing on his nose. From a fight."

"I read about it," Marcy said. "The buried car thing."

"How you doin'?" Virgil asked Weather.

"I've been thinking about it, and thinking about it, and thinking about it," Weather said. "You know what? I can't can't think about it. I've got too much to think about already, with this operation. So I'm not going to pay any attention to it. I'm going to let you guys take care of me." think about it. I've got too much to think about already, with this operation. So I'm not going to pay any attention to it. I'm going to let you guys take care of me."

"Good plan," Marcy said. "If they come again, we'll get one. Could break it for us."

"They spotted her in the hospital. Somebody in the hospital set it up," Lucas said.

"I think so," Marcy said. "We're putting hammerlocks on everybody. We're pus.h.i.+ng it--we've pulled people off about everything else."

"So there's no reason for me to jump in," Lucas said.

She smiled at him. "Nope. No reason at all."

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As THEY were shutting down for the night, with the kids asleep and the housekeeper in her apartment, Weather already gone back to the bedroom, Virgil was jacking triple-ought sh.e.l.ls into his twelve-gauge and he said to Lucas, "There is is a good reason for you to jump in. You're the second smartest cop in Minnesota. They can always use more of that." a good reason for you to jump in. You're the second smartest cop in Minnesota. They can always use more of that."

"I'm always a little sensitive around Marcy," Lucas said. "She used to work for me, you know."

Virgil snorted. He knew about their history.

"Hey..."

"The point remains," Virgil said. "Never hurts to have a little more IQ on the job. Fortunately, you got me."

IN THE WINTER, Weather slept in a variety of ankle-length flannel nightgowns, and on really cold nights, she wore socks, even though it was no colder in the bedroom on really cold nights than on halfway-cold nights. When Lucas got back to the bedroom, she was wearing a man's wife-beater unders.h.i.+rt that clung to her body and was low-cut enough to show the rim of her nipples at the top; and white bikini underpants.

Lucas said, "Oh, G.o.d. I'm so tired, too."

"Poor baby," she said. "Let me help you with your s.h.i.+rt."

Another thing that Lucas liked about Weather, right from the start, was that when it came to s.e.x, she knew what she wanted, and how to get it, and one thing she didn't didn't want was excuses. So they rolled across the bed, talking and sometimes laughing, stroking this, pulling on that, and Weather wound up on top, straddling his hips, and said, like she might say to an overanxious horse, "Steady, boy," and "Whoa, slow down," and "Easy, there," and she rode up and down and up and down, chewing her lower lip, still wearing the s.h.i.+rt, but now rolled up above her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, moving like she wanted to, until she got to the o.r.g.a.s.m part, and then she made a sound like a tiny steam whistle from a miniature paddle-wheel boat, urgently signaling a need for more firewood, Ooo, Ooo, Ooo, Ooooooo ... want was excuses. So they rolled across the bed, talking and sometimes laughing, stroking this, pulling on that, and Weather wound up on top, straddling his hips, and said, like she might say to an overanxious horse, "Steady, boy," and "Whoa, slow down," and "Easy, there," and she rode up and down and up and down, chewing her lower lip, still wearing the s.h.i.+rt, but now rolled up above her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, moving like she wanted to, until she got to the o.r.g.a.s.m part, and then she made a sound like a tiny steam whistle from a miniature paddle-wheel boat, urgently signaling a need for more firewood, Ooo, Ooo, Ooo, Ooooooo ...

Then, after a few moments of lying with her head on his chest, with some aftershocks, she said, "Okay, go ahead. Pay no attention if I look at my watch."

"You're in no shape to read a watch, even if you were wearing one," Lucas said, rolling her onto her back. "Brace yourself, Bridget ..."

When they were done, she asked, "You think it's a bad sign when you're funny when you're having s.e.x?"

"Depends on what you're laughing at," Lucas said. "That wouldn't apply to myself, of course."

"I'm serious."