her side and she took a long, harsh, rattling breath.
''Hold on, hold on,'' he screamed, and he ran back to the phone and dialed 911 and shouted into it--was told later that he shouted. He remembered himself talking coldly, quietly, and so he listened to the tape and heard himself screaming . . .
LACHAISE WAS BLEEDING.
He drove the truck, looking at himself in the rearview mirror. Shrapnel cuts on the face, agony in his side. He was holding his side with his hand, and when he looked at his hand, it was wet with blood. ''Motherfucker . . .'' he groaned.
A spasm of fear seized his heart. Was he dying? Was this how it would end, with this pain, in the snow?
A cop car went screaming past, lights blazing, then another, then an ambulance. Hit somebody, he thought, with a thread of satisfaction. God, it hurt . . .
The man must have been Capslock himself; and he was fast with a gun, blindingly fast. And what had he screamed? He'd screamed LaChaise . . .
So they knew.
LaChaise looked into the rearview mirror.
He was bleeding . . .
Chapter Eight.
LUCAS WAS ON THE WEST SIDE OF MINNEAPOLIS, PUSHING the Explorer up an I-394 entrance ramp, when a dispatcher shouted, ''Somebody shot Capslock's wife,'' and a second later, Del patched through: ''LaChaise shot Cheryl.''
''What?'' Lucas was on the ramp, moving faster. To his right, an American flag as big as a bedsheet fluttered in the gloom. ''Say that again.''
''LaChaise shot Cheryl . . .'' From behind Del's voice, Lucas could hear a jumble of noise: voices, highway sounds, a siren. Del seemed to be out of breath, gasping at his radio.
''Where are you?'' Lucas asked.
''Ambulance. We're going into Hennepin.'' Now the words were tumbling out, like a coke-fired rap. ''I saw him, man. LaChaise. I shot at him. I don't know if I hit him or not. He's gone.''
''What about Cheryl?''
''She's hit, she's hit . . .'' Del was shouting; several words came through garbled, then he said, ''It's our wives, man; he's going after the families. Eye for an eye . . .''
Weather.
She'd be in the clinic, doing minor patch-up work on postop patients. The fear caught Lucas by the throat; Del said something else, but he missed it, and then Del was gone.
The dispatcher blurted, ''We lost him, he closed down.''
''I'm going to the U Hospitals. I want Sherrill, Franklin, Sloan and Kupicek on the line now ,'' Lucas said. He fumbled a cellular phone out of an armrest box and punched the speeddial button for Weather. A secretary answered, then transferred him to the clinic, where another secretary, bored, said Weather was busy with a patient.
''This is Deputy Chief Lucas Davenport of the Minneapolis Police Department and this is an emergency and I want her on the line immediately ,'' Lucas shouted. ''GET HER.''
Then Franklin came back through Dispatch: he was in the office.
''Get your wife and kid and go someplace until we know what's happening,'' Lucas said.
''The kid's in school . . .''
''Just get them,'' Lucas said. ''Have you seen Sloan?''
''I think I just saw him goin' in the can . . .''
''Tell him. Get his wife, get out someplace. Anywhere. Get lost, but stay in touch . . .''
''You think . . .'' ''
Move it , goddamnit.'' Lucas was stomping the gas pedal, trying to get more speed out of the Explorer.
Weather came up: ''I'm on my way there,'' Lucas said. He took fifteen seconds to tell her what had happened: ''Get out of the clinic and stay away from your office,'' he said. ''Tell the secretary where you'll be. I'll stop and see her when I get there.''
''Lucas, I've got things to do, I've got a guy with a skin cancer . . .''
''Fuck the clinic,'' he snapped, his voice a rasp. ''Gosomeplace where you're not supposed to be, and wait there. If the guy comes after you, he might start killing your patients, too. Everybody can wait an hour or two.''
''Lucas . . .''
''I don't have time to chat, goddamnit, just do it.'' He cut off a white-haired guy in a red Chevy Tahoe and could see the guy
''Hold on, hold on,'' he screamed, and he ran back to the phone and dialed 911 and shouted into it--was told later that he shouted. He remembered himself talking coldly, quietly, and so he listened to the tape and heard himself screaming . . .
LACHAISE WAS BLEEDING.
He drove the truck, looking at himself in the rearview mirror. Shrapnel cuts on the face, agony in his side. He was holding his side with his hand, and when he looked at his hand, it was wet with blood. ''Motherfucker . . .'' he groaned.
A spasm of fear seized his heart. Was he dying? Was this how it would end, with this pain, in the snow?
A cop car went screaming past, lights blazing, then another, then an ambulance. Hit somebody, he thought, with a thread of satisfaction. God, it hurt . . .
The man must have been Capslock himself; and he was fast with a gun, blindingly fast. And what had he screamed? He'd screamed LaChaise . . .
So they knew.
LaChaise looked into the rearview mirror.
He was bleeding . . .
Chapter Eight.
LUCAS WAS ON THE WEST SIDE OF MINNEAPOLIS, PUSHING the Explorer up an I-394 entrance ramp, when a dispatcher shouted, ''Somebody shot Capslock's wife,'' and a second later, Del patched through: ''LaChaise shot Cheryl.''
''What?'' Lucas was on the ramp, moving faster. To his right, an American flag as big as a bedsheet fluttered in the gloom. ''Say that again.''
''LaChaise shot Cheryl . . .'' From behind Del's voice, Lucas could hear a jumble of noise: voices, highway sounds, a siren. Del seemed to be out of breath, gasping at his radio.
''Where are you?'' Lucas asked.
''Ambulance. We're going into Hennepin.'' Now the words were tumbling out, like a coke-fired rap. ''I saw him, man. LaChaise. I shot at him. I don't know if I hit him or not. He's gone.''
''What about Cheryl?''
''She's hit, she's hit . . .'' Del was shouting; several words came through garbled, then he said, ''It's our wives, man; he's going after the families. Eye for an eye . . .''
Weather.
She'd be in the clinic, doing minor patch-up work on postop patients. The fear caught Lucas by the throat; Del said something else, but he missed it, and then Del was gone.
The dispatcher blurted, ''We lost him, he closed down.''
''I'm going to the U Hospitals. I want Sherrill, Franklin, Sloan and Kupicek on the line now ,'' Lucas said. He fumbled a cellular phone out of an armrest box and punched the speeddial button for Weather. A secretary answered, then transferred him to the clinic, where another secretary, bored, said Weather was busy with a patient.
''This is Deputy Chief Lucas Davenport of the Minneapolis Police Department and this is an emergency and I want her on the line immediately ,'' Lucas shouted. ''GET HER.''
Then Franklin came back through Dispatch: he was in the office.
''Get your wife and kid and go someplace until we know what's happening,'' Lucas said.
''The kid's in school . . .''
''Just get them,'' Lucas said. ''Have you seen Sloan?''
''I think I just saw him goin' in the can . . .''
''Tell him. Get his wife, get out someplace. Anywhere. Get lost, but stay in touch . . .''
''You think . . .'' ''
Move it , goddamnit.'' Lucas was stomping the gas pedal, trying to get more speed out of the Explorer.
Weather came up: ''I'm on my way there,'' Lucas said. He took fifteen seconds to tell her what had happened: ''Get out of the clinic and stay away from your office,'' he said. ''Tell the secretary where you'll be. I'll stop and see her when I get there.''
''Lucas, I've got things to do, I've got a guy with a skin cancer . . .''
''Fuck the clinic,'' he snapped, his voice a rasp. ''Gosomeplace where you're not supposed to be, and wait there. If the guy comes after you, he might start killing your patients, too. Everybody can wait an hour or two.''
''Lucas . . .''
''I don't have time to chat, goddamnit, just do it.'' He cut off a white-haired guy in a red Chevy Tahoe and could see the guy
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