Del was already talking on his cell phone, getting switched. Reading the number he'd written on his arm. The GTO went straight ahead. Lucas turned left, did another U-turn and switched off his lights, crept to the end of the block. The GTO took a left at the next corner. Lucas accelerated around the corner, lights off, ran as hard as he could almost to the end of the block, jammed on the brakes, and crept forward again.
The GTO was halfway down the block. At the end of the block, it stopped, then turned right. “He's just weaving around,” Lucas said as he accelerated at the corner. “That's gotta be him.”
Del was listening. “All right.” He looked at Lucas. “It's him.”
“Get everybody here. . . . Get everybody on the street.”
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THEY BEGAN VECTORING squad cars toward the GTO, trying to stay out of sight. But four or five minutes after the cat-and-mouse game began, the driver of the GTO realized he was being tracked. Lucas again crept to the end of the block, and saw the GTO already turning the next corner. And when he got to that corner, and crept forward, the GTO was two blocks away and accelerating.
“Goddamnit, he must've seen us,” Lucas said.
He jumped on the accelerator, and the Porsche whipped around the corner and they were flying along the narrow street; too fast to do it without lights, if anybody was out walking, and Lucas switched the lights on and up ahead, the GTO busted a stop sign and was out of sight and Del was screaming street names into the telephone; they made the corner and the GTO was already turning at a streetlight.
“West on Lake,” Del shouted. “He's headed west on Lake Street.” He stopped talking to brace himself as Lucas downshifted and the engine screamed, they drifted through the intersection, and Lucas began running up through the gears and Del started with the phone again. “He's at fifteenth . . . fourteenth . . . thirteenth . . . twelfth . . . Where is everybody?”
“Behind us,” Lucas said. He could see flashing lights in the rearview mirror. No time for his flashers; he didn't even think about them. Then Del shouted, “He's making a turn under the interstate!”
“He goes on the interstate, we got him,” Lucas said. “It's a concrete trough.”
Del braced himself again as Lucas drifted the turn; they'd closed some distance on the GTO, which was now only a few hundred yards ahead. The GTO driver busted another traffic light, but Lucas was forced to slow and lost ground; and then the GTO was on the on-ramp and out of sight. Lucas accelerated after him, spotted him as they came off the ramp and started eating up the ground between them. Del stopped shouting into his phone long enough to ask, “What're we gonna do when we catch up with him?”
“I haven't figured that out yet,” Lucas said. “Maybe . . . not pull up beside him.”
“That would be a bad idea,” Del said. “Unless you got your own shotgun hidden in this car somewhere.”
“We'll just get on his ass and push him,” Lucas said. “He'll either lose it, or we'll pen him.”
There were four or five other cars on the roadway; there was still an hour before the morning traffic would start. After fifteen seconds, with the Porsche trailing by two hundred yards, the GTO crossed in front of a slower-moving Ford and swerved onto the shoulder lane. Immediately, the air was full of gravel; a small rock bounced off the Porsche's pristine hood, and Lucas groaned and said, “I'm gonna shoot your ass for that.” He moved far left, and the GTO plowed along the shoulder lane for another ten seconds and then suddenly hooked into an upcoming exit.
Del had time to say “Jesus” before Lucas cut across the highway and barely made the ramp approach. At the top, the GTO was moving way too fast to make the corner; the driver tried, but the big car slid out of control, hit a curb while skidding backwards, bounced across a bus bench, and spun sideways into the pump pad of an Amoco station. Lucas had both the brakes and the clutch pinned to the floor, bounced across the intersection, narrowly missed a flying piece of bus bench, and finally stopped in time to see a man humping out of the GTO. He was carrying a long gun, and was headed for the gas station.
Lucas killed the engine, and he and Del were out on the street, Del still screaming into the phone. Through the plate-glass window of the station, they could see the GTO driver pointing his gun at a woman who had her hands over her head. But he was screaming at somebody else, and a moment later, the man inside the cashier's booth pushed the door open.
The driver pushed the woman inside the booth and closed the door behind them all.
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IN TEN MINUTES, half of the on-duty Minneapolis police department was there. Lucas talked to the man in the booth by telephone: “We know who you are, Mr. Scott. You can't get out of there. I don't think you want to hurt yourself or those innocent people. That's not what you're all about.”
“I don't want to talk to you,” Scott said.
“We think it's best to keep the lines of communication open,” Lucas began.
“I want to talk to your negotiator.”
Lucas looked at the phone, unsure that he'd heard it right. But he had. “Whatever you say, Mr. Scott.”
THE NEGOTIATIONS BEGAN just before seven o'clock. Because of Scott's fixation on a woman, Alie'e, somebody decided that they should try a woman negotiator first. That seemed to work. The negotiator and Scott had a friendly chat to establish trust, and then Scott listed his demands: a Northwest Airlines jet at the airport with enough fuel to get them to Cuba, or he'd start killing his hostages.
“Aw, Jesus Christ,” Lucas said. He went to look at the paint job on his Porsche.
The TV trucks began showing up at 7:10; Rose Marie was there at 7:12, with Lester two seconds behind. “That the guy?” Lester asked, looking toward the gas station.
“That's him,” Lucas said. “You owe me some money for a Porsche paint job, by the way.”
“How're we gonna get him out of there?” Rose Marie asked.
“I don't know,” Lucas said. “He's locked in a bulletproof booth with about six hundred Cokes, a hundred pounds of corn chips and Hostess cupcakes, a thousand bucks' worth of cigarettes, and a TV.”
“Sounds like a good weekend,” Lester said.
“As long as he doesn't kill the hostages,” Rose Marie said. She looked around at the line of TV trucks. “You think we could get any more coverage than this?”
“I don't know. We might be missing the Russians or the Chinese, but that's about it,” Lucas said.
The negotiator was sweating. On the monitor, Scott was saying, “I know what you're doing. You're stalling. I'm not going to put up with it. I've seen this same deal twenty times; I know you're supposed to stall. But I'll tell you what: I know there are planes that fly out of here every day for Los Angeles and San Francisco and Hawaii, and any of those will get to Cuba. Don't give me any of that shit about reprogramming the computers or getting gas, let's just get me down to the airport and on the plane before I have to kill this lady here.”
“I think we got a problem,” the negotiator said to Rose Marie.
Del, standing next to Lucas, said, “More than one. Look at this.”
Jael Corbeau, trailed by three unhappy cops, was marching down the street toward them. A cop at the perimeter moved to stop her, but she pointed at Lucas, and Lucas said, “Aw, jeez,” and waved her through.
“That's him?” she asked. She was dressed in black from head to foot: a black woolen coat, black slacks, black boots, and small black pearls at her ears. She was luminous.
“That's him. He's a guy from Burnt River named--”
“Scott. Yeah, the guys told me. Martin Scott. So how're you gonna get him outa there?”
The negotiator said, “Listen, he's gonna set a deadline, and I wouldn't be surprised if he did it. Killed the hostages. If he's suicidal . . .”
“I don't think he's suicidal,” Lucas said. “He's just nuts. He tried to cover his tracks on a couple of these things. . . . I don't think he wanted to be caught.”
“Yeah, well, maybe. On the other hand, he may pop that woman,” the negotiator said.
Rose Marie said, “What do we do?”
“Figure out some way to start him toward the airport? Maybe snipe him?” Lucas suggested.
She looked at Lester. “Where's that Iowa kid?” The Iowa kid was the department sniper.
“He's on his way.”
“So let's set him up. If he gets a clear shot . . .” She looked at the negotiator. “We need some more time. Ask him how he wants to get to the airport, what will keep him safe.”
“Aw, man,” Lucas said.
“What?”
“I don't know. Look at this bullshit.” He waved at the TV trucks; there were eight or nine of them. Four helicopters orbited overhead.
“Well, that's what it is,” Rose Marie said. She looked at the negotiator. “Ask him how he wants to do it.”
As the negotiator was talking, the mayor arrived. He looked at the gas station, then at Lucas. “How're you gonna get him outa there?”
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AN ARMORED CAR.
“Aw, man,” Lucas said.
“Will you shut up?” Rose Marie said.
“Can I talk to that guy? For just a minute?”
The negotiator looked at Lucas and said, “We have established an element of trust between us.”
“Oh, bullshit, he sounds like he's making the moves before we are,” Lucas said. “You trust him, he doesn't trust you. Let me talk to him.”
Rose Marie looked at the mayor, who shrugged. “I'm no expert,” he said.
“Go ahead,” said Rose Marie.
Lucas took the phone. “This is Lucas Davenport. I'm the guy who chased you with the Porsche, and I want you to know you messed up a perfectly good paint job.”
“Tough shit. What do you want?”
“I want to come up to the gas station door and talk to you, away from this crowd. You're up there in a bulletproof booth, I can't hurt you, you can't hurt me, and you got the hostages. I just want to talk to you away from this crowd.”
“About what?”
“About TV.”
“What?”
“About all this TV. Give me two minutes. I won't come inside, I'll just stick my head in the door.”
After a moment: “If this is a trick, I'll kill this lady.”
“This is no trick. I'm just tired of all the bullshit,” Lucas said.
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HE WALKED UP to the station with his hands open, held at armpit level, stopped at the door, pushed it slowly open, then leaned inside.
“How are ya?”
“What, you're doing a Henry Fonda impression?”
“No. I just don't want anybody to get killed. Especially me.”
“What do you want?”
“To work a couple of things out with you. First of all, you don't want to go to Cuba. You know what they do to you in Cuba? They put you in prison. Forever. The last guy who hijacked a plane down there hasn't been seen since 1972. They might be Commies, but they don't like criminals. They'll stick you into a wet drippy dungeon with a bunch of rats, and you'll wind up looking like the Count of Monte Cristo. Stillwater prison is a goddamned garden spot next to anything you'll get in Cuba.”
“Maybe I'll take that chance,” Scott said. Being the hard man, Lucas thought. Lucas could see him clearly through the glass: a thatch of straw-colored hair, a heavy, ruddy face, plastic-framed glasses, and the Coke coveralls.
“Look, you see all those cameras out there? What if I walk one of those cameras up here and let you make a statement to the world about what you were doing for Alie'e. Then we cut out all this Cuba bullshit and killing innocent people in front of TV cameras so everybody'll know you're an assholeâand you just come in and tell us what happened to you. You'll have lawyers and everything. You'll be treated well.”
“What channel?” Scott asked.
Lucas thought,
Gotcha,
and said, “Any channel you want. I'd recommend Channel Twenty-nine, because they play right into Fox, which has the best news department, as I'm sure you know.”
“No, no. None of that Fox bullshit. Channel Three: that's CBS down here?” Scott asked.
“Yup.”
“Let's talk to somebody from Channel Three, see what they say,” Scott said.
Lucas walked back to the line.
“What's going on?” Rose Marie asked.
“We're talking,” Lucas said. “I gotta go get some movie people.”
He felt like he was plodding through knee-deep mud. He spotted Ginger House from Channel Three, with her cameraman, pointed at her, and gestured. She tapped herself on the chest, and Lucas nodded and shouted, “Bring your cameraman.”
She trotted across the police line with the cameraman in tow, and other reporters began screaming in the background. Lucas said, “You will now owe me more than you can ever possibly repay.”
“What?” She was a nice-looking redhead with freckles on her narrow nose.
“We're gonna walk up there, and the guy's gonna give us a statement, and then maybe something good'll happen.”
“Is it dangerous?” she asked. She sounded reluctant.
“No, I don't think--”
“You know what's dangerous, Ginger?” the cameraman asked. “What's dangerous is, if you turn this down, I swear to God I'll go back to the truck, get out my gun, and shoot you in the forehead. Every goddamn person in the world is gonna see us do this. We do this, we're gonna be movie stars.”
“Or I'll be dead,” she said.
“Hell, you're a second-string reporter in Minneapolis. That's the same thing as being dead anyway,” the cameraman said.