Lucas said
to Del, "Okay, Cheryl's appointment's at ten? Let me know what happens."
"I will--I'm a little scared," Del said. "She's always been healthy as a horse. God only knows what you can get in a hospital now. They've got all these weird germs. And she used to assist with angiograms, who knows how much radiation she got? And she's really been feeling rocky. I thought she was better last week, but now it's back."
"Let me know," Lucas said. And, as Del turned away, "You're all right? About the shooting?"
"Pretty sure," Del said. He shrugged. "Maybe people like us can forget it. Let it go. Go get a cheeseburger."
"You'll think about it for a while," Lucas said. "I believe you'll be okay, but if you aren't, tell someone. They got pills."
"Yeah. Pills. Check you tomorrow, big guy."
Lucas called
Weather from the car.
"Are we all over the TV?"
"Everywhere. Networks, cable. Lucas--we've gotta talk. This has been crazy, first you get shot, and then this."
"We'll talk," he said. "Maybe I'll become a humble carpenter. Or I could become the skate sharpener for the Gopher women's hockey team."
"Lucas . . . really, how're you feeling?"
"My ass is kicked, but I'm okay," Lucas said. "I'm still a little worried about Shrake and Del, but they say they're okay."
"See what happens tomorrow," she said.
"Yeah."
"So. Would you have time to stop at the SA? I just dropped a bottle of milk and it's all over the place. We'll need some for breakfast tomorrow."
"Sure. See you in twenty minutes."
He took
it easy heading home. He had a Super America convenience store in mind, and headed down Maryland on remote control, thinking about the day. The Siggy investigation had been mostly a BCA deal, but when the final explosion occurred, St. Paul had carried a lot of the weight. They'd also been the guys in the sharp-looking BDUs and armor and helmets with the big guns, and they were the ones who'd gotten the TV time.
Which was fine with him.
Idled through a green light, heading down the hill toward the SA, flashed on the first animal he'd ever killed while hunting. It'd been a rabbit, and he was shooting a .410 single-shot shotgun, the first gun of his life. The bunny broke cover thirty feet ahead of him, at the edge of an empty, harvested bean field.
He remembered how cold it was then, in late October, and how he'd shucked one mitten and his father had said, "Take him." The rabbit ran away, as they do, but then, as they also do, began turning, a long curved run, as though the rabbit were inscribing a circle with Lucas as the center point. He led it by a foot or two, pulled the trigger, and the rabbit tumbled head over heels, dead before it hit the ground.
He thought about it because it was exactly the way that Del had shot the runner. Lucas had been watching it, the rest of them had too much background to risk a shot after him, and then he saw Del swinging with the man's pace and the single shot and the man went down like the shot bunny.
Lucas found himself
standing in front of the SA store, hardly knowing how he got there.
He nodded at the counterman going in, got a bottle of one-percent and a couple of bottles of diet Coke. Checking out, the counterman said, "Looks like rain."
"Spring's coming," Lucas said.
"Wouldn't be surprised to see a little more snow."
"Won't last," Lucas said.
"Take it easy . . ."
He went out to the Porsche, carrying the grocery bag, popped the passenger-side door so he could put the bag on the floor . . .
Fairy whispered,
to all of them, "Go, go . . ." And she was out the door, the car idling by the curb, across the verge of damp grass, coming up to the gas pumps where he'd parked, behind them, actually, out of sight, the gun heavy in her hand, around the pumps, and he was right there and he stood up and saw her and she was six feet away, the gun swinging up . . .
Lucas caught a
flash of urgent motion between the pumps and turned, still bent over the bag, saw her, recognized her, saw her hand moving, knew what was happening, had no chance for his gun or for anything, trapped by the door of the car and he reached onto the front seat and caught the vest and yanked it up and the gun went off and the blow hit him in the heart and he went down . . .
One bright flash
and one horrifying bang and he was down beside the car and Alyssa was screaming, "Go, go," and she turned and ra
n b
efore the counterman in the gas station could see her, and she was in the car and she swung in a U-turn. . . .
Lucas sat up,
alive, breathing, holding his chest. The blow hadn't actually been heavy enough to knock him down, but he'd gone down anyway, because somehow, that's what you did when you were shot, and it took him a few seconds to realize that there was no blood and he staggered to his feet, the vest in his hand, realized he'd managed to smother the muzzle of the gun with the vest, and he looked toward the street and saw Alyssa's big green Benz swing in a U-turn and then he was in the Porsche and the counterman was running toward him, and he cranked the car and the anger clawed at his throat and they were out of there, a hundred feet behind her and he was gonna eat her fuckin' lunch. . . .
She saw him
stand up, realized that she'd missed, and she screamed at herself, "Jesus, Jesus," and then she stopped thinking altogether and thought about getting home, getting somewhere safe, and she stood on the gas pedal and was through the light, swinging past skidding cars, left onto 35E, headed south, and a moment later she saw the blue lights of the Porsche behind her and Fairy rose out of her chest and took the car and pushed the gas pedal to the floor. . . .
Lucas was on
the phone, screaming at St. Paul: "Headed south on 35E, she's headed straight back into town, going past Pennsylvania, coming up on 94 . . ."
The dispatcher said, "We've got a car coming up. Aw, he says you're in front of him, he can see you," and Lucas flicked his eyes toward the rearview mirror and saw the lights, but they were falling back.
And the dispatcher said, "We've got another car coming east on I-94. Where do you want him, where do you want him?"
"I don't know yet, I don't know. . . ."
They were traveling at a hundred and ten miles an hour through sixty-mile-an-hour traffic, through a big snarly intersection downtown, and Lucas saw flashing lights ahead to the right, then Alyssa's taillights flared and she cut left and Lucas shouted, "Headed east on 94 . . ." then he saw the curb coming up and went left and shouted, "Wait, wait, she's headed toward the Lafayette, she's coming up on the bridge, she's turning onto the bridge."
She crossed the Mississippi, speed climbing again, then, with more cop lights coming toward her, dropped off the exit onto the riverside Plato Avenue, and around the corner to the right, Lucas shouting into the phone all the time, bringing in more patrol cars.
Plato was an industrial street: not much traffic, and no homes. Lucas was on her bumper now, or nearly so, pushing her. If he pushed her hard enough, in the big car, she'd lose it, and instead of killing somebody else in another car, she'd take it into a phone pole or a fence or a concrete abutment.
She slashed a cross street without slowing, running the red light, and Lucas was forced to stand on his brakes, to avoid a pickup, and then he was across and behind her, dodging left, and up the river bluff, higher, higher, and there were more lights up ahead, flashers, and he saw her dodge right, slide through the intersection, bump over a sidewalk, cut a piece of lawn and then back on the street, Smith Avenue, onto the High Bridge, Lucas fifty yards behind her . . . and he saw her taillights come up.
At the bottom of the bridge, a few hundred yards away, a St. Paul cruiser pulled up, flashers going, and then, behind it, another. They backed into a blocking V and the cops got out, and then another cop turned onto the bridge. . . .
Fairy stopped
the car on the bridge, looked back over her shoulder. She felt . . . exhilarated. All the boring stuff was over. The race through town had been the coolest thing she'd done forever. . . .
Davenport was back there. Another cop turned onto the bridge behind the Porsche. Then Davenport got out of the car and was calling something to her, but she couldn't hear it.
She was still on the top part of the High Bridge, so cleverly named because it was high. From up there, she had a gorgeous view of downtown St. Paul, the buildings on the bluff over the river.
Loren was standing in the middle of the roadway, in one of his nineteenth-century ruffle-neck costumes. "Look there," Loren said, his voice coarse with stress. "Look there--the boat. The boat's there."
She looked, and down the river, an all-white riverboat with a big red stern wheel.
Loren said, "Frances is on it. I can feel her."
Fairy got out of the car, walked to the railing, looked over. A long way down; and the riverboat was there, coming toward her. Davenport was shouting at her--he was out of his car, walking down the bridge.
Carefully.
She smiled: Was he dead? He should be dead. But if he was dead, how'd the Porsche get there?
She slipped the gun--she had the gun in her hand--into the top of her pants, and did a two-handed push-up, and clambered onto the bridge railing, hanging on tight with her hands until she got her balance.
Then she stood up: a woman who'd spent some time on a balance beam. Now walking slightly uphill, toward Davenport, who was getting closer now, shouting, but she paid no attention.
If she jumped, she'd die. Then she'd be on the boat, with Frances.
Better than scrubbing floors in the women's prison, pushed around by a bunch of hard-eyed women guards.
Davenport was thirty feet away, and stopped, his voice clear now, and she listened for a moment. ". . . off there, Alyssa, for Christ's sakes, you're sick. You need medical help. They've got pills now, medication, get off the railing, for Christ's sakes . . ."
Loren had worked his way around behind Davenport, hovered there, smiling, and he shook his head and said, "Don't believe him. Better to go now."
Fairy could feel the hard edges of the rail under her feet, and as she stood there, she began to slip away; and Alyssa came up, the hard
-
edged executive, and she looked at Davenport and listened for a few more seconds and knew it was all lies.
Damnit, no way out. No way to explain Loren and Fairy. She'd killed Frances's three friends, all part of the silliness of Fairy and the ghost.
She looked down and shuddered.
Alyssa Austin wasn't going to jump. She wasn't even sure she was over water--as far as she knew, she might hit a concrete abutment and be torn to pieces, or she might hit the water and be paralyzed and drown, and the water would be freezing. . . .
She said, to Davenport, very clearly, "Fuck it."
Lucas stood there
with his gun in his hand, heart thumping, thought he had talked her off the rail, was aware of every little thing, of the flashing red lights, of the cops running up the bridge, of the cop behind him, walking down, of more sirens, coming in, and then she said, "Fuck it," and hopped down off the rail. He thought he had her and then she stepped toward him and pulled the pistol out of her pants and whipped the muzzle at him and pulled the trigger and there was a flash and simultaneous crack as the slug went past his face.
Lucas shot her in the heart.
She knew
she was hit; knew she was dying; could see the rail and the starless sky and then Davenport's face, looming above her, and she tried to smile and say to him, "Going with Frances."
But Lucas
couldn't make out any words.
All he heard as he crouched over her was a dying moan. Her eyes rolled away, and she breathed a final time, leaving on her full lips a thin foam of bloody bubbles.
Chapter
28.
Thinking about it
a week later, when he had time, Lucas realized that there had been two key moments in his life, in that one day, the day of the big Siggy shoot-out, the day that he killed Alyssa Austin.
The first had come when he'd driven home to get his bulletproof vest, before the Siggy shoot-out. He'd jumped out of the Porsche, run into the garage, grabbed the duffel bag that contained the vest, and then had run back to the Porsche. He
could
have punched up the garage door, driven the Porsche inside, parked it, and taken the truck.
But he hadn't.
If he had taken the truck, he would have tossed the vest in the back after the Siggy gunfight. As it was, when he came out of the BCA building, the vest was sitting on the passenger seat of the Porsche. The duffel bag was still in the apartment across the street from Heather's. Anyway, the vest, with its armor plates, was right there.
The second key moment came when Weather dropped the bottle of milk. If she hadn't, he would have driven home, and he would have gotten out of the driver's side of the car, in the garage, and he would have been helpless, assuming that Alyssa was still following him.