Prey: Night Prey Part 16

"I really can't recall. The name's not familiar," Porter said, but his eyes drifted deliberately toward the hall. A door had a hand-lettered sign that said Men.

"Well, we'll get out of your way, then," Carrigan said. "I'll just take a leak, if you don't mind."

Lucas had moved until his back was to a Grain Belt clock and where he could still block the door. His pistol was clipped to his back belt line, and he put one hand on his hip, as if impatient about waiting for Carrigan. A voice said, "Cops out back," and another voice asked, "What's that mean?"

Carrigan stepped down the hall, went past the door, then stepped back and pulled it open.

And smiled. "Hey," he called to Lucas, smiling, surprised. "Guess what? Lawrence is right here. Sittin' on the potty."

A whine came out of the room: "Shut that door, man. I'm doing my business. Please?"

The voice sounded like something from a bad sitcom. After a moment of silence, somebody in the living room laughed, a single, throaty, feminine laugh, and suddenly the entire bar fell out, the patrons roaring. Even Porter put his forehead down on his bar, laughing. Lucas laughed a little, not too much, and relaxed.

LAWRENCE WAS THIN, almost emaciated. At twenty, he'd lost his front teeth, both upper and lower, and he made wet slurping sounds when he spoke: ". . . I don't know, slurp, it was dark. Blue and white, I think, slurp. And he had a beard. s.h.i.+tkicker wheels on the truck."

"Real big?"

"Yeah, real big. Somebody say he had running boards? Slurp. I don't think he had running boards. Maybe he did, but I didn't see any. He was a white guy, but he had a beard. Dark beard."

"Beard," Connell said.

"How come you're sure he was a white guy?" Lawrence frowned, as if working out a puzzle, then brightened. "Because I saw his hands. He was takin' a pinch, man. He was tootin', that's why I looked at him."

"c.o.ke?"

"Gotta be," Lawrence said. "Ain't nothing else looks like that, you know, when you're trying to toot while you're walkin' or doin' something else. Slurp. You just get a pinch and you put it up there. That's what he was doin'. And I saw his hands."

"Long hair, short?" Connell asked.

"Couldn't tell."

"b.u.mper stickers, license plates, anything?" asked Lucas.

Lawrence c.o.c.ked his head, lips pursed. "Nooo, didn't notice anything like that, slurp."

"Didn't see much, did you?" said Carrigan.

"I told you he was tootin'," Lawrence said defensively. "I told you he was white."

"Big f.u.c.kin' deal. That's Minneapolis outside, if you ain't noticed," Carrigan said. "There are approximately two point five million white people walking around."

"Ain't my fault," Lawrence said.

Red-and-white truck, or maybe blue-and-white, maybe with silver running boards, but then again, maybe not. c.o.kehead. White. A beard.

"Let's send him downtown and take him through the whole thing," Lucas said to Carrigan. "Get him on tape."

THEY WENT BACK to the scene, but nothing had changed except that the sun had come up and the world had a pale, frosted look. Crime scene was videotaping the area, and trucks from TV3 and Channel 8 hung down the block.

"Your pals from TV3," Lucas said, poking Connell with an elbow.

"c.o.c.kroaches," she said.

"C' mon." He looked back at the truck. A dark-haired woman waved. He waved back.

"They make entertainment out of murder, rape, p.o.r.nography, pain, disease," Connell said. "There's nothing bad that happens to humans that they can't make a cartoon out of."

"You didn't hesitate to go to them."

"Of course not," she said calmly. "They're c.o.c.kroaches, but they're a fact of life, and they do have their uses."

11.

CONNELL WANTED TO hear the interview with Lawrence, and to press the medical examiner on the Marcy Lane autopsy. Lucas let her go, looked at his watch. Weather would be leaving home in fifteen minutes; he couldn't make it before she left. He drove back to the Perkins where they'd met the squad, bought a paper, and ordered pancakes and coffee.

Junky Doog dominated the Strib's front page: two stories, a feature and a harder piece. The hard story began, "A leading suspect in a series of midwestern s.e.x slay ings was arrested in Dakota County yesterday. . . ." The feature said, "Junky Doog lived under a tree at a Dakota County landfill, and one by one cut off the fingers of his left hand, and the toes. . . ."

"Good story." A pair of legs-nice legs-stopped by the table. Lucas looked up. A celebrity smiled down at him. He recognized her but couldn't immediately place her. "Jan Reed," she said. "With TV3? Could I join you for a cup?"

"Sure. . . ." He waved at the seat opposite. "I can't tell you much."

"The camera guys said you were pretty good about us," Reed said.

Reed was older than most TV reporters, probably in her middle thirties, Lucas thought. Like all of the latest crop of on-camera newswomen, she was strikingly attractive, with large dark eyes, auburn hair falling to her shoulders, and just a hint of the fas.h.i.+onable overbite. Lucas had suggested to Weather that a surgeon was making a fortune somewhere, turning out TV anchors with bee-stung lips and overbites. Weather told him that would be unethical; the next day, though, she said she'd been watching, and there were far too many overbites on local television to be accounted for by simple jaw problems.

"Why is that?" she'd asked. She seemed really interested.

Lucas said, "You don't know?"

"No. I don't," she said. She looked at him skeptically. "You're gonna tell me it's something dirty?"

"It's because it makes guys think about b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs," Lucas said.

"You're lying to me," Weather said, one hand on her hip.

"Honest to G.o.d," Lucas said. "That's what it is."

"This society is out of luck," Weather said. "I'm sorry, but we're going down the tubes. b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs."

JAN REED SIPPED her coffee and said, "One of our sources says it's the serial killer. We saw Officer Connell there, of course, so it's a reasonable presumption. Will you confirm it?"

Lucas thought about it, then said, "Listen, I hate talking on the record. It gets me in trouble. I'll give you a little information, if you just lay it off on an unnamed source."

"Done," she said, and she stuck her hand out. Lucas shook it: her hand was soft, warm. She smiled, and that made him feel even warmer. She was attractive.

Lucas gave her two pieces of information: that the victim was female and white, and that investigators believed it was the work of the same man who killed Wannemaker.

"We already had most of that," she said gently. She was working him, trying to make him show off.

He didn't bite. "Well, what can I tell you," he said. "Another day in the life of a TV reporter, fruitlessly chasing down every possible sc.r.a.p."

She laughed, a nice laugh, musical, and she said, "I understand you used to date a reporter."

"Yes. We have a daughter," Lucas said.

"That's serious."

"Well. It was," Lucas said. He took a sip of coffee. "Some time ago."

"I'm divorced myself," she said. "I never thought it would happen." She looked at her hands.

Lucas thought he ought to mention Weather, but he didn't. "You know, I recognized you right away-I thought you were anchoring."

"Yes-I will be. I've done a little already, but I only got here three months ago. They're rotating me through the s.h.i.+fts so I can see how things work, while I anchor on a fill-in basis. In another month, I'll start getting more anchor time."

"Smart. Get to know the place."

They chatted for a few more minutes, then Lucas glanced at his watch and said, "d.a.m.n. I've got to go," and slid out of the booth.

"Got a date?" She looked up at him, and he almost fell into her eyes.

"Sort of," Lucas said, trying to look somewhere else.

"Listen, uh . . . see you around, huh?"

"No doubt," she said, sending him off with a bee-stung smile.

WEATHER HAD SEEN Lucas working at close range, as he broke a murder case in her small northern Wisconsin town. Lucas had seen Weather working as a coroner-doctors were scarce up north, and they took turns at the county coroner's job-but the only time he'd been around when she was working on a live patient, he'd been unconscious: he'd been the patient.

He had promised her he'd come and watch what she did, not thinking about it much. She'd become insistent, and they'd set the visit up a week earlier, before the Wannemaker killing. He could just squeeze it in, he thought.

He touched the scar on his throat, thinking about Weather. Most of the scar had been caused by a Swiss Army knife that she'd used to open him up; the rest came from a .22 slug, fired by a little girl. . . .

LUCAS LEFT HIS car in a parking ramp three blocks from University Hospitals and walked down through the cool morning, among the medical students in their short white coats, the staff doctors in their longer coats. A nurse named Jim showed Lucas the men's locker room, gave him a lock and key for a locker, and told him how to dress: "There're scrub suits in the bins, three different sizes. The shoe covers are down there in the bottom bin. The caps and masks are in those boxes. Take one of the shower cap types, and take a mask, but don't put it on yet. We'll show you how to tie it when you're ready. . . . Take your billfold and watch and any valuables with you. Dr. Karkinnen'll be out in a minute."

Weather's eyes smiled at him when he stepped out of the locker room. He felt like an idiot in the scrub suit, like an impostor.

"How does it feel?" Weather asked.

"Strange. Cool," Lucas said.

"The girl who was killed . . . was it him?"

"Yes. Didn't get much out of it. A kid saw him, though. He's white, he probably snorts c.o.ke, he drives a truck."

"That's something."

"Not much," he said. He looked down the hall toward the double doors that led to the operating rooms. "Is your patient already doped up?"

"She's right there," Weather said, nodding.

Lucas looked to his left. A thin, carefully groomed blond woman and a tiny redheaded girl sat in a waiting area, the little girl looking up at the woman, talking intently. The girl's arms were bandaged to the shoulder. The woman's head was nodding, as if she were explaining something; the little girl's legs twisted and retwisted as they dangled off the chair. "I need to talk to them for a minute," Weather said.

Weather went down the hall. Lucas, still self-conscious about the scrub suit, hung back, drifting along behind her. He saw the girl when she spotted Weather; her face contorted with fear. Lucas, even more uncomfortable, slowed even more. Weather said something to the mother, then squatted and started talking to the girl. Lucas stepped closer, and the little girl looked up at him. He realized that she was weeping, soundlessly, but almost without control. She looked back at Weather. "You're going to hurt me again," she wailed.

"It'll be fine," Weather said quickly.

"Hurt's bad," the girl said, tears running down. "I don't want to get fixed anymore."

"Well, you've got to get better," Weather said, and as she reached out a finger to touch the girl's cheek, the dam burst, and the girl began to sob, clutching at her mother's dress with her bandaged arms like tree stumps.

"This won't hurt so bad today. Just a little pinch for the IV and that's all," Weather said, patting her. "And when you wake up, we'll give you a pill, and you'll be sleepy for a while."

"That's what you said last time," the girl wailed.

"You've got to get better, and we're almost done," Weather said. "Today, and one more day, and we should be finished." Weather stood and looked at the mother. "She hasn't eaten anything?"

"Not since nine o'clock," the woman said. Tears were running down her cheeks. "I've got to get out of here," she said desperately. "I can't stand this. Can we get going?"

"Sure," Weather said. "Come on, Lucy, take my hand."

Lucy slipped slowly out of the chair, took one of Weather's fingers. "Don't hurt me."

"We're gonna try really hard," Weather said. "You'll see."

WEATHER LEFT THE girl with the nurses and took Lucas along to an office where she started going through an inch-high stack of papers, checking them and signing. "Preop stuff," she said. "Who was the girl last night?"

"A teenager from out of state. From Worthington."

Weather looked up. "Pretty bad?"

"You'd have to see it to believe it."

"You sound a little p.i.s.sed," she said.

"On this one, I am," he said. "This girl looked like . . . she looked like somebody who did her first communion last week."

THE ROUTINE OF the operation caught him: precise, but informal. Everybody in the room except Lucas and the anesthesiologist was female, and the anesthesiologist left for another operation as soon as the girl was down, leaving the job in the hands of a female anesthetist. The surgical team put him in a rectangular area along a wall and suggested that he stay there.

Weather and the surgical a.s.sistant worked well together, the a.s.sistant ready with the instruments almost before Weather asked for them. There was less blood than Lucas expected, but the smell of the cautery bothered him; burning blood . . .

Weather explained quickly what she was doing, expanding and spreading skin to cover the burns on the girl's arms. Weather ran the show with quick, tight directions, and there were no questions.