Broken Prey

he wanted to prop a couple of two-by-fours under the sun to keep it from going down. The crime-scene people arrived, confirmed most of what they already knew: there was blood on the kitchen floor. They also pointed out two small round black marks the size of dimes, on the vinyl floor. Since there were only two marks, there was a good chance they’d been made by the killer.
    “Black-soled athletic shoes,” the crime-scene tech said. “Soft rubber. It rubs off easy, on vinyl. If she’d been wearing them, we’d probably see more of them. It’s almost impossible to keep from rubbing them off . . .”
    “How many people in Minnesota wear black-soled athletic shoes?” Lucas asked.
    “Lots,” the tech said. “Maybe hundreds of thousands.”
     
    LUCAS WORKED THROUGH the rest of the files in Peterson’s office and learned a lot about Peterson, but nothing helpful. He went so far as to dump her entire e-mail list to the co-op, to have them run against car registrations, looking for a white GM car or a silver SUV.
    Nothing.
    Minnesota is a tall state, Lucas thought, going out into the yard, looking at the half dome of the sun as it sank behind the house next door, but even if he was going all the way north, he’d be there.
    A great summer evening; there’d be a few car deaths and a few more cripplings, a couple of shootings—maybe—and somewhere a woman was waiting to be butchered.
    He couldn’t stand it.
     
    STANDING IN THE YARD , he talked to Sloan again—Sloan had gone downtown so he’d have access to a police computer—and to Elle, and even to Weather, whom he reached before she went to bed.
    “You say Sloan is going psycho . . . you sound like you’re going psycho,” she said. “I don’t think it’s healthy for both of you to be crazy at the same time.”
    “Sloan says he’s gonna quit. He sounds serious.” Silence, two seconds, five seconds. “You still there?”
    “I was wondering what took him so long,” Weather said.
    “Ah, Jesus, I’m trying to talk him out of it.”
    “Don’t do that. Let him get out.”
    “Gotta find this goddamn woman,” Lucas said.
    “Yes. Do it.”
     
    HE WENT DOWN to the Northfield police station, a red-brick riverside building shared by the cops and the fire department. Three cops were sitting in a conference room, two city guys and a sheriff’s deputy, Styrofoam cups scattered around, the smell of coffee and old pastry; a police radio burped in the background, a harsh underline to the hunt. The main dispatch center for the region was in Owatonna, well to the south, and the cops inside the station were just waiting for any call that needed a quick reaction. Not what you’d expect, Lucas thought, for a major search operation—but the fact that there was nobody in the office meant that everybody was on the road.
    Stopping white cars. Stopping light-colored SUVs.
    Stopping cars with single men in them. Stopping cars that looked funny; acted funny; might be out of place.
    Glassing hillsides in the woods, as though they were hunting for deer, or elk.
    Fighting the sundown.
     
    AFTER DARK , the action slowed. Reports came in from the Boundary Waters. Nothing there.
    Lots of cars stopped.
    Lucas watched, waited, and talked. At eleven o’clock, tense but bored, tired of jumping every time one of the radios burped, he borrowed a yellow legal pad and began to copy the names of rock songs onto a piece of paper. One hundred and twenty songs, when he finished. He looked at the list, crossed off two songs, added one that Carol had suggested that morning—Robert Palmer’s “Bad Case of Loving You,” which Lucas thought was on pretty shaky grounds to make the top 100, if not in outright quicksand. Still, a good tune . . .
    He stood up and said, “Jesus Christ, where is she?”
    A half an hour later, he’d rolled and rerolled the paper with the rock list until it looked like a cheap yellow cigar. He finally stuffed it in his pants pocket and was about to go out for a Coke when a Goodhue County deputy was routed through to the dispatcher in Owatonna, and then back out to the countryside. He was breathing hard: “Guy . . . white truck I think, SUV, turned off when he saw my lights, running fast, dumped his lights, I think he cut across a field because I lost him, I don’t know which way he’s heading now, but he was heading west when I first saw him, I’m gonna go another mile or two south, see what I can see, cut my lights and creep back up