Chosen Prey

assault to simple assault and drop the drug charge down to misdemeanor possession—and he takes a six-month to two-year sentence, which he spends in the hospital, because that’s how long the docs think rehab will take. In other words, he takes an easy fall and we pay for medical.”
    “We’d have to pay it anyway, one way or another,” Lucas said. “So the deal is done?”
    “Everybody’s agreed but Randy. The idea is, you show up with the pictures and see if you can get him to move.”
    “I’m sending Marcy Sherrill in to talk to him. He has a personal problem with me.”
    “Whatever you think. We need him if we’re gonna have a chance with Qatar.”
     
    L UCAS AND M ARCY drove to Regions together, and talked about approaches. “He’s a pimp,” Lucas said. “You oughta show a little street balls, like a hooker, but basically back off when he comes on to you. Gonna have to play him.”
    “That’s the bullshit I don’t like,” she said. “That’s why I never was a good decoy. I always wanted to go straight for the throat.”
    “Aim a little lower this time,” Lucas said. “If you can get a grip on his dick, we can put Qatar away this afternoon.”
    Lansing was waiting outside Randy’s hospital room. Lansing looked at Marcy and asked Lucas, “Who’s this?”
    “Why don’t you ask me? I’m standing right here,” Marcy said.
    Lansing stepped back. “All right. Who’re you?”
    “I’m a Minneapolis police sergeant and I’m a little fuckin’ cranky this afternoon, so if you don’t want me to pull your nose off, I’d suggest you be polite. I’m the one who talks to Whitcomb.”
    Lansing looked at Lucas, who shrugged. “ I’m always polite with her.”
    Lansing nodded abruptly, as if he’d had enough of the Minneapolis police show. “All right. I’ll tell Mr. Whitcomb why we’re here, and then you can make your pitch. It’s all fine with us, if he goes for it—but he’s pretty angry.”
    “I can relate,” Marcy said.
    Lucas waited in the hall, holding the door open just enough to hear. Lansing started the introductions, and Randy said, “Get her out of here. Get her the fuck out of here.”
    He sounded like he was trying to scream, but his voice was a cross between a whisper and a croak, as though he’d been shouting in whispers all day.
    Marcy said, “I know what you’re feeling, Randy. I got shot myself last year. I’m still in rehab.”
    “Tell somebody who cares, you fuckin’ cunt,” Randy croaked. “I wish they’d hit you in the fuckin’ head.”
    Lansing said, “Randy, you’ve got to listen to this. This is a deal that’s the best you could hope for, this is—”
    “Fuck you. You’re fired. I want another attorney. I got no fuckin’ legs. . . . You hear this?” Lucas heard a whacking sound and peeked through the door. Randy was flat on his back but flailing at his legs with one free hand. “Nothing here, nothing here . . .”
    Lansing tried to grab his arm, said, “C’mon, stop it, Randy, gotta stop, you’re hurting yourself.”
    A nurse burst past Lucas and into the room and shouted, “What’s going on here? What’s going on?”
    Randy subsided, looked at the nurse, and said weakly, “Get them the fuck outa here. Get them the fuck out.”
     
    “N EVER HAD A chance,” Marcy said, as they left the hospital. “Never let me get going.”
    “He was a little excited,” Lucas said.
    “Ah, man. I felt sorry for the guy,” Marcy said. “Makes me think . . . I got lucky last year. A couple inches to the left, and I’m just like that.”
    “Nah.” Lucas shook his head.
    “Sure I would’ve been.”
    “Nah. A couple inches to the left with that rifle, and you would’ve been deader’n a mackerel,” he said.
    She stopped. “I’m not riding back with you if you’re gonna pout about this.”
    “Who’s pouting?” He looked back at the hospital. “Miserable little shit.”
     
    A FTER QATAR LEFT Barstad’s apartment, he’d driven home and buried himself in his bed, sick with apprehension. But nothing had happened. Was it simply paranoia?
    He relived every moment of the afternoon’s sexual seizure with Barstad—it had been more like a seizure than play, he thought—and as he worked through it, eyes closed, in the silence of his bedroom.
    The false notes were there. Everything she’d done had been dramatized. In their other meetings, she’d been the sexual technician: do this, do that, do the other. This time, she’d