Hidden Prey

pushing ninety the whole way, his flasher on top of the car. The Public Safety Department cleared him through the two highway patrol troopers still working I-35.
    On the way, he made phone calls:
    He called Rose Marie Roux, to update her. “I’m going to need to talk to a lawyer. Tonight, if possible. See if you can get one to call me. I need to know how to handle this, if it turns out to be true.”
    He called Del: “You working early tomorrow?”
    “Three to eleven. I think I cracked the McDonald’s thing.”
    “Three to eleven? Meet me at my office at seven o’clock. I’m gonna want you to handle something for me. Take an hour or two.”
    “See you then.”
     
    H E TOOK A CALL from John McCord, the BCA superintendent. “Why do you need a lawyer?” McCord asked. “What’d you do?”
    “I haven’t done anything, yet. But I gotta figure out a maneuver, and I need a guy.”
    “I can’t get you one tonight—I tried, but he’s not answering his phone. Rose Marie said you’re on the way back, so I’ll get him to your office the first thing. What time?”
    “Eight? Seven thirty or eight?”
    A moment of silence. Then, “Have you ever gotten here at eight in your life?”
    “Just get the fuckin’ lawyer, John.”
     
    H E CALLED J ENNIFER C AREY , an ex-girlfriend who worked at Channel Three. She was also the mother of his first daughter. He called her at home.
    “What’s up?” she asked. “You still in Duluth? I saw some tape on you.”
    “That’s what I’m calling about. I’m going through Hinckley right now, headed your way. I gotta see some of your film, the stuff you showed on the five o’clock. It’s kind of urgent.”
    “Come on in,” she said. “I’ll go down and get it.”
     
    H E SLOWED DOWN when he got into the heavier traffic, followed I-35 through the northern suburbs, and turned west on I-95 into Minneapolis.
    At Channel Three, Carey let him in the back door, so he wouldn’t have to go through the ID-and-name-tag routine, kissed him on the cheek, and took him to her office. She had the clip on tape, and ran it.
    “We put some time into this, almost two minutes,” she said. Much of the clip consisted of old pictures of Burt and Melodie Walther, apparently collected from friends and neighbors, along with film of people gathered outside the Walther home.
    “ . . . neighbors and a few family members gathered across the street as Hibbing police and agents of the state’s Bureau of Criminal Apprehension processed the crime scene in this modest Iron Range neighborhood where Burt Walther reportedly claims a Soviet spy ring has been operating since World War Two . . .”
    The tape lingered on a blond woman whom Lucas recognized as Janet Walther. A few seconds after the camera picked her up, a blond boy stepped into the scene, and she grabbed him and hugged him.
    Her son? When she’d spoken of her son, she’d left Lucas with the mental picture of a child, of an elementary-age kid. This boy was high-school age, tall, slender, in good shape. Handsome, as the laptop lady said. This kid, Lucas thought, might have run him up and down those hills.
    “Is this a story?” Carey asked, from the chair beside him, as Lucas leaned toward her monitor. She had excellent instincts.
    “Of course. A really good one, too,” he said. “I’d hold on to this tape, if I were you.”
    “What is it?”
    “You are absolutely gorgeous when you’re pregnant,” Lucas said. “How many is this? Four? It really agrees with you.”
    “Lucas . . .”
    “Could you run the tape one more time?”
     
    H E GOT HOME at eleven thirty, found Weather and the housekeeper, Ellen, in the kitchen, eating cheese crackers and drinking beer.
    “I knew you guys hit the bottle when I was gone,” he said, dragging his bag in from the garage. “How’s Sam?”
    “Sam’s fine,” Weather said. “Throw your dirty clothes in the wash, don’t leave them on the floor.”
    He threw dirty clothes in the wash, caught up on the family news, told them that he might have to go back to Range in the morning.
    “I thought it was all done,” Weather said. “Channel Seven said that they’re ‘bracing for a tidal wave of federal officers.’ That’s a direct quote.”
    “I’m not quite done,” Lucas said. “Had something come up . . .”
    He explained as he stuck his head in the refrigerator. Lettuce andgrapes. Cheese. A couple of bottles of beer. He picked up a carton of one-percent milk, opened