Hidden Prey

lost the guy in the darkness of a residential street, but knew which way he was going, and ran that way, saw him again—and the guy saw him, turned and raised his arm and Lucas saw three quick sparks and went down on his stomach, thinking, “Too late,” but nothing came close, and he scrambled back to his feet and saw a man with a dog, and the man ran up on a lawn, away from him, and Lucas kept going, north, he thought, running awkwardly with his gun held in both hands out in front of him . . .
    Saw the man again, again a spark—some kind of flash retarder on the pistol, Lucas thought—and the man had the hillside behind him, and Lucas raised over his head and fired two quick shots with his .45. Way too far away, but maybe, maybe it’d slow the guy down somehow. The man scrambled away, running through yards and around trees, sometimes a faint movement in the streetlights, sometimes simply absent.
    Had to make him hide. If Lucas could make him stop, make him hide, make him play cat-and-mouse, he could get the Duluth cops to throw a cordon around the neighborhood, seal it up, and then start going through it yard by yard and garage by garage. If the guy kept moving, though, sooner or later he’d lose himself in the dark . . .
    Lucas sprinted along the street, tired, mouth hanging open, gaspingfor air. He ran three miles, three times a week, but it was on the flat; so far this had been all uphill.
    Now where? There: quick movement, man turning down the hill, running downhill now. Still crashing through yards, over fences. Lucas followed, but the noise was terrific as he hit stuff in the dark, bushes, branches, weeds, a can, then the guy out front of him hit a barbecue grill and it clattered across a patio and a few seconds later, a backyard light came on and Lucas saw him disappear through a hedge.
    A branch caught him on the cheek and he felt the skin rip; shit. He kept going, through the lighted yard, managed to kick the lid on the barbecue, and a guy in a T-shirt on a three-season porch yelled, “Hey, what ya . . .” and Lucas was through the hedge into the next yard, between two houses, onto the next street, working back into business buildings.
    Two ways to go, left or right. He ran left a few yards, saw nothing, turned back right, saw nothing, went that way, then saw the dark movement back to the left and ran after it. But he’d lost more ground. The movement this time was a hundred and fifty yards away: the guy had a definite advantage because he apparently knew where he was going, and Lucas thought, Car. He’s gotta have a car, probably close to the hotel.
    The problem was, they were both running back toward the hotel again, and there was no way to shortcut the other man. He got a stitch in his side, ran through it, turned the corner where he’d seen the movement. Nothing down the hill, but he ran that way anyway, crossed a street, was coming to another when a cop car went by, lights flashing, then suddenly pulled to a stop and Lucas came down into the street and the cop piled out of his car and screamed something at him and Lucas slowed and looked toward him and then the cop fired a shot with a pistol, and Lucas screamed, “BCA, BCA, BCA,” and raised his hands and the cop screamed something and Lucas couldn’t hear it, and then the cop fired again and Lucas felt something pluck at his shirt and he started running down the hill again.
    A moment later, he heard the cop car coming around and he duckedaround the next corner and saw, two blocks away, the last sight of the man in the black jacket, turning downhill on that block. No chance to catch him, the cop car coming, no way to outrun it.
    Lucas stepped into the street, stuck his gun into his belt, lifted his hands above his head. The cop car slewed around the corner, then nearly ran across the curb into the building, and two cops jumped out, and Lucas screamed, “I’m a cop. I’m a cop with the BCA. The guy who shot Reasons—”
    But the cops were screaming at him, their guns pointed, and Lucas shouted, “BCA, you dumb motherfuckers,” and finally one of the cops waved a hand at his partner and said, “Put the gun on the street.”
    “Fuck you,” Lucas yelled back. “My hands are over my head, I’m not touching the gun again, you dumb motherfuckers’ll shoot me sure as shit. I’m Lucas Davenport, I’m with the state and I’m staying at the Radisson and the guy who shot Jerry Reasons just ran around that corner down there