Mind Prey

of the house to the bush where he’d watched the cop. The cop was still there, hat off, rubbing his head. Then he put the cap back on, said something to his radio, got something back, and whistled the snatch of Paul Simon again.
    Like he had the song on his mind, Mail thought.
    The cop turned, looking away from Mail, drifted toward the maple tree where he’d taken the leak. Mail tensed, and when the cop’s head was behind the tree, stood up and padded toward the tree, slowly at first, but more quickly as the cop came out from behind it, his back still turned.
    The cop heard him coming, though.
    When Mail was ten feet away, he flinched and turned his head, his mouth open. But even a slow man can cross ten feet in a small fraction of a second, and Mail hit him with the spade handle, the steel grip burying itself in the cop’s forehead with a wet crunch.
    The cop dropped, his shotgun flying out to the side and clattering down the sidewalk. Mail dropped the spade handle, caught the cop under the armpits, and dragged him back between the houses. In a few seconds, he’d pulled off the cop’s jacket, hat, and gunbelt. His own dark jeans would do well enough for uniform pants. The gunbelt was heavy and awkward, and he struggled to get it on.
    The cop said a word, and Mail looked down at him, prodded him with a foot. The cop’s head rolled to the other side, limp, loose.
    “Die, motherfucker,” Mail said. And he walked away, out to the sidewalk, pulling on the hat. It was too small, and perched on top of his head. But it would do. He picked up the shotgun, crossed the street, walked between a dark house and a lit one, and started running again.
     
    A MAN IN the dark house, standing in the kitchen drinking coffee, saw him pass. Watched him go across the fence; couldn’t see the police uniform, only the movement of the running man. He walked quickly back through his house, to tell the cop out front. But the cop out front was missing.
    Huh. The man, cold in his undershirt, went out on his stoop, picked up the newspaper. In the very thin predawn light, he could see what looked like a shotgun lying on the sidewalk…and something else, farther down the walk. Where was the cop?
    The man looked around, then hurried across the street. What he thought was a shotgun turned out to be a spade handle. He turned, shaking his head, to go back to his house. Then he noticed the other object again. He stepped toward it, picked it up. A police radio.
    And the cop on the grass groaned, and the man in the T-shirt said, “What? Who is that?”
     
    T HEY’D FOUND A thick wad of computer printout, and Lucas and Haywood were taking it apart a page at a time, looking for anything. They heard the running footsteps before they saw anyone coming and looked up. The Eagan chief spun in the door, grabbing the edge of the doorframe to stop himself.
    “Lucas, you better call in. They got a big problem up there.”
    Lucas said, “Keep reading,” to Haywood and started back toward the car. “What happened?”
    “I think your guy killed a cop. And he might have gotten through your perimeter.”
    “Sonofabitch.”
    As they hurried back to the car, Lucas said, “Have your guys talked to MacElroy yet?” MacElroy ran the lawn-mower shop.
    “Talking to him now.”
    Lucas got the radio, called in. The dispatcher said the cop was still alive. “It’s Larry White, Bob White’s kid. He’s really messed up, the guy hit him with a pipe or something. They’re taking him to Ramsey.”
    “Jesus. What about Mail? Is he gone?”
    “Maybe not. A guy who lives down there called us on 911 within a couple of minutes of White getting hit. They backed the perimeter off, making the house the middle of it. He should still be inside.”
    “All right. I’m coming back up there. Call Roux and Lester, tell them we need to talk.”
    “They’re headed over to Ramsey. Both of them, along with Clemmons.” Clemmons ran the Uniform Division.
    “Are they on the air?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Tell them to wait for me.”
     
    M AIL MADE IT through the new perimeter, but not by much. Once outside the original lines, he stayed out of sight for two blocks, then simply ran down a long dark alley, stumbling now and then as he raced over the uneven ground. He’d been running for a minute or perhaps a minute and a half, when he heard the sirens screaming behind him. Christ, they’d found the cop. He ran faster.
    Another minute, and a cop car flashed down a cross street in