Mind Prey

front of him but continued past the alley. Mail slowed just a bit. He was breathing hard now, still carrying the shotgun, the hat perched on his head.
    At the end of the alley, he edged cautiously out toward the street. The cop car was a block away, dropping off two foot patrolmen. They were crouched over the car window, intent on what the man inside was saying, or the radio. Mail took a breath, took two quick steps across that put him behind a car, then another behind a maple tree. The cops were still talking. Mail took another breath and walked quickly across the street to a maple on the other side.
    And waited—but the cops had missed him.
    Watching them, trying to keep the tree between himself and the mouth of the alley, he walked backwards until he was into the alley, then turned and broke into a run. A dog barked at him, and Mail ran faster, and the dog barked a few more times. But there were still dogs barking everywhere. Nobody came after him.
    Mail stayed in the alley until it ended, then walked down a block to another alley, and ran down that. The sirens were getting fainter, and he could no longer see lights. But he could see houses against the sky. Dawn was getting close—and the traffic would be picking up.
    He would be more visible, now, and there’d be more people around.
    He needed wheels.

30
    A SURGEON IN a scrub suit was wandering aimlessly outside the emergency room exit, a mask hanging down on his chest, paper operating hat askew. He was smoking a cigarette, head down, shoulders humped against the cool air.
    “Did you do the White kid?” Lucas asked as he hustled up the drive to the door.
    The surgeon shook his head. “They’re still working on him.”
    Inside the door, Lester was talking to two Minneapolis cops, while Roux was facing Bob White, the cop’s father, and his mother, whose name Lucas couldn’t remember. But he remembered that she liked hats, although this morning she was bareheaded, and holding on to a white handkerchief like it was a lifeline. Lucas walked up, nodded, said, “Bob, Mrs. White…how is he?”
    “His head is real bad,” White said. “But he’s a fighter.”
    Lucas didn’t know the son, but had the impression that he was somewhat dull; not a bad kid, though. “Yeah, he is. And this is the best trauma place in the country. He’s gonna do good.”
    Mrs. White pushed the handkerchief into her face and started to shake and her husband turned toward her. Lucas looked at Roux and tilted his head toward the door. She gave him an almost imperceptible nod and lifted a hand at a priest who was talking with a St. Paul cop. The priest broke away and Roux stepped toward him and whispered, “I think Mrs. White could use a hand…”
    Lester joined them, and Roux lit up as soon as they were outside. The surgeon was starting a new cigarette and stamped his feet and said, “Cold.”
    Roux and Lester and Lucas walked to the end of the driveway as Roux puffed on the cigarette and Lucas filled them in on Mail’s computer shop. When he finished, he said, “We couldn’t put his picture out before, because it might touch him off. Now he knows we’re close, and that’ll do it—he’s gonna kill them. We’ve got to get that picture on the air, everywhere.”
    “How do you know he’ll kill them?” Roux asked.
    “I know. He’s had them a long time. The pressure must be terrific. With this chase, he’ll have cracked like a big fuckin’ egg. And he’s smart. He’ll know we’ve got the van, and he’ll know that we’ll get the computer store, that we’ll get his prints, that we’ll identify him as John Mail. He’ll figure all that out—or he already has.” Lucas nodded toward the hospital. “A cop has a shotgun, and Mail took him on with a club. He’s freaking out.”
    Roux nodded. “All right. We can have the photo out in twenty minutes. He’ll make all the morning news shows.”
    “Ask the TV guys to show the pictures at the beginning of the broadcasts, and to tell everybody to get their friends and come and watch, and show them again a couple of minutes later. As many times as they can. Flatter ’em: tell ’em if TV can’t find the guy, Andi Manette’s gonna die, and the kids, too. That’ll keep them pushing the picture out there.”
    “How long have we got?”
    “No time,” Lucas said. “No time at all. If we don’t find Manette in the next couple of hours, they’re gone.”
    “Unless he’s still in the perimeter,” Lester said.