Mind Prey

is wonderful,” Dunn said. He spread his arms. “Look around. A box for everything and everything in its box.”
    “You seem…sort of lighthearted about this whole thing.”
    Dunn suddenly leaned forward, his face like a stone. “Davenport, I’m so fuckin’ scared I can’t spit. I honest-to-God never knew what it meant, being scared spitless. I thought it was just a phrase, but it’s not…You gotta get my guys back.”
    Lucas grunted and stood up. “You’ll stick around.” It wasn’t a question.
    “Yeah.” Dunn stood up, facing him. “You’re a tough guy, right?”
    “Maybe,” Lucas said.
    “Football, I bet.”
    “Hockey.”
    “Yeah, you got the cuts…Think you could take me?” Dunn had relaxed again, and a faintly amused look crossed his face.
    Lucas nodded. “Yeah.”
    Dunn said, “Huh,” like he didn’t necessarily agree, and then, losing the smile, “What d’you think—you gonna find my wife and kids?”
    “I’ll find them,” Lucas said.
    “But you won’t guarantee their condition,” Dunn said.
    Lucas looked away, into the dark house: he felt like something was pushing his face. “No,” he said to the darkness.

4
    T HE H OMICIDE OFFICE resembled the city room of a slightly seedy small-town daily. Individual cubicles for the detectives were separated by shoulder-high partitions; some desks were neat, others were a swamp of paper and souvenirs. Three different kinds of gray or putty-colored metal file cabinets were stuck wherever there was space. Old fliers and notes and cartoons and bureaucratic missives were tacked or taped on walls and bulletin boards. A brown plastic radio the size of a toaster, the kind last made in the sixties with a big, round tuning dial, sat on top of a file cabinet, a bent steel clothes hanger jammed into the back as an antenna. An adenoidal voice squeaked from the primitive speaker.
    “…is one of the most historical of crimes, from the Rape of the Sabine women to the Lindbergh kidnapping of our own era…”
    Lucas was drinking chicken noodle Soup-in-a-Cup, and paused just inside the door with the cup two inches from his lips. The voice was familiar, but he couldn’t place it until the DJ interrupted:
    You’re listening to Blackjack Billy Walker, go ahead, Edina, with a question for Dr. David Girdler…
    Dr. Girdler, you said a minute ago that kidnapping victims identify with their kidnappers. All I can say is, that’s a perfect example of what happens when the liberal school system shoves this politically correct garbage down the kids’ throats, teaching them things the kids know are wrong but they gotta believe because somebody in authority says so, like these union hacks that call themselves teachers…
    Girdler’s voice was consciously mellow, hushed, artificially and dramatically deepened. He said:
    I understand your feelings—heh heh—about this, although I don’t entirely agree with your sentiments: there are many good teachers. That aside, yes, that identification often takes place and begins within hours of the kidnapping; the victims may actually suggest ways that the police can be more effectively foiled in their efforts…
    Lucas stared at the radio, not believing it. Greave was sitting at his desk, eating a Mr. Goodbar. “Sounds like a fuckin’ politician, doesn’t he? He couldn’t wait to get on the radio. He walked out of the school and drove right down to the station.”
    “How long has he been on?” Lucas finished the Soup-in-a-Cup and dropped the cup in a wastebasket.
    “Hour,” Greave said. “Lotta newsies have been looking for you, by the way.”
    “Fuck ’em,” Lucas said. “For now, anyway.”
    A dozen detectives were milling around the office—everybody from Homicide/Violent Crimes, more from Vice, Sex, and Intelligence. Some were at desks, others were parked on swivel chairs, some were leaning against file cabinets. A very tall man and a very short one were talking golf swings. A guy from Sex elbowed past with a cafeteria tray full of cups of coffee and Coke. Almost everybody was eating or drinking. The office smelled like coffee, microwave popcorn, and Tombstone pizza.
    Harmon Anderson wandered over to Greave’s desk, eating a chicken-salad sandwich. A glob of mayonnaise was stuck to his upper lip. “Anything for a buck,” he said between chews. Anderson was a hillbilly and a computer expert. “Girdler is not a doctor. He has a B.A. in psychology from some redneck college in North