Naked Prey

anyone, that seems like it might be real, give me a call. The comm center here has my number.”
    “So what’re you gonna do?” somebody asked. “Wait for us to call?”
    “We’re gonna go back up and walk the town again. The FBI is up there now—there are rumors about a second kidnap victim, I’m sure, and I can tell you that it seems likely that there were at least two girls, not just one. So . . . ask around. Let me know.”
    B EFORE THEY LEFT, Lucas asked a woman in the comm center if there was any place that they might eat a late lunch that didn’t involve the Bird. She suggested they try Logan’s Fancy Meats, which was down two streets and around the corner, on the right. They tried it, and found a slow-talking thin man standing behind a meat counter. He was wearing hawkish black-plastic-framed glasses, the kind that New York authors wear, and was reading a copy of The Best-Loved Poems of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. He sighed when he put the book down, and said, “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
    Lucas asked, “Those pretty good poems?”
    The thin man’s eyebrows went up; he was skeptical. “You read poetry?”
    “I do,” Lucas said. “I’ve seen the book, but haven’t had a chance to look through it.”
    “It’s very good,” the thin man said. “Do you know Kubla Khan?”
    “Of course,” Lucas said. “Maybe the best beginning of a poem ever written. It’s wonderful.”
    Without prompting, the thin man lifted the book, and read, “In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure dome decree, where Alph the sacred river ran . . . ”
    When he finished, his eyes gone dreamy behind the black glasses, Lucas and Del shuffled their feet, as cops will do when caught listening to poetry, and then Del cleared his throat and said, “Could I have a cold chuck roast sandwich?”
    T HEY LEFT WITH heavy sandwiches on thick rye bread, chuck roast for Del and hot sliced chicken for Lucas, along with bottles of cream soda, and ate in the car on the way back to Broderick.
    “Gonna walk the place again?” Del asked.
    “No choice—things have changed since the fire. This time, we try to scare them into talking . . . if there’s anything worth talking about.”
    W ITHOUT THINKING MUCH about it, Lucas headed for the Cash house, where they could at least be inside. When they pulled up, Cole, the lead FBI agent, coatless, was walking out of the house. A black Lexus sedan was parked in the yard behind the federal cars. A fiftyish couple had apparently just gotten out and were standing passively next to a sheriff’s deputy.
    “Aw, man,” Del said, as they pulled into the yard. “Must be that Burke kid’s folks.”
    “Worst goddamn thing I can think of, having your kid snatched and killed,” Lucas said. “You want to talk to them?”
    “Maybe to see what they have to say,” Del said.
    “Good. Go talk to them. I don’t want to. I’m gonna start hitting all the houses again. Find me when you’re done with them.”
    “All right. We going after Calb? Looks like there are people over at his shop.”
    Lucas looked down the highway. There was smoke coming out of the shop chimney, and a half dozen cars were parked around the lot outside.
    “Maybe wait one day,” Lucas said. “Do the whole town today, and jack him up tomorrow.”

18
    L OREN S INGLETON HURT. The pills helped, but they wouldn’t last. The bleeding, at least, had stopped, but a bruise was growing across his chest, from his breastbone to his armpit. The bullet hole looked like a black mole, clogged with hardening blood. He had a fantasy: drive to Fargo, buy some women’s makeup at a Wal-Mart, paint his chest so it looked okay, then go bare-chested for a minute or so in the deputies’ locker room.
    Then he thought, Why? If they wanted to look at his chest, they’d look at it, whether or not somebody had seen it in the locker room. If they looked at it deliberately, body paint wouldn’t help.
    He thought about calling Katina Lewis, but dismissed that after a moment. They were falling in love, but there was no way that she’d go for the killing of Martha West, no matter how necessary it may have been. He might, in fact, have to break it off with Katina—he could fake the flu for a few days, but if they stayed together, she’d have hisshirt off soon enough. He couldn’t bear the idea, couldn’t stand it.
    He had to do something. Something to fix it all. Something that would fix the whole deal.
    That guy Davenport, at