Secret Prey

pull her jeans on. ‘‘I’ll drive.’’
    ‘‘Bullshit, you will,’’ Lucas said.
    ‘‘I don’t think you’ll be in any shape—’’ she protested, but Lucas cut her off.
    ‘‘I’m fuckin’ driving,’’ he snapped. ‘‘Shoes?’’
    ‘‘I think one of them is under the bed, I think I kicked one under . . .’’
    She was one garment ahead of him, stepping into her Nikes, collecting her revolver and purse from beside the nightstand, heading for the door. Lucas was ten seconds behind, out through the kitchen, into the garage, into the Porsche, slipping out under the garage door before it was fully up.
    ‘‘Flasher,’’ she said, as they hit the street.
    ‘‘Busted,’’ Lucas said.
    ‘‘Better go over to Cretin then, it’s better lit and you’ll hit some college kid if you run like this on Mississippi.’’
    Lucas grunted, downshifted and slid through a corner, punched the car two blocks down to Cretin, ignored the stop sign and cut across the street in front of a small Chevy van and gunned it again; Sherrill braced herself and asked, ‘‘How bad is she?’’
    ‘‘She’s bad,’’ Lucas said.
    ‘‘Take her to Ramsey?’’
    ‘‘Yeah.’’
    ‘‘They notify Minneapolis?’’
    ‘‘That was one of the nuns at the Residence calling, another friend.’’ They clipped the red light at Grand Avenue, barely beat the red at Summit, came up behind a line of cars, and Lucas threw the Porsche into the oncoming lane, whipped by a half-dozen vehicles. ‘‘She was just calling because she knew I’d want to know.’’
    ‘‘Better call Sloan or Del,’’ she said, digging a cell phone out of her purse. ‘‘This is the second run at you. Until we figure out what’s going on, the rest of the guys ought to know.’’
    Lucas risked a glance at her: she was sitting comfortably in the passenger seat, one hand forward to brace herself, the other hand working the cell phone. She was calm and composed, maybe a slight pink flush to her face. He looked to the front again, ran the red light at Randolph, burned past the golf course, and dove down the ramp onto I-94.
    They made a four-and-a-half-minute run to Ramsey Medical Center; Sherrill hooked up with Sloan one minute down the road, filled him in. ‘‘Tell him to find Andi Manette’s home phone number and call her,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘Weather’s staying with the Manettes. Tell Weather about it. She and Elle are pretty tight.’’
    Sherrill passed the word, clicked off the phone, looked at the speedometer. ‘‘That all you can get out of this thing?’’
    ‘‘No,’’ he said, and the needle climbed through 120.
    She watched his face for a moment—a brick, a stone— then looked out at the cars flicking by. Good thing, she thought, that she hadn’t driven. She’d never moved this fast on a vehicle that didn’t have a stewardess.
    LUCAS DUMPED THE PORSCHE IN AN AMBULANCESONLY zone and they banged into the emergency room. A startled nurse turned toward them from the reception desk, and Lucas said, ‘‘I’m Deputy Police Chief Lucas Davenport from Minneapolis and a nun named Elle Kruger was brought in here . . .’’
    ‘‘Yes, yes, she’s in X ray, she just got here, the doctors are working—’’
    ‘‘Where?’’
    ‘‘Sir, I can’t let you go—’’
    ‘‘Where?’’ He shouted it at her, and she stepped back and a couple of male white-coated orderlies started down the hall toward the desk.
    ‘‘Hold it,’’ Sherrill said. ‘‘Miss, can you tell us who the doctor in charge is? Jim Dunaway?’’
    ‘‘No, Larry Simone . . .’’
    ‘‘Okay, he’s a friend of mine. Could you tell him Chief Davenport and Detective Sherrill are here asking about . . .’’
    ‘‘Sister Mary Joseph. Elle Kruger,’’ Lucas said.
    ‘‘I’ll be right back.’’
    As the nurse started down the hall, waving off the orderlies, a thin, ill-tempered man stuck his head in the door and called, ‘‘Hey, whose car is this out here?’’
    ‘‘I’ll get it,’’ Sherrill said to Lucas. ‘‘Gimme the keys.’’
    Lucas dug the keys out and handed them to her. The illtempered man raised his voice: ‘‘I’m asking, who the hell left their car out here—’’
    ‘‘I’ll move it,’’ Sherrill said, walking toward him.
    ‘‘You goddamn well will move it,’’ the man said. ‘‘Or I’ll push that thing right into the wall.’’
    Sherrill stepped to within four inches of his face, her voice low and