Shadow Prey

collect Aaron’s papers. The rest of their possessions would be left behind.
    “Whoever it was, maybe they were wrong,” Aaron panted as they started down the stairs.
    “They weren’t wrong. You think somebody’d just call . . . ?”
    “No. And it was an Indian guy. He had the accent . . . .”
    Sam stopped at the first-floor landing and peered out at the street.
    “Through the back,” he said after a second. “There’s a guy walking down the street.”
    “What about the truck?” Aaron asked as he trailed behind his cousin.
    “If they know us, if they’ve got our names, they’ll know about the truck. And our fingerprints are all over that room . . . .”
    They went down another flight into the basement, then out past the furnace and a storage room, and up a short flight of concrete steps into an alley. The darkness was broken by lights from back windows of the apartments and of houses on the other side of the alley.
    “Right through the yard,” Sam said in a whisper.
    “They’ll think we’re window peepers,” Aaron said.
    “Shhh.”
    They crossed the yard, crouching, staying close to the garage and then to a hedge.
    “Watch the clothesline,” Sam muttered a second too late. The wire line snapped Aaron across the bridge of the nose.
    “Ah, boy, that hurt,” he said, holding his nose.
    “Quiet . . .”
    They stopped behind a bridal-wreath bush by the corner of the house. A car was moving along the street; it slowed and stopped at the corner. A few seconds later, two men got out. One leaned against the fender of the car and lit a cigarette. The other wandered down the sidewalk toward the back of the Crows’ apartment house. They looked like street people but walked with a hard confidence.
    “Cops,” Sam whispered.
    “We got to get across the street before everything is blocked,” Aaron said.
    “C’mon.” Sam led the way again, dragging the duffel bag. They went down the length of the block, crossing yards behind the houses. Most windows were still lit. They heard music from several, or television dialogue muffled by the closed windows.
    Aaron suddenly laughed, a delighted sound that stopped Sam in his tracks.
    “What?”
    “Remember back in Rapid City, when we was hittingthose houses? Shit, we wasn’t hardly teenagers . . . . It feels kind of good.”
    “Asshole,” Sam grunted, but a moment later he chuckled. “I remember that broad with the yellow towel . . . .”
    “Oh yeah . . .”
    At the last house, they moved into a hedge and looked into the street.
    “Nobody,” said Sam. “Unless they’re sitting in one of those cars.”
    “Right straight across and into the alley,” Aaron said. “Go.”
    They crossed the street as quickly as they could, the duffel banging against Sam’s legs. They hurried down the length of the alley.
    “I can’t carry this motherfucker much farther,” Sam panted.
    “There’s a phone up by the SuperAmerica store. One more block,” Aaron said.
    They humped down another alley, Aaron helping with the duffel bag. At the end of the alley they stopped, and Aaron sat down behind between a bush and a chain-link fence. The Superamerica was straight across the street, the phone mounted on an outside wall.
    “I’ll call Barbara,” Sam said, fumbling for change. “You wait here. Stay out of sight. I’ll have her pull right into the alley.”
    “What about Shadow Love? If this is right, if there are cops, he’ll walk right into them.”
    “There’s nothing we can do about that,” Sam said bleakly. “We gotta hope that he spots them, or calls Barb.”
    “Maybe it’s nothing,” Aaron said.
    “Bullshit,” said Sam. “Those were cops. They figured us out, cousin. They’re on our ass.”

CHAPTER
17
    Two pickups and a car with a Sioux Falls television logo were angle-parked outside the all-night coffee shop. A single man in a cowboy hat sat in a window booth, hunched over a cup of coffee and a grilled-cheese sandwich. Lucas hesitated outside the window, looking in, then followed Lily through the door.
    “Checking for Jennifer?” she asked with a small smile.
    Lucas blushed. “Well, it’d be better if she weren’t . . .”
    “Sure.” He followed her down the row of booths, watching her hips. She’d changed from slacks to a dress and low heels. She still carried the shoulder bag with the .45.
    The waitress, a tired young woman with vagrant strands of black hair dangling in her face, took their order of