Storm Prey

place than you can believe. We could search for a hundred years and not find him.”
    Another sergeant said, “The TV people are calling it a terrorist attack, because of the grenades. Somebody ought to say something, if it’s just some cracker shooting up the place.”
    Lucas called Marcy and told her about the terrorism reports, and she said, “Yeah, we know. I’m going out to talk to them in five minutes. I’ll try to pour water on it. You remember his face well enough to do a sketch?”
    “Not really—just generic skinhead.”
    “Yeah, I’m the same. I was looking at Mack, I hardly paid any attention to him. Check. Shrake and Virgil, maybe one of them could do it. I’d like something to throw out there.”
    “It’s gonna be a screamer, isn’t it?”
    “Yeah. Biggest thing since the bridge fell down. Thing is, you’re working for WCCO, and if it’s a biker going crazy because of a robbery, it’s a local story. If it’s some kind of terror attack on a hospital in the middle of a twins separation, you’ll go network. Now what are you going to do?”
    “What an unhealthy way to look at life,” Lucas said. “I’m shocked. Shocked.”
    “Think about this: Shaheen was a Muslim.”
    “Ah, man ...”
     
     
    BARAKAT HAD BEEN reading a magazine when the trouble started. He didn’t hear any gunfire or grenades, because he was too far away, but then cops started pouring through the doors, and he figured something had happened.
    Had Cappy hit Karkinnen? The cops acted like it. He checked out with the OR nurse and headed toward the operating suite; saw a nurse go by, whom he recognized from the separation team, stopped her and asked, “Is it done?”
    “They’re separate,” she said, moving around. “What the heck are these policemen? Did something happen?”
    So, whatever it was, it wasn’t Karkinnen.
    Then the rumors started, and finally, Cappy called.
    After that, he sat out the end of the shift, a full hour, afraid to move early, praying that he wouldn’t get a last-minute case. He didn’t, briefed the night crew, and changed into street clothes. On his way out, he saw the separation crew, or many of them, heading for the door. Maret had been on television a half hour earlier, with the parents: the kids were doing well, and Sara was getting the full heart treatment she’d needed since she was born.
    Maret and both of the Rayneses cried for the cameras, did a group hug, and then somebody asked, “Do you think this terrorist attack was because of the separation surgery?”
    That had ended the press conference.
    Now, most of the team went out the door, into the falling snow, Barakat tagging along, a half-block behind. They were all walking, going down the street as a group, Karkinnen with them, and the cowboy cop. Happy, laughing, expansive ... Two blocks down to a French restaurant. Barakat stood outside, hands in his coat pockets, and watched them go up an interior stairs, to a private dining room.
    Nothing to do. No way to get at her.
    He walked away, heading home.
     
     
    VIRGIL SAW WEATHER up to the private dining room, then walked back down and around the corner and got two bottles of Schell’s Snowstorm beer, got the store guy to crack the caps, put them in his pockets and walked back to Le Moue, and up the stairs. Weather was working on a daiquiri when he slipped in next to her, and a woman said in a French accent, “Do you wish anything to drink?”
    Virgil said, “Water would be fine.”
    Weather: “We got a bunch of finger food coming ...”
    Somebody else said, “When Rick was doing that last cut, I flashed on this thing, I mean, we were pulling them apart. Like, if there was some psychic connection between them, what would be going through their brains when we actually finally moved them ... ?”
    Virgil took one of the Snowstorms out of his coat pocket, flipped the top off, took a hit, leaned close to Weather and said, quietly, “You heard the doc was killed?”
    She turned, said, “What?” a smile dying on her face.
    He told her about the discovery of Shaheen. “So he was kind of like an Arab-he was Lebanese, a Muslim, and he did have an accent.”
    She frowned. “What’d he look like?”
    Virgil said, “You know-dark-complected, dark hair, worn a little long, a black mustache.”
    “Oh my God,” she said. “I saw him. The day of the robbery. He was in an elevator with me, when I was coming down from the parking ramp. I completely forgot about it.”
    “Huh.