Storm Prey

know it’s a SWAT thing, and they know it’s the hospital grenade guy.”
    “So, what’d you tell them?”
    “I told them what’s going on, threatened them nicely, and they’ll wait here until something happens.”
    “Any more coming?” Lucas asked.
    “They don’t know.”
    Three more stations rolled up in the next forty-five minutes. They let the reporters in the City Hall just to get them off the street. Then Ruffe Ignace, the cop reporter for the Star-Tribune, showed up: “Lucas Davenport and the prettiest little ol’ detective lady west of the Mississippi,” he said.
    Marcy said, “Bite me.”
    “Anytime, anyplace—I mean, anyplace geographically. Or, come to think of it, anatomically. So you got this guy cornered like a rat. When are you going in?”
    “Not till morning. There’s an old lady sleeping in there and we’d like to get her out first,” Marcy said.
    “You running this, or the BCA?” Ignace asked her.
    “It’s a co-op deal,” Lucas said, answering for her. “Minneapolis is handling the investigation, but since we’re out of their jurisdiction down here, BCA is supplying the SWAT. St. Paul Park knows the territory, and they’re setting up with us.”
    “How’d you get in on it?” Ignace asked. “You’re not SWAT.”
    “I needed the overtime,” Lucas said.
    “And you’re sure he’s in there? Last time I went on a SWAT deal, they were outside the house and the guy was at a movie and he comes walking back with a six-pack of Mickey’s wide-mouth—”
    “We know about that,” Marcy said. “No, we don’t know that he’s inside. We’re hoping he’s inside.”
     
     
    HE WAS INSIDE. Not sleeping well. His foot throbbed with his pulse, but he could live with it: the pain was dampened by the drugs. The drugs were doing nothing for his head. He thought, and thought, and couldn’t see a way out.
    If the cops knew enough about him to shout at him in a hallway, and chase him, they knew too much. They’d know his name sooner or later, and then they’d find out where he lived. He didn’t know how they’d do that, but they would.
    If not for the storm, he would have left already. Stop for gas in Iowa, stop for gas in Kentucky, and then those other states ... He could be in Florida in twenty-four hours.
    He tried to plan it out—pack his clothes, not much, put the bike in the van. But what about the van? If they knew his name, they’d find his van plates in California and put out a watch. So he needed new plates ... Needed to sell the van, get cash, buy a new one under another name.
    Lay in bed in the dark, sitting up every once in a while, to run his hands over his head, wishing for daylight.
    He was sitting up when the yelling started. Sounded like a fight. He rolled out of bed, looked out the window across the street. Howard, he thought that was the name, was on his front porch, porch light on, yelling at somebody, and somebody ran up to him from behind a tree, not a kid screwing around, but a grown man, and said something to him, and after a second, Howard stepped back and turned off his porch light and the man followed him into his house.
    Cops.
    Cops outside the house. It could have been something else, but it wasn’t. They’d figured out where he lived, and there they were. He laughed, a short snort: bound to happen sooner or later, and here it was.
    He got dressed in the semi-dark: boots, jeans, sweatshirt, parka. Cigarettes, wallet, baggie of cocaine, gun. Stepped over to the bathroom, careful to stay away from the window, checked the cylinder : four shotgun, two .45 Colts. He stepped back to his dresser, dumped the box of .410 shells into his pocket, took the .45s out of the cylinder and reloaded with .410s. Took four grenades out from under the bed, thought about it, took two more.
    “Nothing to do now, man. Run.”
    Had an image of himself busting out of the garage on the back of the BMW Like a movie. Never happen in the snow. Thought about sliding down a roof, like a movie. Never happen: he’d slid off a roof before and broke his legs.
    Peeked at the window, saw the ruts in the snow: no cars gone by for a while. Wouldn’t have been many anyway, but the snow had killed whatever traffic there might have been.
    But the ruts gave him an idea. He went back to the bed and pulled the sheet off.
     
     
    THE ST. PAUL PARK chief said to Lucas and Marcy, “We had a problem.”
    They were sitting on a bench eating Twinkies and drinking coffee. Marcy: “What