Sudden Prey

ran a few feet into the street, through fresh snow, heading toward the dome. As she got into the street, onto snow compacted by traffic, she swerved left.
    An old house, with four or five mailboxes mounted next to the door, was only a few dozen feet away, and behind it, a ramshackle garage. All the windows in the house were dark, but somebody had left it not long ago. A set of tire tracks came out of the garage, into the street.
    Sandy hurried to the drive, tiptoed up the car track, crouched, looked around, then lifted the garage door. The door rolled up easily. The garage was empty, except for three garbage cans and a pile of worn-out tires stacked on one side. She dropped the door, and in the pitch-blackness, felt her way across to the stack of tires and sat down.
    She felt as though she’d been physically beaten, but there was hope now. If she could get to a phone . . .
    Through the walls of the garage, as if from a distance, she could hear the cops calling back and forth, and then more sirens. She sat and waited.
     
     
     
    STADIC AND TWO uniformed cops crossed the street to the Metrodome. A ramp led up from the street to the concourse level, and they climbed it, spread out in a skirmish line. Four cars were parked in the tiny parking area above the ramp. Footprints led from the ramp area to the doors at the base of the dome. They couldn’t tell if anyone else had walked up the ramp.
    “Protect yourself, boys,” Stadic said to the others. “Davenport might be right that she’s helping out, but he don’t know everything. If you come up on her, be ready.”
    The uniforms nodded, and as they approached the line of doors, they saw that one was propped open with a plastic wastebasket. “Five’ll get you ten that she came in here,” one of the cops muttered. They eased through the first set of doors, then went through a revolving door onto the circular concourse.
    Nobody in sight. The concourse was only dimly lit, but somewhere, somebody was running a machine that sounded like an oversized vacuum. Stadic said, “You guys go that way. Holler if you see anything. She could be anywhere.”
    At that instant, one of the cops saw movement over Stadic’s shoulder. He yelled, “Hold it . . . You! Hold it.”
    Stadic spun, and saw a figure in the dim light. The figure had stopped in the center of the concourse, and then the other uniform yelled, “Minneapolis police, hold it.” All three of them trotted toward the figure. A man; a janitor.
    “What happened?” the man asked. He was holding a hot TV dinner in one hand, a plastic fork in the other.
    “Sorry,” the first cop said. He put his pistol away. “You work here?”
    “Uh, yeah . . .”
    “Did you see a woman come through here? Hiding out?”
    “Haven’t seen anybody but the guys down working on the rug,” the man said.
    “The rug?”
    “Yeah, you know, the Astroturf.”
    “All right: we’re looking for a woman. If you see anybody, you let us know. We’ll be walking around the concourse.”
    “What’d she do?” the janitor asked.
    “She’s that woman with the guys killing the cops,” Stadic said.
    “Yeah?” This was something different. “Is she, like . . . armed?”
    “We don’t know,” Stadic said. “Don’t take any chances. If you see her or any of your guys see her, get to a phone.” He waved over his shoulder. There were phones all along the concourse. He scribbled a number on a business card. “Call this number. It’ll ring me, right here, and we’ll come running.”
    The janitor took the card. “I’ll tell the other guys. We don’t try to take her?”
    “No. Don’t go near her,” Stadic said. “We know her sister used to shoot people for sport.”
    “I’ll tell you what I can do—I can go up on top and look down,” the janitor said. “We can get up there, see almost everything inside.”
    “Good. Give me a call,” Stadic said. To the uniforms he said, “You guys go that way. Check all the stairwells, go up and down, look in the women’s cans. I’ll meet you on the other side.”
    “Got it.”
    “And I’ll go up on top,” the janitor said.
     
     
     
    CARS WENT BY every few minutes, some fast, some slow. Sandy could hear nothing else, except the whisper of the falling snow. Finally she stood up and edged back to the door, lifted it two feet, squatted and looked out. Nobody. She pushed it up another foot, duckwalked out into the snow. She looked at the house, the windows still dark, then across the