Sudden Prey

months earlier. The slug had nicked an artery and she’d almost bled out before they got her to the hospital. Del had pinched the artery so hard that Sherrill had later joked that she felt fine, except for the massive bruise where Del had pinched her leg.
    Putting Sherrill’s face into this, so soon, might be too heavy, Del thought. Sometimes Davenport showed all the common sense of a . . . Del couldn’t think of anything. A trout, maybe.
    “There she goes,” said the voice in his ear.
     
     
     
    THE SALESMAN’S VAN stank of cigar smoke. Candy’s nose wrinkled at the smell, but she wouldn’t have to tolerate it for long. She eased the van out of the parking space, and checked the gas: half a tank, more than enough. She drove slowly up the block, to Dale, down Dale and onto I-94 toward Minneapolis. Georgie and Duane would be waiting at Ham’s Pizza.
    She looked at the speedometer: fifty-four. Perfect. Crooks mostly drove too fast. Dick said they didn’t give a shit about the traffic laws or the other small stuff, and half the time they’d hit a bank, get away clean, then get caught because they were doing sixty-five in a fifty-five. She wouldn’t make that mistake.
    She tried to relax, checked all the mirrors. Nothing unusual. She took the P7 out of her coat pocket, slipped the magazine, pushed on the top shell with her thumb. She could tell by the pressure that she had a full clip.
    Dick always made fun of the little bitty nine-millimeter shells, but she’d stick with them. The small gun felt right in her hand and the muzzle blast was easy to manage. The P7 held thirteen rounds. She could put nine or ten of the thirteen shots into the top of a Campbell’s soup can at twenty-five feet, in less than seven seconds. A couple of times, she’d put all thirteen in.
    Good shooting. Of course, soup-can lids didn’t move. But on the two occasions when she’d been shooting for real, she felt no more pressure than when she’d been outside Dick’s double-wide, banging away at soup-can lids. You didn’t really line anything up, you kept both eyes open and looked across the front sights, tracking, and just at that little corner of time when the sight crossed a shirt pocket or a button or another good aim point, you’d take up the last sixteenth of an inch and . . .
    Pop. Pop, pop.
    Candy got a little hot just thinking about it.
     
     
     
    DANNY KUPICEK HAD long black hair that his wife cut at home, and it fell over his eyes and his oversized glasses so that he looked like a confused shoe clerk. That helped when he was working the dopers: dopers were afraid of anyone too hip. They trusted shoe clerks and insurance salesmen and guys wearing McDonald’s hats. Danny looked like all of those. He pulled the city Dodge to the curb and Del climbed in and Kupicek took off, three hundred yards behind the Chevy van. Del put his hands over the heat vent.
    “I gotta come up with a new persona for the wintertime,” Del said. “Somebody who’s got a warm coat.”
    “State legislator,” Kupicek said. He’d been sitting in the car off the capitol grounds, keeping an eye on Candy’s car. He’d watched the politicians coming and going, and noticed how prosperous they seemed.
    “Nah,” Del said, shaking his head. “I wanna try somebody legit.”
    “Whatever, you gotta keep your head covered,” said Kupicek. He wore heavy corduroy pants, a sweater over a button-down shirt, a wool watch cap and an open parka. “Fifty percent of all heat loss comes from the head.”
    “What do you think the hood is for?” Del asked, pointing over his shoulder.
    “Too loose,” Kupicek said, like he knew what he was talking about. He was nine cars behind Candy when they entered I-94, in the slow lane and two lanes to the right. “You need a stocking cap under there.”
    “Fuck a bunch of stocking caps. I need a desk job is what I need. Maybe I’ll apply for a grant.”
    Kupicek looked at him, the yellow teeth and two-day stubble. “You ain’t grant material,” he said, frankly. “I’m grant material. Sherrill’s grant material. Even Franklin is grant material. You, you ain’t grant material.”
    “Fuck you and your wife and all your little children,” Del said. He picked up Kupicek’s handset. “Lucas, you there?”
    Davenport came back instantly: “We’re setting up in the Swann parking lot. Where is she?”
    “Just passing Lexington,” Del said.
    “Stay with her. When she gets off at 280, let me know as soon