Sudden Prey

the target house, a dark-night tableau. A car parked diagonally across the street, its headlights on a van. A man outside the van, his hands up. More men in the street.
    “There you are,” Butters said, with satisfaction. “I knew you were out there.”
    Lucas saw Butters’s truck: noticed it mostly because it was identical to the truck they were standing next to.
    Del was apologizing to the owner, who had just gotten home from his parents’ farm, and trying to reassure the little girl, who was old enough to be frightened by the men who’d suddenly surrounded them.
    The truck in the intersection paused for just a heartbeat, two heartbeats, then casually rolled on. The driver must have seen the commotion in the street, Lucas thought. “I’ve got a daughter just like you, who lives up the block,” Lucas said to the little girl. “Do you know Sarah Davenport?”
    The girl nodded without saying anything, but now the world was okay.
    “Sure, she knows Sarah . . .” the father was saying, and Lucas made nice and forgot about the other truck.
    And walking away, a shaky, white-faced Del said, “Jesus, I gotta ease off. I almost shot the guy. He didn’t do a fuckin’ thing, I just wanted to do it . . .”
     
     
     
    STADIC THOUGHT ABOUT it all the way into the Cities. He was exhausted from the day on duty, from the drive, from the killing. Through the thinning snow, he had flashes, almost visionlike in their clarity and intensity, of Elmore Darling sitting at the table in the instant before the gunshot. Darling was smiling, hopeful . . . afraid. He was alive. Then he wasn’t. There was no transition, just a noise, and the smell of gunpowder and raw meat, and Elmore Darling wasn’t there anymore.
    The visions frightened Stadic: What was happening? Was he losing it? At the same time, his cop brain was working out the inevitable progression. He now knew where LaChaise and his friends were hiding. If he worked it right, if he came up with the right story, he could ambush them. He needed to draw them out of their house, unsuspecting.
    He could set up outside the house, in the dark, next to their vehicles. Darling said the trucks would be on the street. Then he could prod them out. He could call and say that the cops had been tipped, that they were on the way. They’d have to run for it.
    LaChaise was injured, so only Martin and Butters would be at full strength. He’d catch them as soon as they stepped out on the porch, before they could get the door shut, then he’d go in after the woman.
    But how about the shotgun? Darling had been killed with 00s, maybe he ought to change to 000s? Or maybe just go with the pistol. If he was right there, real close, take them with the pistol and forget the shotgun. Of course, if LaChaise was really hurt, if he didn’t come out, then he’d have to go in after him . . .
    There’d be risk. He couldn’t avoid it.
    And how would he explain the sequence to the St. Paul cops? He could say he’d been tipped to the location by one of the local dopers, but he hadn’t given it much credence. He’d gone to take a look, when he’d stumbled right into them . . .
    But why would he go into the house? Why not fall back and call for an entry team?
    Stadic chewed it over, worried it, all the way down to the Cities. If he was going to do it, he should stop down at his office and pick up a vest. But when he stopped at the office, the first thing he heard was people running in the hallways . . .
     
     
     
    LUCAS STARED OUT through the slats in the venetian blinds. Still dark. “Not coming.”
    “So it was bullshit,” Del said. He yawned.
    “Maybe. Strange call, though,” Lucas said, thinking about it. “Came straight into me. He had the number.”
    “We oughta leave a couple of guys here, just in case,” Del said. “I gotta get down to Hennepin and see Cheryl.”
    “Yeah, take off,” Lucas said.
    Dispatch called: “Lucas?”
    He picked up the handset. “Yes?”
    “A woman called for you. Says she has some information and she wants the ten thousand.”
    “Patch her through.”
    “She hung up. She says her old man might hear her. But she gave her address. She says she wants you to take her out of her house, if her old man gets . . . she said, ‘pissed.’ ” A dispatcher couldn’t say “pissed,” but she could quote “pissed.”
    “What’s the address?” Lucas asked.
    “It’s over on the southeast side . . . you got a pencil?”
    As Lucas took it down, Del