Sudden Prey

the kids back. I just want back on the roll,” the woman said. “You gotta fix it.”
    “I’ll ask, but I can’t promise,” Lucas said. “Now, where are they?”
    “Over in Frogtown,” she said. “I got the address written down.”
    “What about the cop?” Lucas asked. “Who’d you send him to?”
    The woman shook her head. “We didn’t know any cop. Dex just gave him names of some dopers who might know.”
    Lucas turned to her husband. “What dopers?”
    “Fuck you,” Dex said.
    “Gonna give you some time to think about it,” Lucas said, poking a finger in Dexter’s face. “Down in the jail. For the shit.” He held up the bag. “If you think about it fast enough, maybe you can buy out of the murder charge.”
    “Fuck that, I want a lawyer,” Dex said.
    “Take him,” Lucas said to the patrolmen. To the woman: “Gimme the address.”
     
     
     
    LACHAISE WOKE UP sober but hung over. He stood up, carefully, walked down to the bathroom, closed the door, found the light switch and flicked it on, took a leak, flushed the toilet.
    He’d been sleeping in his jeans, T-shirt and socks. He pulled up the shirt to check the bandage on his ribs, looking in the cracked mirror over the sink, but saw no signs of blood, just the dried iodine compound. Best of all, he didn’t feel seriously injured: he’d been hurt in bike accidents and fights, and he knew the coming-apart feeling of a bad injury. This just plain hurt.
    The house was silent. He stepped back out of the bathroom, walked down the hall to the next room and pushed the door open. Sandy was curled on the bed, wrapped in a blanket.
    “You asleep?” he asked quietly.
    There was no response, but he thought she might be awake. He was about to ask again, when there was a noise in the hall. He stepped back, and saw Martin padding down the hallway, a .45 in his hand. When Martin saw LaChaise, his forehead wrinkled.
    “You all right?” Martin asked.
    “I’m sore, but I been a lot worse,” LaChaise said. “Where’s Ansel?”
    “He went to see about that Davenport kid.”
    “Jesus Christ, that’s my job,” LaChaise said.
    Martin’s mouth jerked; he might have been trying to smile. “He figured you’d think that. But he thought it might be a trap and he figured, you know, you’re the valuable one. You’re the brains of the operation.”
    “Shoulda told me,” LaChaise growled.
    “You was drunk.”
    Sandy pushed herself up. Beneath the blanket, LaChaise noticed, she’d been wrapped in a parka. “What’s going on?”
    “Ansel went after the cop’s kid,” LaChaise said. He looked at her in the long coat, and said, “What’s wrong with you? What’s the parka for?”
    “It’s like a meat locker in here,” she said, crossing her arms and shivering.
    “Bullshit: she wants to be ready to run,” Martin growled.
    LaChaise turned to her: “You run, we’ll cut your fuckin’ throat. And if you did get away . . .” He dug in his shirt pocket, and came up with a stack of photographs. Two men sitting at a table, one black, one white. LaChaise riffled them at her like a deck of cards. “We got a cop on the string. The only way he gets out is if we get away, or we’re all dead. If you get away from us, and go to the cops, he’ll have to come after you, in case you know his name. Think about that: we’ve got a cop who’ll kill you, and you don’t know who it is.” He put the photos back in his pocket.
    Sandy shivered. “I’m not thinking about running,” she said. “I’m just cold.”
    “Bullshit,” Martin snorted.
    “Whyn’t you put some shoes on?” LaChaise said. “Let’s go out.”
    “Go out?” she asked doubtfully. She looked toward a window: it was pitch black outside. Then she looked back at LaChaise. “Dick, you’re hurt . . .”
    “Hell, it ain’t that bad. There’s no bleeding. And I can’t be cooped up in here,” LaChaise said. Despite the headache, he was almost cheerful.
    “I’d rather stay here.”
    “Don’t be an asshole,” he snapped. “Let’s go out and see what’s cookin’. One of you can drive, I’ll sit in the back.”
     
     
     
    WHILE SANDY AND Martin got ready, LaChaise turned on the television, clicked around the channels and found nothing of interest but a weather forecast. The snow would diminish during the morning, and the sun might peek through in the afternoon. Big trouble was cranking up in the Southwest, but it was several days away.
    “Cold,” Martin grunted,