Sudden Prey

“Maybe Butters is still out there.”
    LaChaise seized on the idea: “That’s gotta be it.” To Sandy: “You were talking about it last night, weren’t you? Bailing out on us.”
    “No, we weren’t,” she lied.
    “Don’t give me that shit,” he muttered; he poked spasmodically at the radio, and tripped over the news station again. This time, they were on the air locally:
    “. . . police are flooding the east side neighborhood around Dale on the possibility that one or more members of the gang escaped the house at the same time as Butters. Residents are asked to report unusual foot traffic through their streets, but not to approach anyone they may see. These men are armed and obviously dangerous . . .”
    “C’mon,” LaChaise said impatiently, “what happened?”
    “They got Butters,” Sandy said. “If they know he was one guy coming out of the house, they got him.”
    “Yeah, but is he dead or alive?”
    “. . . we’ve just gotten word from our reporter Tim Mead at Ramsey Medical Center that the St. Paul police officer wounded in the shoot-out has died. We still have no identification, and authorities say the officer won’t be identified until next of kin can be found and notified, but our reporter at Ramsey says the officer definitely has died. With Butters’s death, that brings to two the number of people killed in this latest clash between Twin Cities police officers and the LaChaise gang . . .”
    LaChaise groaned: “Oh, goddamn, they killed Ansel. The sonsofbitches killed Ansel.”
    Martin: “We gotta get under cover. If they got the house, they’ll get my prints. If they get my prints, sooner or later they’ll get this truck. We don’t have much time.”
    The highway was slippery with the snow, and LaChaise finally told Martin to get off and find someplace to park. “We gotta talk this out. We’re in big fuckin’ trouble. We lost our gear.”
    “You got your ’dog, I got my forty-five and the knife.”
    “We lost the heavy stuff,” LaChaise said. He patted his pocket and said, “But I still got Harp’s money.”
    “Dick, you gotta give this up and run for it,” Sandy said. “Drop me off, I’ll call the cops. I’ll tell them I was kidnapped and you let me go. I’ll tell them you’re headed for Alaska or the Yukon, you can head for Mexico.”
    “Aw, that ain’t gonna work,” LaChaise said.
    “The whole thing lasted one day, Dick,” Sandy said, pressing him. “Now you’re on the road, no guns, no transportation, no place to run to.”
    “But we do have some money,” Martin said. “That can get us some guns. And I just thought where we might get a car and a place to hide.”
     
     
     
    MARTIN TOOK THEM into South Minneapolis, to Harp’s laundromat. The laundromat was empty: it was too early and too cold to think about washing laundry. They parked the truck in front of the garage doors, Martin got a claw hammer out of his toolbox, and all three of them walked around to the front. The door that led up the stairs was locked. Martin, with LaChaise blocking, popped the door with the hammer. The lock was old, and not meant to stop much. When Martin pushed the door shut, it caught again.
    “Locks are different at the top,” Martin said quietly. “Best you can buy. And it’s a steel door. But if we can get him to open it, just a crack, there’s nothing but a shitty little safety chain after that.”
    Martin led the way up the stairs. He’d told LaChaise about the pile of cardboard boxes at the top of the stairs. They moved and restacked them until they had a narrow passage to the door.
    “Ready?” Martin had his .45 in his hand, and LaChaise drew his Bulldog.
    “Try it,” LaChaise said.
    Martin banged on the door, then tried the doorbell next to it. And then banged some more.
    “Open up, Harp,” he shouted. “Minneapolis police, open up.”
    Silence.
    Martin tried again. “Goddamnit, open the fuckin’ door, Minneapolis police.”
    They could hear themselves breathing, but felt no vibration, no footfall, no bump or knock that might suggest somebody was home.
    “He should be here, this time of day,” Martin said.
    “Maybe he can’t hear us.”
    “He could hear us . . .” Martin put his ear to the door and stood that way, one hand up to silence LaChaise, for a full minute. Then he looked at LaChaise: “Shit, he’s not here.”
    “We gotta get off the street,” LaChaise said.
    “I know, I know.” Martin looked at the door, shook his head.