Sudden Prey

Let’s go after the cops.”
     
     
     
    SANDY AGREED THAT she could change their hair color. She had a flatness about her that provoked LaChaise: “What’s wrong with you?”
    “When we got into this, Elmore said that in two or three days we’d all be dead. He wanted to go to the cops, and I talked him out of it.”
    Martin and LaChaise looked at each other, and then LaChaise said, “Why? Why’d you talk him out of it?”
    “Because I thought I could still fix things. Get you out of here; pretend I didn’t have anything to do with anything. Now they’ve got me on TV, and they’ll have Martin pretty soon. Elmore was right: he’s dead now and Butters is dead. Not even twenty-four hours yet. If Elmore was right, we’ve got another two days at the most. Then we’ll all be dead.”
    She looked at LaChaise: “You want to be dead?”
    Martin answered: “No big deal.”
    LaChaise said nothing at all for a moment, then poked a finger at her: “I don’t want to hear this shit no more. You go on with Martin, and get the hair stuff.”
    “My picture . . .”
    “You don’t look like that picture—nobody’ll know you,” LaChaise said. “And we need the right stuff.”
    “I might want to make a couple of extra stops,” Martin said. “They’ll have my picture out there as soon as the prints come in. But if I get movin’, I could tap a couple of friends for some decent weapons . . . guys I know from the shows. And we gotta dump the truck, sooner or later.”
    “We can do that tonight,” LaChaise said. “Take the Continental, put the truck in the garage for now.” He smacked his hands together. “Get a couple of ARs if you can . . .” LaChaise dug in his pocket for the money Butters had taken from Harp. “Couple thousand?”
    “Better make it four,” Martin said.
    “Call me before you talk to anybody—I’ll watch television for your face,” LaChaise said. “And I might try Stadic again. See if he’s heard anything.”
     
     
     
    THEY WENT TO a Snyder’s drugstore, Martin sticking close to her. Sandy already knew she was going to run for it, given the smallest opening: But Martin knew it too, she thought. They went through the store, and got bleach and coloring. Martin poked through a large industrial first-aid kit, and finally took it off the shelf. “Gonna have to change Dick’s bandage sooner or later,” he said in a low voice.
    Just short of the cash register line, he bumped into a rack of commercial trail food and twirled it: he’d always kept some of the stuff around. As he was looking at the varieties, Sandy noticed a telephone by the pharmacy desk.
    “Got a quarter? I’ll call Dick.”
    “Yeah,” Martin said absently. He dug in his pocket, handed her a quarter. She went to the pay phone, dropped the quarter, punched the number in: LaChaise answered.
    “Anything?” she asked.
    “Not a thing; same old bullshit,” he said. “I’m gonna take a nap.”
    She hung up and saw the note on the bottom of the machine: 911—No charge. She looked at Martin. He’d just stepped into the cash register line, and his back was to her. She picked up the phone again, bit her lip and punched in the number.
    A woman answered immediately.
    “Is this an emergency?”
    “Yes, I need to talk to Detective Davenport.”
    “I’m sorry, but this . . .”
    “Please, please, please, I’ve got to talk to him, or they’ll kill me.”
    “Are you in immediate danger?”
    “No. Yes . . . I don’t know.”
    “Just a minute, please.”
    Lucas was taking a nap in his office, stretched out on a plastic air mattress. The mattress was uncomfortable and cold, but the office was dark and quiet and he dropped off, slept for an hour and a half. The phone woke him up.
    “Lucas, we’ve got a call coming in on 911. The woman wants to speak to you, but she’s not sure whether she’s in danger. She’s calling from a Snyder’s down on the south side. We’re not sending anyone yet.”
    “Okay,” Lucas said sleepily. “Put her on.”
    “You want us to stay on the line?”
    “Sure . . . unless I say something.”
    The phone clicked once, and the dispatcher said, “Go ahead, ma’am. Chief Davenport is on the line.”
    “Hello?” Lucas said.
    “Is this Detective Davenport?” A woman’s voice, tentative, vaguely familiar.
    He sat up. Could this be . . . ? “Yes, who’s this?”
    “This is Sandy Darling, I’m with Bill Martin and they’re gonna kill me.”
    Jesus, Lucas thought. He prayed