Buried Prey Part 27

"You want me to do it?"

"I want you to come along when I do it-follow me over there. I can go home from there. You can take notes. Somebody's got to take notes."

Buster got the address from the DMV, and a cell phone number from someplace else. Kelly Barker would be pleased to talk to Sherrill; she'd be at home all evening.

So Marcy and Buster headed out in two cars, down I-35W through south Minneapolis, past the airport and then west on I-494 and south again, a half-hour of easy driving, the sun slanting down toward the northwestern horizon.

Marcy thought about Davenport-he really was an arrogant b.a.s.t.a.r.d in a lot of ways, good-looking, rich, flaunting it with the car and the outrageously gorgeous Italian suits. But they'd once been involved in a case that led more or less directly to bed . . . forty days and forty nights, as Davenport referred to their affair. It had been short but sweet, and she still had a soft spot for him.

If he ever left Weather, would Marcy go back? Well, he was never going to leave Weather, for one thing. He was so loyal that once you were his friend, you stayed his friend, even if you didn't want to . . . and he was married to Weather and that would last right up to the grave, no doubt about it. But, speaking of the grave, if Weather got hit by a train, and Davenport, after a suitable interval, expressed a need for some female companions.h.i.+p . . .

Maybe. But what about Rick? Well, Rick was interesting, but he made his money by calling people up on the telephone, and talking to them about investments. He liked having a cop on his arm, and insisted that she carry a gun when they went out at night. She would have anyway; she'd always liked guns.

Still, she wasn't much interested in being somebody's trophy. She'd gone out with an artist for a while, a guy who reminded her of a crazier version of Davenport-in fact, he'd been a wrestler at the U at the same time Davenport had been playing hockey, and they knew each other, part of the band of jock-o brothers.

Huh. The artist had been . . . hot. Crazy, maybe, but hot. After they'd split up, he'd gone and married some chick he'd known forever, and Davenport had told her that he and the chick even went and had a kid.

Had a kid.

She'd like a kid . . . but, it'd have to be soon. Rick wasn't the best daddy material in the world. He had the attention span of a banana slug, and didn't seem like the kind who'd be interested in the p.o.o.p-and-midnight-bottle routine.

There was another guy, too, an orthopedic surgeon who wore cowboy boots and rode cutting horses on the weekends, out of a ranch north of the Cities. He was divorced but getting ripe, looking at her, from time to time, and she felt a little buzz in his presence. And she liked horses.

Possibilities.

She smiled to herself and turned on the satellite radio. Lucinda Williams came up with "Joy," quite the apposite little tune, given her contemplation of the boys in her life. . . .

WHILE SHE WAS HEADING SOUTH, the killer was roaming around Bloomington, going back again and again to Kelly Barker's house, not knowing exactly what he planned to do; whatever it was, he had to wait until she got home, and she'd already kept him waiting so long that he felt the rage starting to burn under his belt buckle.

He was one morose and angry motherf.u.c.ker, he admitted to himself, and things weren't getting any better. He had no life, had never had one. He had a c.r.a.ppy house, a c.r.a.ppy van, a c.r.a.ppy income, and no prospects. He collected and resold junk. He was a junk dealer. He had a bald spot at the top of his head, growing like a forest fire at Yellowstone. He was so overweight he could barely see his own d.i.c.k. He had recurrent outbreaks of acne, despite his age, and the cardiologist said that if he didn't lose seventyfive pounds, he was going to die. And he had dandruff. Bad.

Dumb and doomed: even in Thailand, he could see the disregard, the contempt, in the eyes of the little girls he used. They weren't even frightened of him.

Might just want to stick a gun in his mouth . . . some other time.

Some other time, because right now he was in an ugly mood, and the mood was feeding on itself, and he had that gun, and he had the address of the only woman who could identify him for sure.

He went around the block and this time, there were lights on in the window, and he saw a shadow cross a drape. They were home.

All right, he thought; time for tactics.

He did a few more laps, took a long look at the neighbors. The Barkers' street was quiet enough, but there were lights in almost every house. On the street behind the Barkers', though, two dark houses sat side by side. If he parked on that street, he could cut between the two houses, walk down the side of the Barkers' place, and around to the front door.

Ring the bell, kill the b.i.t.c.h, and wheel. If her husband answered, knock him down with a couple of shots, go in after the woman, put her down, and go out the back.

He pulled into a parking lot and parked, getting his guts up; sat and thought and then reached out to the glove box, opened it, and lifted out the fake black beard. Wouldn't fool anyone from two feet, but it'd be good enough from eight or ten or fifty. It had little pull-off tabs that uncovered sticky tape. He pulled them off, threw them on the floor of the car, and stuck the beard on his face using the rearview mirror to get the position right. When he was satisfied, he pressed the tapes hard, ten seconds each, then smacked his lips to make sure it was on tight.

Ready to go.

Careful not to leave any DNA, not to touch anything. Let the bullets do the talking.

Speaking of which . . .

He checked around again to make sure he wasn't being observed, took the sh.e.l.ls out of the pistol's magazine, and polished each one with a Kleenex, taking care not to touch them again as he pushed them back into the magazine, one by one.

Thirteen rounds.

Barker's unlucky number.

BUSTER HILL SAID, as they crossed the street, after parking, "When you see her on TV, you gotta think she's having a good time. I mean, she's been doing this for what, almost twenty years?"

"She likes it," Marcy agreed. "If you're a victim, at least you're something. You're not just another nonent.i.ty."

"Got some drama in your life," Hill said.

"Exactly," Marcy said. They got to the door and Marcy rang, and Kelly Barker answered, a puppy-like eagerness on her face.

"Officer Sherrill? Come on in-you have to excuse the house, we've been running around like mad dogs since this started."

Her husband was smiling in the background, as eager as his wife. Marcy could smell coffee and coffee cake, and smiled, and led Buster inside.

She could use some coffee cake.

THE KILLER COULDN'T BELIEVE that he was going to do it, but he was. He just . . . did it. He parked on the street behind the Barkers' house, got out, looked up and down the street-lots of lights, no people, all inside eating dinner, or watching TV, though it was a beautiful evening.

Started walking. When he got around the block, there was a new car parked on the street across from the Barkers' but n.o.body in sight. That was the last moment that he might have turned around.

Instead, he put his hand on the Glock, in his jacket pocket, made sure the safety was off, and walked quickly across the yard and down between the two dark houses, pushed through a sickly hedge, and continued through the Barkers' backyard, down the side of their house, and around to the front.

Looked up and down the street, saw n.o.body watching, rang the doorbell. Heard the faint cadences of people talking, and footfalls on the floor inside. The k.n.o.b turned, and he was looking at a thirty-something guy, a guy with an eager white face over a JCPenney suit. . . .

The killer shot the guy three times, bap-bap-bap bap-bap-bap, and he went down, and the killer took a step forward, following the muzzle of his gun, saw three people frozen on the living room couch and then a dark-haired woman was moving and a big fat guy, and they seemed to have guns and the killer ripped out ten shots without stopping, just pointed the gun and let it rip, fast as he could move his finger, and saw people falling and then something tore at his side and he was running . . .

Didn't think, didn't hear, didn't do anything but run.

MARCY HAD A SWEET ROLL in one hand-tasted good, she hadn't had anything to eat since lunch-when the doorbell rang. Todd Barker got up and said, "I'll get it, it's probably Jim," and went to the door. Kelly Barker said, "Jim's from just down the street. He was going to record all the TV-"

And Todd Barker opened the door and there were three shots and he went down, and a black-bearded fat man was there with a gun and Marcy made a move for her pistol and could feel Buster making a move . . .

Then it all went away for Marcy Sherrill, as swiftly and surely as the light fleeing a shattered bulb; gone into darkness.

No more Davenport and his suits, no more Rick or the hot artist, no more lunches with pals at the police force, no more fistfights, no more surgeons on cutting horses, no more politics, no more anything.

The killer's fifth wild shot, sprayed across the room, caught Marcy Sherrill under the chin, blew through her throat and spinal cord, and she died without even knowing it, without being able to say goodbye or feel any regret, with the taste of a sweet roll on her tongue. . . .

Nothing, again, forever.

16.

Lucas dropped the hammer on the Lexus, burning down Rice Street, blowing through a red light at Arlington, with barely a hesitation. Berg, cuffed in the backseat, called, "Whoa, whoa, whoa," and Del, holding on to an overhead hand grip, said, "I wonder what those crazy f.u.c.ks have done this time?"

"I don't know. I don't know why they wouldn't tell me," Lucas said. "Why wouldn't they tell me?"

Maryland wasn't far. "Maryland? What's at Maryland?" Del asked. "Was there something going on there?"

"Not as far as I know," Lucas said. "They were working those home invasions down in South St. Paul. . . ."

Shrake and Jenkins had many sterling qualities, but discretion wasn't one of them: to hear them freaked and screaming for lights and sirens meant something bad was happening or about to happen. "Something bad, man, something really bad," Lucas said.

Del put his feet on the dash and dug his pistol out and checked it. From the back, Berg cried, "What's happening? What's happening?" and Del said, "Shut up, a.s.shole."

Three blocks ahead, they saw Jenkins's personal Crown Vic slew across the intersection and then disappear into what must be the parking lot.

They were there in ten seconds, saw Jenkins and Shrake standing outside the Crown Vic looking up the street at them, and Del said, "They're just standing there," and he reholstered his pistol, and then Lucas put the truck into the parking lot, bouncing to a stop next to the two big agents.

He and Del were out, and Jenkins pointed at Berg through the back window of the Lexus and asked, "Who's he?"

Lucas asked, "Jesus, what's going on? What's going on?"

"Who's the guy?" Jenkins asked again.

His voice carried a peculiar intensity that made Lucas stop, and answer: "We're transporting him down to Ramsey on a.s.sault."

Jenkins said to Shrake, "Get him out of there," and to Lucas: "We'll take him."

Shrake went around and jerked open the back door. Lucas said, "Jenkins, G.o.dd.a.m.nit-"

"Marcy Sherrill's been shot," Jenkins said. "She was over at that Barker chick's house, and somebody came cras.h.i.+ng in and shot the place up. Three people hit, the shooter's maybe hit, it's all confused, it's all f.u.c.ked up."

Lucas grabbed Jenkins's arm: "How bad? Where're they taking her? Where're they taking her?"

Jenkins shook his head: "They're not transporting her."

Lucas's mind froze for a minute, then: "What?"

"They're not transporting, man." Jenkins moved up and threw an arm around Lucas's shoulder. "She's gone, man. That's what they're telling us."

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LUCAS STARED AT HIM for a moment, and then Del said, his voice shaking, "We're going. Get that f.u.c.ker out of there . . ." gesturing at Berg. Shrake yanked the thin man out of the back of the truck and slammed the door.

Del ran around to the driver's side, and Lucas said, "No, I got it," and Del said, "Bulls.h.i.+t, I'm driving. Get in. Get the f.u.c.k in the car."

Del drove fast, but not crazy, as Lucas would have, all the way across town, with Lucas yelling suggestions at him, onto I-94, off I-94 at Cretin Avenue, south down Cretin at sixty miles an hour, then across the bridge and past the airport and the Mall of America and down into Bloomington's suburban maze.

And all the way, with the sick feeling of doom in his gut, Lucas was yelling out reasons why it couldn't be right: one of the best hospitals in the metro area was five minutes from the Barkers' house; they would have transported her no matter what, there was a lot of confusion, that f.u.c.kin' Jenkins had it wrong.

Del just drove and once in a while, shook his head. Jenkins, he believed, wouldn't make that kind of mistake. He was a thug, but a smart one, and not insensitive. He didn't say it, kept his foot down and shook his head as Lucas shouted out possibilities.

THERE WERE BLOOMINGTON COPS all over the place, and the street down to Barker's house was blocked off. Del rolled the Lexus past the blocking black-and-white, hanging his BCA credentials out the window, and put the truck in a vacant spot a halfblock from the Barker house.

They climbed down and jogged past a half-dozen uniformed Bloomington cops coming and going, cutting across a couple of yards, swerving around a loop of crime-scene tape to a detective standing out in the yard. He looked up as Lucas and Del came up and said, "I know you-"

"Davenport and Capslock, with the BCA," Lucas said. "We heard that Marcy Sherrill was down. Is she . . . ?"

The cop shook his head: "You were with Minneapolis, right?"

"Yeah, we both were. We're close friends of hers."

"I'm John Rimes, I'm running the scene right now. I'll let you go in," he said. "But you might not want to . . . have to go around to the side door."

"Man, she's . . ." Lucas held his hands out, palms up, pleading.

Rimes nodded. "She's gone. We got two more down, another cop named Buster Hill, and Todd Barker, the husband here-"

"Aw, man." Lucas stopped, put his hand to his forehead. Del put a hand on his shoulder. "Aw . . . can't be right."