The crime spree should have ended when Lucas Davenport killed the female bank robber during the shoot-out. But it’s just beginning, because the woman’s husband isn’t about to let Lucas—or anyone he loves—escape retribution.
WITH A NEW INTRODUCTION BY THE AUTHOR
yellow line. He really did sleep on the yellow line once—on Highway 64, outside a tavern. Dead drunk, of course.” “Do you think he’ll come after us?” Lucas asked. “Are you worried?” asked Sandy, curiously. The big guy didn’t look like he’d worry. “Some,” Lucas said. “ ’Cause I don’t know enough about him. And his wife and his sister—excuse me for saying this, I know Candy was your sister—the things they did were nuts.” Sandy nodded. “That’s from Dick,” she said. “Dick is . . . he’s like an
again, but the wound had to be opened and cleaned. Sandy cut through the skin, carefully, with a razor blade. Fresh blood trickled into the gash, but as soon as she had the entire pathway open, she flushed it with saline, then soaked a sterile gauze pad with more saline and dabbed it clean. At the bottom of the wound, there was a flash of white. Rib bone. “Just touched a rib,” she said to Martin. “I see,” he said, peering into the hole. He was interested in bullet wounds. After a final wash,
Richard Small and Jennifer Carey.” The voice was curiously soft. “That’s your little girl with Jennifer, right?” There was a hard moment of silence, then Davenport said, “Jesus.” “There’s been a truck driving around. I saw him twice when I was out walking my dog. Wisconsin plates. I thought I should call.” And the caller was gone. Lucas exploded out of the chair and ran from the office and through the building to Dispatch. The other four, not understanding, went after him. A PATROL CAR
his chair and onto the linoleum floor, and tried to scramble to his feet. Stadic, moving: “Freeze . . . Freeze.” Stadic was on top of Darling, leaning toward him, the barrel of the shotgun following his face. Stadic shouted, “Police,” and “Down on the floor, down on the floor . . .” With his dark coat blowing around his ankles, the cold wind behind him, and the black gun, he looked like the figure of death. Darling flattened himself on the floor, his hands arched behind his head, shouting,
professional interrogator. He wasn’t sure that Darling was lying, but he also knew that he had no way to control the man. He couldn’t take him with him, couldn’t hold him. And if Darling got in touch with LaChaise, LaChaise would recognize Stadic’s description. A problem. He sat in the kitchen chair with the barrel of the gun pointing at Darling’s chest. “Tell me again,” Stadic said. “You get off at Lexington . . .” “And it must be about six blocks up the road. North. Then right. Just a little