John Sandford - Field of Prey

She was dead, but the window over the porch was shattered, no way to put that back. He turned off the room light and shut the door, and turned off more lights as he ran back down the stairs.

He stepped over to Andy O’Neill to make sure he was gone; and he was. And then over to Mrs. O’Neill. Gone. He turned out all the lights on the first floor, and with the house dark, left by the side entrance. He jogged across the backyard, crossed the fence, catching the crotch of his pants on the top strand of barbed wire. He carefully unhooked it, and ran through the cornfield.

The night was as silent as ever. Still. He ran on to the far fence line, then out of the field, out to the road, and along the road to the pasture where he’d parked.

Back at the house, Horn was waiting. “Done?”

“There were three of them. I didn’t know about the kid, but it wasn’t a problem.”

“What about the gun?”

“If they come for me tonight, it’s only because they knew I did it. The gun wouldn’t make much difference. .”

“Roger, everything makes a difference,” Horn said. “The gun would be conclusive. You’ve got to get rid of it.”

“Not yet. Not tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll hide it so they’d never find it,” R-A said. “I’m not going out tonight without it.”

“If they hang you with it, it’s not my fault,” Horn said.

They’d worked the whole plan through, but R-A was high on adrenaline and said, “I gotta roll. Gotta roll.”

“Then roll. But roll slow. You don’t want to get stopped by a cop, with that pistol in the car.” Horn sniffed. “You been drinking?”

“Not much, a quick jolt.”

“Go use some mouthwash or toothpaste or whatever you got. You don’t need to get hauled in for drunk driving. You don’t need a cop to remember you.”

“All right. I’ve got some gum, just for that thing.”

And Horn said, “Give me one minute before you go. What was it like, up there at the O’Neills’? Had to be good. .”

R-A headed north in his truck. All he had to do was find a blonde out in the open in Alexandria. Choke her out, drop the typewritten note on her chest. If it didn’t work out, it didn’t work out. He had to remember that: if it didn’t work out, it didn’t work out, and he’d turn around and go home. A ten percent risk, that was okay. Maybe a twenty-five percent risk. Anything more than that, turn right around.

The route took him through the Twin Cities. He hadn’t gotten there when he glanced at the dashboard clock and was surprised how late it was. He worked it through his head. He’d pulled into the ditch around 8:45. It hadn’t gotten dark enough to move for another ten minutes, and then it had been twenty minutes to the O’Neill house. He’d been in the house for probably five minutes, then another ten minutes back to the car, running all the way. So: 9:30 at the car, then back to the house, talking with Horn, he probably hadn’t left the house until 9:40 or so. The bars in Alexandria closed at one o’clock, and it took three hours to get there.

He was too late! He wouldn’t get there until closing time, and he didn’t even know exactly where the bars were.

He slowed, thought about turning around. Giving it up. But: he’d mailed that first letter from Sauk Centre, and on the way out of town, had stopped at a bar for a couple of drinks. He knew how to get there, he knew where the bars were-there were a bunch of them on one big street, quick to get there from I-94.

Hell, Sauk Centre was as good as Alexandria. He’d have only an hour or so to operate, he’d have to get lucky. But if he got lucky, the cops wouldn’t know what hit them. They’d be jumping around like their feet were on fire and their asses were catchin’.

One thing he couldn’t do was drive slow. He’d have to drive fast, and then drive slow coming back. He did that, his back tense, waiting for the flashing red lights to pop up from behind a dip in the road. .

Never happened.

He got to Sauk Centre an hour before closing; found the first two bars almost empty, a few lone divorced guys looking into their beers. The third bar, the Rusty Gate, had an available blonde, sitting with a nice-looking brunette, but the ages were wrong. He needed young. .

He found a young one, all by herself, talking to the bartender at a place called College Town. Four cowboy-looking guys were shooting pool at the back of the bar, while another one, with his girlfriend, watched. A half dozen other couples were scattered around in booths.

R-A took a stool at the bar, ignoring the blonde, and the bartender came over and said, “Getcha?”

“Got Bud on tap?”

“Yup.”

The bartender went and got it, and when he came back, R-A asked, “You about to close?”

The bartender looked over his shoulder at a clock and said, “You got a half hour.”

The bartender went back to talking with the blonde, something about a traffic stop down in Iowa, and the Highway Patrol had taken somebody’s car apart looking for dope, and whoever it was never smoked dope or anything else. . hardly even drank.

R-A couldn’t follow it all. He studied the girl in the mirror behind the bar, and God help him, she was perfect. She had large, strong breasts and a small waist, blond ringlets down to her shoulders. She was wearing a white cotton sweater, with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, and he could see the dark shadow of a black brassiere.

If he’d been ready for another one, for a real one, he’d have put her on his list, and would have watched her for weeks, and then would have closed in. . and. .

He got lost in the fantasy, sipping the beer, and the bartender came over and said, “You want another?”

R-A came back and looked at his glass. The beer was almost gone.

The bartender said, “I only asked, because if you want a third one, you’ll be right at last call.”

“Gimme another,” R-A said, swallowing the last of the beer and pushing the glass across the bar.

It went like that for fifteen minutes, the cowboys in the back laughing and jostling each other around, and R-A got a third one at last call. The bartender and the blonde were running down, and there was a burst of laughter from the back, and then three of the cowboys walked out toward the front, and two of them draped arms around the blonde, from opposite sides, and one of them asked, “Which one of us you goin’ home with, sweet thing?”

The blonde pressed a finger to her perfect lips and her eyes opened wide and she said, “It’s so hard to choose. . but, given the circumstances, maybe I’ll just go home with my husband.”

The third cowboy said, “Goddamned right. Get your cookies in the oven and your buns in the bed.”

She frowned and said, “George, that’s so old and stupid. Don’t say that stupid shit because-”

“It makes you look stupid,” said another one of the cowboys.

“Never made any claims otherwise,” the husband said.

They were all on their feet, moving around, and went out the door in a group.

That was that. R-A finished his third Bud, nodded to the bartender, and went out to the street. Sinclair Lewis Avenue. Other bars were closing around him, up and down the street. Not an unaccompanied woman in sight.

“Well, shit,” R-A said.

Mattsson was asleep in her apartment, but not at ease: too much going on, too many possibilities to think about. When the phone rang at 1:15, she was not entirely asleep, nor was she entirely surprised. The pressure was such that something had to happen.

She kept her phone on her nightstand, picked it up and looked at the screen. There was no name, just a number, from Wisconsin. Thinking, Wrong number , she punched the answer bar and said, “Hello?”