'If we see him outside without the rifle, we could try to rush him.'
'We could, but he might have something else with him-the pistol he used on Jerry Reasons,' Lucas said.
The radio guy came back: 'All right, I talked to Jim, and they're on the way, the whole bunch of them. Half hour.'
'Let's move in close, and then wait,' Lucas said. 'Just close it up…'
Nadya stayed at his elbow, her face flushed, intent.
The house sat on the north side of the narrow river, with a tiny roll-out dock already pulled up on shore; a twelve-foot aluminum row-boat was turned upside down on the bank beside the dock. The house itself was surrounded by an open grassy yard that extended perhaps thirty feet on all sides, before the trees began; a few marigolds were spotted along the sidewalk to the front door. The driveway cut across the north edge of the yard, leading to the pole barn.
The sniper went with Lucas and Nadya, with Wolfe trailing. One of the other deputies took the east side of the house, the second the west side. They sat and waited. Five minutes passed, then ten.
And then Carl Walther burst from the house, running, rifle in hand, a fat cloth laundry bag over his shoulder. He went straight into the pole barn, head down.
'What's happening?' The sniper asked.
Lucas looked at the cabin roof. 'You've got a satellite TV in there, don't you?' he asked Wolfe. He could see the pie-pan dish.
'Yeah.'
'The fuckin' TV people saw them tearing out of the police station,' Lucas said. The Honda's engine rumbled to life, and Carl backed out of the garage. The cloth bag was attached to a rack behind the seat, held in place with bungee cords. The rifle was in a plastic scabbard.
'Take the tires as soon as he's clear of the garage,' Lucas said to the sniper. 'Watch your guy there in the background.'
The sniper spoke into his shoulder radio and then the Honda was easing out of the garage. 'Take it,' Lucas said.
The sniper waited another two seconds, waiting for an angle, and then took the back tire with a burst of three shots.
Carl tried to accelerate, but the tire flopped on the driveway and he jumped off the Honda, grabbed the gun, looked wildly in their direction, fired a single shot straight up in the air and then ran into the house again.
'What was that about?'
'Scared,' Lucas said. He looked at his watch. 'The other guys are still twenty minutes out. I'm going to call down to him. I'll move off your position, get as close as I can, and yell at him.'
'What if he comes out with the gun?'
'You have to decide. I don't want him killed.'
'Sure you don't want to wait?'
'I'm worried about what he's thinking in there,' Lucas said. 'His grandpa just killed himself.'
Lucas worked his way back into the woods, so the pole barn was between himself and the house. Wolfe stayed with the sniper, but Nadya followed Lucas.
'You can come,' he said, when he saw she was coming no matter what he said, 'but stay out of the way.'
'A woman's voice…' she said.
'You're the woman he once tried to kill. And he almost cut the head off another woman, if he's the one who killed the old lady in Duluth.'
'Still. He might believe he would be safer with me.'
'Just stay out of the fuckin' way, okay?'
They slipped around the corner of the pole barn, inside, out of sight. 'Now just… just get behind the car or something,' Lucas told Nadya.
She was peeking around the corner of the garage access door. The house was fifty feet away, with the Honda disabled halfway between. She didn't move, so Lucas took her by the arm and steered her toward Carl's Chevy. 'Just… stay.'
'I'm not a dog,' she said.
Lucas went back to the garage door and shouted at the house. 'Carl. We need to talk with you. Put the gun away. Put the gun away. If you shoot it at us, you'll go to jail. We need to talk to you, son.'
No answer. Movement on the drapes? Maybe.
'Carl…'
'Go away. You killed my grandpa.' Lucas peeked. Definite movement on the drapes on the far corner of the house. A bedroom, maybe.
'We didn't kill your grandpa.'
Nadya stepped up beside him and Lucas said, 'Jesus Christ, Nadya…'
Nadya called, 'Carl. I have just spoken to your mother. She's afraid you'll be hurt. She wants you to come home, Carl…'
'Go away.'
Lucas: 'We can't go away, son…'
The glass broke in the window where Lucas thought he'd seen drapes moving, and Lucas shoved Nadya, hard, and went after her, pulling her down, and a second later a bullet smashed through the metal side of the building where they'd been standing.
'Jesus…' He pulled at Nadya, and they scrambled behind Carl's Chevy.
Somebody yelled, 'Davenport, you okay?'
'We're okay, hold your fire.'
Another shot ripped through the garage, and then another, and small pieces of metal showered over the Chevy. Daylight streamed through the holes, and Lucas could see inch-long peels of the thin sheet steel where the slugs had punched through. Another shot didn't hit the garage. 'He's shooting up in the woods, now,' Lucas said.
Nadya, on her hands and knees behind the John Deere, shouted, 'Carl, please, we are trying to help you.'
Bam.
Another shot hit the garage and maybe ricocheted off one of the snowmobiles. Wolfe wasn't going to be happy.
A burst of three-one of the deputies up in the woods was shooting back.
'Hold on!' Lucas shouted. 'Hold on… Carl, we've got the house covered. Come on, man, you haven't done anything yet…'
Two more shots tore through the garage. Lucas yelled, 'Carl, man, you're shooting up your own car. You're shooting up your car, Carl…'
Carl reloaded; he had a full load plus two for his pocket. No way out? If he could get to the garage, there was still the car, he could come flying out in the car and go the other way, they'd never think of that, he could drive out the utility access, there might be a couple of small trees and some brush in there… and he thought, nah, you'd never fuckin' make it.
Grandpa's image flashed up in his head: Grandpa dead. The gun's muzzle floated in front of his eyes, a few inches away. He could put the muzzle, up under his chin… wouldn't hurt. He'd go from here and now, to nothing, with nothing in between. Be better than landing in some prison where he'd be living in a shoe box and getting fucked by some old guy.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be underground, or a guerrilla fighter, or something- but not stuck on the bedroom floor of a crappy cabin with a half dozen shells and no food except six cans of soup and some peanut butter. When he saw the thing on TV the cops suddenly speeding out of town, he'd thought they'd be coming, that he'd been spotted somehow, or the Wolfes had talked to somebody. He'd taken five minutes to throw a little camping equipment in a nylon laundry bag, along with the soup and peanut butter, but it was all bullshit, he really knew that-he didn't even have a sleeping bag, or a tent, or good clothes. He'd freeze out there at night.
The muzzle of the gun just hung there, the smell of the powder, not bad; from something to nothing, no pain, no transition…
