young. He was left with two possibilities, and he didn’t have much faith in either.
He talked to Marcy Sherrill, who said of the twelve tips they got, three were still considered possibilities. “We’ll have more calls coming in overnight,” she said. “I figure the chances we’ll get him are like four to one, against.”
“That’s about right,” Lucas said. “But if he’s still around, we’re gonna scare the shit out of him. That might get us somewhere.”
He took another tip, shifted up by the BCA operator. A man who said, “I don’t want to say my name, but the guy you want is named Robert Sherman. He’s a sex freak and he’s the spitting image of the guy on TV, and he’s the right age-early fifties.”
Lucas checked the number: the guy was calling from a bar.
The guy said, “He lives on Iowa Avenue. In St. Paul.”
And was gone.
Lucas looked at his watch: he could hit Iowa on the way home, check the guy out. Or maybe after dinner…
He did a quick dip into the driver’s license records, decided the guy did look like Fell, but Fell with a mustache. He got an address and date of birth, went out to NCIC to check criminal records, found nothing.
No record, but he was a sex freak?
Called Del on his cell. “What’re you doing?”
“I’m on my way home for dinner. What’s up?”
“You got time after dinner to make a quick stop up in north St. Paul?”
“Sure, as long as I don’t get shot. What’re you doing?”
“Going home,” Lucas said. “But I got a guy I want to look at. Pick you up at your place, at seven?”
“See you then.”
He was home by six; watched the KARE broadcast with Letty and Weather.
“All in all,” Lucas told them, “a fairly satisfactory day. We’ve got the guy’s nuts in a vise.”
“Lucas, watch the language,” Weather said.
The housekeeper stuck her head in from the kitchen: “Everybody come on. Food’s getting cold.”
“Okay, testicles,” Lucas said, as they all headed for the dining room.
“What do you think about the whole concept of nuts-in-a-vise?” Letty asked.
“Letty…” Weather began.
Letty said to her mother, “Something I’m curious about. You see these movies where a guy gets racked in the nuts, and they fall down. But I once shot a guy and he didn’t fall down. In fact, he walked away. So what I want to know is, is racking a guy in the nuts really that powerful? Or is that a myth? I mean, what if I’m attacked someday? Should I kick the guy in the nuts, or what?”
Weather said, “Speaking as a medical doctor…”
Lucas waved her down and focused on his daughter. “Here’s the thing. If you give a guy a really good shot in the nuts-like, if he doesn’t see you coming, and you kick him from behind, right in the crotch, you’re gonna hurt him. He’s gonna hurt bad.
“But-and this is what you need to know: First, guys whack themselves in the nuts every once in a while, by accident, from the time they’re young. We develop really good reflexes for protecting ourselves. You try to kick a guy in the nuts from the front, all he has to do is flinch, and you wind up kicking him in the leg, instead. And, you piss him off.
“Second, when you hit a guy in the nuts, from the front, even if you give him a solid shot, it takes a couple of seconds for the full reaction. You don’t drop him like a sack of… rocks. And what you’ve done, by kicking him, is you’ve gotten close enough that he can get his hands on you. And no matter how bad his nuts hurt, he can hang on to you. And he can kill you. With all the pain, he is seriously pissed, and he just might do that.
“Thing to remember: the average guy is a lot bigger and stronger than the average woman. Best way to protect yourself is to scream and run. If he gets you and pulls you in, go with it. Go in, and go for his nose-try to bite it. Hard-like you were trying to bite through an overdone steak. He’ll let go of you, to try to push you off. When your hand comes free, go for his eyes with your nails. A kick in the nuts, it’s too hard to score, and even if you do, there’s a good chance he’ll still take you down.”
“What if you don’t want to really hurt him, you just want him to quit what he’s doing?” Letty asked.
“If a guy’s a serious threat, you hurt him,” Lucas said. “If he’s not a serious threat-if he’s just messing you around-don’t hurt him. Don’t rip his nose off or his eyes out, don’t kick him in the nuts. But if he’s serious, tough shit. Take him any way you can. Okay? Is that what you wanted to know?”
“That about covers it,” Letty said.
“I hope the new one didn’t hear that,” Weather said, patting her baby bump.
While Lucas and Letty were reviewing testicular vulnerabilities, the killer was cruising Barker’s home in Bloomington. He’d looked her up on Facebook, had taken her husband’s name from that, and then looked them up in the phone book.
And there they were.
He had the old man’s Glock with him. Didn’t need to be a genius to use it. He’d fired it any number of times up at the cabin, back in the woods. Thirteen rounds. Enough to start a war.
Just point and shoot.
He was a little scared, but not too. Quiet neighborhood, close to a freeway where he could quickly get lost.
If he decided to do it.
14
Letty was going to a snobby friend’s prejunior-year party. Letty wasn’t a snob, but something about the whole insider-clique idea appealed to her sense of investigation. She’d dressed carefully, and carefully suggested that it might be good if she were to arrive at the party in a Porsche. With the top down.
Letty had Lucas whipped, so Weather took her in the Porsche, with the top down. And so Lucas was driving the Lexus SUV when he pulled over to pick up Del. Del was standing at the curb outside his house, talking to a guy in a St. Paul Saints hat who had a wiener dog on a leash. Del said goodbye to the guy, climbed in the car, and said, “Maybe I oughta get a wiener dog.”
“You got a toddler, why would you need a dog?” Lucas asked. “Teach the kid to retrieve.”
“Wiener dogs don’t retrieve. They were bred to go down into badger dens and fight the badgers.”
“Hey, that’d be right up your kid’s alley, from what I’ve seen.”
Del refused to rise to the bait: “No, really, I think a kid ought to grow up with a pet. It’s another way to get socialized.”
“When the hell did everybody start worrying about socialization?” Lucas asked. “Look at you. You’re not socialized, and you’ve done okay. Well, I mean, you’re not in jail, anyway.”
“I’m trying to make a serious point,” Del said.
So they talked about it on the way to Robert Sherman’s house on Iowa Avenue. Lucas knew where he was going, he thought, and, despite St. Paul’s insane method of assigning street addresses, didn’t bother to punch the address into the truck’s navigation system. When they ran out of street before they got to the number, they wound up driving around, running into more dead-end streets, muttering to each other, until finally Lucas pulled over and laboriously punched the address into the navigation system.
Iowa Avenue, it turned out, existed in several pieces. The piece that they’d been looking for was a nice- enough neighborhood of older clapboard houses, with a touch of brick here and there, garages added later, full- grown maple and ash trees along the streets, and mailboxes out at the curb.
Sherman’s house sat ten feet or so above the street, with a newer concrete driveway leading to a four-car garage in what had once been the backyard. There were lights in the window. Lucas and Del got out of the car, and
