"I'm fucked up," he said, trying on a grin.

"Follow me," she said, tugging at his towel. "We'll try to unfuck you."

The afternoon sun dropped below the eaves and lit up the curtain in Lucas' bedroom. Jennifer pushed him off and swung her legs over the side of the bed, and looked back and said, "That was… frantic."

"I'm not sure I'm still alive," Lucas said. "Christ, I could use a cigarette."

"Were you scared?"

"Almost paralyzed. I wanted to plead, but… it just… I don't know, it wouldn't have done any good… I just wanted to get it off me…"

"This policewoman from New York…"

"Lily…"

"Yeah. There was a press conference, a short one, with Daniel and her and Larry Hart. She looked tough," Jennifer said, watching his face. "She looked like your type."

"I could give a shit about that," Lucas grunted. "The best thing about her is that she used to shoot in combat competition. She had that forty-five in Billy Hood's face in maybe a tenth of a second. Boom. Adios, motherfucker."

"She looked pretty nice," Jennifer said.

"Jesus, yeah. She looks pretty nice. She's a little chubby, but nice-looking."

"She looked a little chubby," Jennifer agreed. Jennifer worked out every morning at a hard-core muscle gym.

"She eats everything in sight," Lucas said. "Jesus, I wish I still smoked."

"So you're all right…"

"Nothing like this has ever happened," he said, bewildered. "I've come close before, shit, with the Maddog I almost got my ass killed. But this got to me… I don't know."

She rubbed his still damp hair and he asked, "Did you go on the date? To the symphony?"

"Yeah."

"How was it?"

"It was okay," she said. "I'll go with him again if he asks, but I won't be sleeping with him."

"Ah. Decent of you to tell me."

"He's just too fuckin' nice," Jennifer said. "No edges. Everything I said, he agreed with."

"He's probably hung like a Tennessee stud horse."

Jennifer's forehead wrinkled. "Men worry about the god-damnedest things," she said.

"I wasn't worried."

"Sure. That's why you mentioned it," she said. "Anyway, even if I did plan to sleep with him, I'd put it off for a while. I keep looking at the baby, and I keep thinking I want to do it again. With the same daddy."

Lucas turned on his side and kissed her on the forehead.

"I'd like to help, whenever you want to. Soon?"

"I think so. In a couple, three months. This time, I'll tell you when I go off the Pill."

He kissed her again and his hand crept over her breast, circling and pressing her nipple with the palm of his hand.

"I'd like a boy," she said.

"Whatever," said Lucas. "Another daughter would be fine with me."

"Maybe we could move it up. Next month, maybe."

"I'll be on the job," he said.

She laughed, shook her head and looked at her watch.

"Think you could stand some more succor? I've got barely enough time."

"Christ, I don't know, I'm getting old…" They made love again, more sedately, and later, when Jennifer was getting dressed, Lucas said, hoarsely, "I didn't want the world to go away. I would never have known, but I kept thinking… I don't even know if I was thinking it, but I was feeling it… I wanted more. More life. Jesus, I was afraid I'd just wink out, like a soap bubble…"

After Jennifer left for the airport, Lucas tried again to nap. Failing, he turned on the television and caught the cable news from Sioux Falls. John Liss was out of surgery; he'd live, but he'd never walk again. The cowboy's shot had taken out a piece of spinal cord just above the hips. They ran the tape of the shooting again, then another time, in slow motion, and then cut to a picture of Lawrence Duber-ville Clay. It was a well-known shot, the director in shirtsleeves on the Chicago waterfront, working a cocaine bust. He had a huge Desert Eagle automatic pistol packed under his arm in an elaborate shoulder holster.

"In a related development, FBI director Lawrence Du-berville Clay has announced that he will go personally to Brookings to take charge of the investigation, and said he expects to set up a temporary national FBI headquarters in Minneapolis until the conspirators are captured," the an-chorwoman said. "Clay said the move should be accomplished in the next two or three days. This is the third time that the FBI director has involved himself with a specific investigation. His action is seen as an administration effort to emphasize the importance given to its war on crime…"

Lucas poked the remote control and Clay's face went away. Three o'clock. He stood, thought a moment, then went back in the kitchen for the rest of the Tanqueray.

CHAPTER 13

Shadow Love saw Billy Hood's death on a television set in the corner of a Lake Street grill. The camera was a full block from the scene, but up high, and it was all as clear as a running play on Monday Night Football.

Billy and the hunter cop. The woman with the purse. Billy moving. Why did he do that? Why did he take his finger off the trigger? The woman's hand coming up with the pistol. The shot, Billy going down like a rag doll, and Davenport kneeling on the pavement, vomiting…

Shadow Love watched it once, watched it again, watched it a third time as the station endlessly ran the tape loop. "The following news broadcast contains scenes of violence and death and may not be appropriate for children. If there are any children in the viewing area…"

And then a running press conference at the shooting scene. Larry Hart: "… have developed evidence that these people are not just killing whites, but have killed one of our own, a Dakota man from Fort Thompson, Yellow Hand…"

Larry Hart on the TV. Sweating. Pleading. Twisting his hands like Judas Iscariot.

The black spot popped up, twitching, growing, blurrin;1, his vision. Shadow Love tried to blink it away, but the anger was stirring through his chest.

Judas. Sweating, pleading…

Hart's face vanished in an electronic instant, to be replaced by that of a woman newscaster. "We've just gotten word that there has been another assassination attempt in Brookings, South Dakota, apparently related to the killings done by the Indian extremist group responsible for the assassinations of the New York commissioner of welfare and a federal judge in Oklahoma. The target of the South Dakota attempt was Elmer Linstad, the state's attorney general…"

The woman paused, looked at her desk, then up again. "CBS news is reporting that Elmer Linstad, attorney general of South Dakota, is dead in an assassination in Brook-ings, South Dakota. His assailant was shot by a bystander and has been taken to a Brookings hospital…"

"Billy's dead and John's been shot." Shadow Love, carrying a long cardboard box, pushed into the apartment. He kicked the door shut and tossed the box on the couch. A printed label on the side of the box said CURTAIN RODS.

"What?" The Crows, startled, stared at him.

"You deaf?" Shadow Love asked. "I said Billy's dead. John's been shot. It's on the TV."

The Crows' apartment had come with a television, but they rarely turned it on during the day. Now they did, and the loops were running.

William Two Horses Hood, the anchorman said, had been positively identified as the slayer of John Andretti, the New York City welfare commissioner. He had been shot to death by a New York police officer after Hood had taken a Minneapolis officer hostage. The Minneapolis officer was not hurt. John Liss, a Sioux Indian from Minneapolis, was in guarded condition in a Brookings hospital…

"That's the hunter cop," Shadow Love said, tapping the screen over the film sequence of Lucas. "He found him."

"Motherfucker," Sam whispered as they watched the tape. Aaron began to weep and Sam patted him on the shoulder. They watched the tape again, then the one of the killing of Linstad, and then a rerun of the on-street press conference, with Larry Hart.