Shelly Breedlove, a reporter for Channel 8, was staring spitefully at them from across the room. She'd made the connection on TV3's exclusive break on Larry Hart's murder.

Jennifer smiled pleasantly back and said, "Fuck you, bitch," under her breath. To Lucas she said, "Are you on your way home?"

"Yeah."

"I've got a baby-sitter…"

Lucas slept poorly, his legs twitching, curling, uncurling. Jennifer curled against his bare back, her forehead against the nape of his neck, tears trickling down her cheeks. She could smell the perfume on him. It wasn't hers and it wasn't something he'd picked up sitting next to another woman. There'd been contact. A lot of contact. She lay awake, with the tears, and Lucas dreamed of a cold round circle of a shotgun pressed against his head, and of Larry Hart tumbling down the hillside above the Mississippi, the barges curling away, rolling down the river, their pilots unaware of the light going out on the hill above them…

CHAPTER 21

Sam Crow raged through the house while Aaron sat silently in the La-Z-Boy, bathed in flickering light from the television set. Shadow Love's picture was everywhere, views from the front and both sides, close-ups of his tattooed arms.

"That fuckin' kid is ruinin' us," Sam shouted. He crowded against Barbara, who, frightened by his anger, wrapped and rewrapped her hands with a damp dish towel and pretended to do dishes between bouts of weeping. "How could you fuckin' go along?"

"I didn't want to," she cried, "I didn't know…"

"You knew." Sam spat. "For Christ's sakes, did you think he was delivering a fuckin' Christmas card?"

"I didn't know…"

"Where'd you leave him?"

"He got out by Loring Park…"

"Where was he going?"

"I don't know… He said you wouldn't want him here. He said he had to work alone…"

"Fuck meee," Sam called out. "Fuck meee…"

Aaron appeared in the doorway. "C'mere, look at this."

Sam followed him back to the living room. For the past half-hour, they'd seen report after report from Minneapolis: from the hillside where Hart's body had been found, from the chiefs office, from Indian Country. Man-in-the-street interviews. Lily, working the crowd, an NYPD badge pinned to her coat. People talking to her, thrusting their faces in front of the camera.

Now that had changed. A room with light blue walls. An American flag. A podium with a circular American-eagle seal under a battery of microphones, and a man in a gray double-breasted suit with a handkerchief in his breast pocket.

"It's Clay," Aaron said.

"… terrorist group has now begun striking at its own people. That doesn't make them any less dangerous but will, I hope, make it obvious to the Indian people that these killers don't care any more about Indians than they do about whites…"

And later:

"… worked with Indian people during my entire career, and I'm asking my old friends of all Indian nations to call us at the FBI with any information about this group…"

And more:

"… I will be accompanied by a task force of forty specialists, men and women from around the nation who will be brought in to break this ring. We are prepared to stay in Minnesota until we are successful in this endeavor. We will remain in full and immediate contact with the Washington center…"

"Lawrence Duberville Clay," Sam said, almost reverently, as he stared at the man on the TV screen. "Hurry up, motherfucker…"

"There's somebody here," Barbara called from the kitchen, fear thick in her voice. "Somebody on the porch."

The doorbell rang as Aaron hurried into the back bedroom, where he had been sleeping, and returned with an old blue.45. The bell rang again and then the front door pushed open. A dark figure, short hair, black eyes; Aaron, flattened against the hallway wall, at first thought it might be Shadow Love, but the man was too big…

"Leo," Aaron called in delight. A smile lit the old man's face and he dropped the pistol to his side. "Sam, it's Leo. Leo's home."

CHAPTER 22

"You're sleeping with that New York cop. Lily." Jennifer looked at him over the breakfast bar. Lucas was holding a glass of orange juice and looked down at it, as if hoping it held an answer. The newspaper sat next to his hand. The headline read: CROWS KILL COP.

He wasn't a cop, Lucas thought. After a moment he glanced away from the table and then back at the newspaper and nodded. "Yes," he said.

"Are you going to again?" Her face was pale, tired, her voice low and whispery.

"I can't help it," he said. He wouldn't look at her. He turned the glass in his hand, swirling the juice.

"Is this… a long-term thing?" Jennifer asked.

"I don't know."

"Look at me," she said.

"No." He kept his eyes down.

"You can come back and see the baby, but call first. Once a week for now. I won't continue our sexual relationship and I don't want to see you. You can see the baby on Saturday nights, when I have a sitter. After Lily goes back to New York, we'll talk. We'll make some kind of arrangement so you can visit the baby on a regular basis."

Now he looked up. "I love you," he said.

Tears started in her eyes. "We've been through this before. You know what I feel like? I feel pathetic. I don't like feeling pathetic. I won't put up with it."

"You're not pathetic. When I look at you…" "I don't care what you see. Or anybody else. I'm pathetic in my own mind. So fuck you, Davenport."

When Jennifer left, Lucas wandered around the house for a few moments, then drifted into the bedroom, undressed, and stood under a scalding shower. Daniel wanted every man on the street, but after Lucas had toweled off, he stood in front of an open closet, looking at the array of slacks and shirts, and then crawled back into bed and lapsed into unconsciousness. The Crows, Lily, Jennifer, the baby and game monsters from Drorg all crawled through his head. Every once in a while he felt the pull of the street scene outside Hood's apartment: he'd see the bricks, the negotiating cop, a slice of Lily's face, her.45 coming up. Each time he fought it down and stepped into a new dream fragment.

At one o'clock, Lily called. He didn't answer the phone, but listened as her voice came in through his answering machine.

"This is Lily," she said. "I was hoping we could get some lunch, but you haven't called and I don't know where you are and I'm starving so I'm going out now. If you get in, give me a call and we can go out to dinner. See you."

He thought about picking up the phone, but didn't, and went back to the bed. The phone rang again a half-hour later. This time it was Elle: "This is Elle, just calling to see how you are. You can call me at the residence."

Lucas picked up the receiver. "Elle, I'm here," he croaked.

"Hello. How are you?" ••'

"A down day," he said.

"Still the shotgun dream?"

"It's stiM there. And sometimes during the day. The sensation of the steel."

"It's a classic flashback. We see it all the time with burn victims and shooting victims and people who've gone through other trauma. It'll go away, believe me. Hold on."

"I'm holding on, but it's scary. Nothing's ever gotten to me like this."

"Are you going to play Thursday night?" Elle asked.

"I don't know."

"Why don't you come a half-hour early? We can talk."

"I'll try to make it."

The bed was like a drug. He didn't want it, but he fell back on the sheets and in a minute was gone again. At two o'clock, suddenly touched with fear, he sat up, sweating, staring at the clock.

What? Nothing. Then the cold ring of the shotgun muzzle rapped him behind the ear. Lucas clapped a hand over the spot and let his head fall forward on his chest.