Later Whitcomb had gotten accidentally involved with a guy who was a serial killer-really was an accident, in that street way, where all kinds of people bump into each other-had gotten involved in a shootout, and was left paralyzed from the waist down. That ended his sex life, but hadn't changed his head that much. Davenport had been responsible for the shootout, in Whitcomb's eyes; had been responsible for everything that had gone wrong in his life, including two stretches behind bars '

He sat in the van and watched the cops and the protesters streaming up and down the hill, another guy in a wheelchair, one of those happy dildos you see around who don't even seem to realize how fucked-up they are, and he tracked Letty through the park, as she talked to a woman at a tent, and then to a tall guy who looked like Davenport, but didn't dress right, and then hooked up with two kids, boys, the kind whom Whitcomb hated, good-looking athletes who probably got good grades and had money and ate peanut butter sandwiches with Mom and Wally and the Beav '

Briar sat behind the wheel, watching the crowd, until Whitcomb said, "There she goes. They're going someplace. Get going that way ' that way, dummy. Hurry…"

Letty left Lucas in the park and went off with John and Jeff, taking the front passenger seat in John's car. John would have to concentrate on his driving-he'd only had his license for a month-and Jeff was safely stuffed in the back. No hands to deal with.

She was going to have to start thinking about sex pretty soon, she knew, but now was too soon. When she really got back to school, maybe. A friend of hers, a month younger than she was, was already being thoroughly mauled by her boyfriend, bra up, pants down, and though there hadn't yet been any actual intercourse, that wasn't far off. She'd be giving it up during football season, unless something happened to the relationship, Letty thought. The girl was in love and that made it all a lot more complicated.

Still, the whole thing made her uneasy. She'd get around to it, but' later. Not with John. He was too old, a senior. Jeff was in her grade, and had a shot, when he got rid of the braces. And she was still a little flat-chested. That bothered her a bit, that a boy might go in looking for a mountain and find a molehill.

Weather had told her not to worry: "I know you can't not worry about it-but, don't worry about it. You're not the big-boobed kind, and believe me, that's better. The boys are going to like you fine. More than fine. You're going to have to fight them off with a baseball bat."

Letty rode around with John and Jeff for a while, looking at the political freaks, and then John said, "You get any money off your old man?"

"Yup. A twenty."

"You gonna treat?"

They went to the McDonald's on West Seventh Street, down from the Xcel Center where the convention was being held. The guys got supersized and Letty went for a Quarter Pounder, no cheese, a small fries, and a Diet Coke, and they sat there and talked about the school year coming up, and who was going with whom, and who might like who else, and what they'd heard Harry was doing with Sally, and that Frank had made enough money working two summer jobs to buy a dork-mobile, meaning a Camaro, ten years old, which they made fun of, although John was driving his mother's Camry which nobody mentioned; and they watched the convention people come and go.

Then Randy Whitcomb rolled through the door in his wheelchair, trailed by Briar. Letty recognized him as soon as he came in, and caught Whitcomb's eyes when they flicked toward her. She said nothing, but looked down at her fries. Whitcomb and Briar got their food and rolled back to the table next to Letty and the boys. Whitcomb cocked his head when they got close, looked at Letty, and smiled and asked, "Don't I know you?"

She smiled and shook her head. "I don't think so."

"Lucas Davenport's girl? I think I met you when you were smaller."

She bobbed her head. "I guess; Lucas Davenport's my dad."

"I thought so," Whitcomb said. He stuck out his hand and Letty gave it a little shake. "Nice to meet you. My name's Carl Rice, and this is my friend."

"Nice to meet you," she said.

The boys wanted to talk to Letty, and Whitcomb's presence annoyed them; Whitcomb was trying to be friendly but gave off the stink of the hustler, the shyster, the guy who leans on young women. But they were polite, so they chatted, and then John said, "We better get home. My mom's gonna need the car."

"Mom's car, huh?" Whitcomb said, still friendly, but they all felt the hook of the put-down.

"Yeah…" John was embarrassed, but they got out of there, and in the parking lot, on the way to the car, John said, "He's a fuckin' creep."

"He's a crippled guy," Jeff said.

Letty asked, "Could you do me a favor?"

They were in the car, buckling up, and John said, "Sure. What?"

"Drive around the block and come back and park over there. I want to see what car he gets into," she said.

"Sure. Why?"

"Because I think he was looking at me today, at the Capitol," Letty said. "It's like he followed me or something."

"I told you he's a creep," John said.

They went around the block and parked for fifteen seconds, and then Whitcomb and the woman came out and got into a white van, using a ramp that folded down from the side. They watched as the woman did something with straps to hold Whitcomb's chair in place, and then got into the driver's seat.

"That's him," Letty said. "That's the guy I saw. Could you guys do me one more favor?"

"Sure."

"Get up close enough behind him that you can read the license number. Not too close. Jeff and I can get down, so if his girlfriend looks in the mirror, she'll only see one guy."

And that's what they did.

Whitcomb never knew.

He said to Briar, "Gonna give her to Ranch. Gonna let Ranch fuck her. Gonna whip her with my stick until she looks like a skinned rabbit."

Briar said, "I don't know."

"You're not supposed to know, dummy. I'm supposed to know. So shut the fuck up and drive."

Chapter 5

Saturday night, and Rosie Cruz was driving west on I-494 on the Bloomington strip near the Mall of America and Minneapolis-St. Paul International, a digital police radio on the floor of her car, the illegal software picking up police calls from the major dispatching centers in the metro area. The sun was down and the lights were up, and people were ricocheting through the bars and motels along the strip, putting cocaine up their noses and Wild Turkey down their throats, and Rosie said into her cell phone, "The radios are hot, but they're all in St. Paul. There's some kind of cop rehearsal going on. If you're ready-do it."

"See you back at the motel," Cohn said.

Cruz dropped off 494, up the ramp and across the highway to the south, down the side streets to the Wayfarer Motel, thinking about Cohn and Lane and McCall going into the High Hat with masks and guns.

Nothing she could do about it now. They were ninety-five percent good, five percent in trouble; but she wasn't in trouble. If Cohn and McCall and Lane went down, well, there were more where they came from.

She parked outside the Wayfarer Motel, walked down the side of the first floor, past all the doors, climbed the concrete stairs to the second floor, knocked on 214. The door popped open, and Justice Shafer was there in all his flat-eyed, underfed shitkicker glory. He stepped back and asked, "Anything?"