"I heard about it. It's right across the county line, think O'Donnell did it?"

"I'm sure our killer did it, O'Donnell or whoever," Lucas said. He pivoted to face Nordwall. "The body was… Charlie Pope."

Nordwall's mouth dropped open. After a few seconds, he said, "You gotta be shittin' me," and Lucas had to smile.

LUCAS EXPLAINED. Going back in the door, Nordwall muttered, "You're playing a dangerous game, Lucas. It's the right thing, but if you don't get this guy… the media are gonna scalp you,"

"We're gonna keep it quiet for just a couple more days," Lucas said. "Let's see if we can jump O'Donnell before he knows we're looking for him. We'll check and make sure we've got all his cars. We'll get the tags for the MDX and mugs out to all the highway-patrol troopers here, down in Iowa, Wisconsin, and Illinois, out in the Dakotas. Check the airport and see if the MDX is there, and if we can spot a plane ticket. What else…?"

They worked out a program and started running it.

21

AN HOUR AFTER Lucas got back to BCA headquarters, the cops at Minneapolis-St. Paul International called and said they had the MDX. "We haven't opened it," the cop said. "I can see what looks like a parking ticket on the floor-that'd give us an exact time it came in."

"Don't touch it," Lucas said. "I'm sending my crime-scene guys over. Have somebody stand by the truck."

While the crime-scene truck rolled, Lucas got the co-op center calling the airlines, looking for the ride that O'Donnell took out of town. He watched them work it for a while, got bored when nothing happened, walked down to the canteen, and got a cup of coffee.

Hopping Crow called: "The blood in the refrigerator was frozen, of course. We don't have a DNA yet, maybe by tomorrow. I can tell you that it's human, and that it's Charlie Pope's blood type. Pope was an O positive, O'Donnell's records say he's an A positive. So."

"So Pope's blood was in O'Donnell's freezer."

"Probably his. Peterson's was also O, but we don't have any reason to think her blood was frozen."

HE WAS IN his office when the Crime Scene crew called. "The parking ticket on the floor was from seven o'clock last night."

"I'll pass it on to the coordination center. What else?"

"Nothing really, just the usual car junk. He was pretty neat. We'll be done in a half hour. You want us to take it to the impound?"

"Yeah. Seal it up. We may want to go over it with a microscope, depending on how things break."

The same guy called back twenty minutes later. "We found some blood. It was under the mat in the cargo compartment. It looks rela-tively fresh… it's dry, but not dusty. Thought you ought to know."

"We need a blood type and DNA," Lucas said, "Get it back here as quick as you can."

THEY WERE RUNNING NOW. He got another blood type: it was O again, could be Pope, could be Peterson. He made a mental bet on Peterson. He called Hopping Crow, to tell him to push the tests. "We'll know by tomorrow night," Hopping Crow said. "Who knows, maybe it's somebody else?"

"Don't even think that."

They picked up bits and pieces of information about O'Donnell and his lifestyle all through the day, but nothing that would point a finger. Cops were talking with a kayak club, a singles cycling club, the last woman O'Donnell was known to have dated. She said, "It came down to a choice between me and the Pontiac, and I had the feeling I wasn't going to win. So we sort of broke it off…"

Early in the day, Lucas felt that the logjam was breaking, that the ice was going out, that the peel was coming off the banana. And then everything slowed, and he began to see nothing but trivia… He wandered out of the office at nine o'clock, discouraged. Where the fuck was he?

RUFFE IGNACE LAY AWAKE in bed, listening to Ruffe's Radio, cataloging the day's events and insults: What the fuck is she doing, telling me that I have to watch my adverbs? She wouldn't know an adverb if one jumped up and hit her on the tit. Green is a bad color for me, it makes my skin look yellow; gotta get rid of the green golf shirt. I wonder if my dick reaches up to my bellybutton when I'm really hard? I don't think it does. Does anybody's? Maybe I oughta get dressed and go out for a slice…

When the phone rang, he said, "Pope," and he Scrambled through the dark to the phone charger, fumbled with the phone, punched the talk button: "Ignace."

And it was: "Hey, Ruffe. Thought I'd call you and say good-bye."

"Good-bye? Where are you now?"

A rumbling, wheezing, whispery laugh, and then, "If this phone is tapped, you'll find out soon enough. Anyway the police were getting too close: this Davenport guy is smarter than I expected."

"I don't know anything about that-as far as I know, they've got no idea where you are, Charlie."

Another whispery chuckle: "That's another thing. My name isn't Charlie. Charlie, unfortunately for him, but not for the rest of us, is in a black bag somewhere. That's what caused the trouble-I threw his dead ass into the river. Life was sweet until he came floatin' up. Anyway, the cops found him, and they know."

"They know they're not looking for Charlie Pope? Jesus Christ… who is this, anyway?"

"They don't know who I am yet, so I'm not going to tell you. In any case, I'm moving on. Maybe… New England. Manhattan. I've got to think, I've got to see what I'm becoming, the Gods Down the Hall…"

"They know you're not Charlie…?" Ignace was outraged: And they hadn't told me? "I'll tell you something else: they might figure out who I was, but they don't know who I'm becoming. And they don't know who I've been, or how long I've been doing this…"

"Jesus, how many…"

"More'n you know, Roo-fay. The Gods Down the Hall told me I was growing. But they say that at some point, your control begins to fade, the appetite takes over. It's dangerous, but it feels so good. I can feel that, now. I didn't know what they were talking about, but now I do, and it feels wonderful. When it's time to go, I'll go, but I think… maybe I don't want to go just yet. I want some more."

"What are you talking about?"

"Change, Ruffe. Appetite. Blood. Moving… well, because you're probably tapped, I'm going to go now. Got to keep moving. Keep moving…"

He was gone.

Ignace stared at the phone for a few seconds, then jumped up, turned on a light, found his Palm Pilot, and brought up Davenport's home number. Dialed.

LUCAS WAS STARTLED awake by the phone. His hardwired phone, not the cell phone. He glanced at the bedside clock, thought "Ignace," and picked up the phone.

"He just called to say good-bye," Ignace said without preamble. "He says he's running. He also says he's not Charlie Pope, that Charlie Pope is dead, and that you've known about that. That you've misled everyone…"

"Slow down, slow down…," Lucas said. He swung his feet to the floor, hunched over the phone. "We just found out about Pope. What'd he say? You say he's running?"

"Who is he?"

"We're not sure… this was on your cell phone?"

"Yeah. You should have it."

"Listen, Ruffe, everybody I've talked to said you're an asshole, but you seem to do the work. Okay? That's what I think. Just don't give me any shit about misleading the press. We're trying to save some poor innocent fucker's life, and we don't even know who he or she is, yet. We've already failed to save three other innocent fuckers. Okay? So don't give me any shit, and when this is all done, I'll sit down and talk to you. I'll give you the whole thing. Not to TV, not to the Pioneer Press, not to anybody else there at the Strib. Just you."