“I do all right, I guess . . .” He told her the story about being with the inspector general’s office and evaluating the behavior of Bob and Rae, then grimaced and said, “They’ve got a tough problem. They’re looking for a guy named Linc, who’s involved with Toby Boone’s group. They’re working hard, but they’re not getting anywhere.”
“Toby got raided yesterday,” the woman said. “Were you there?”
“No, I don’t go on raids. I’m more of a desk guy, except when I’m doing something like this,” Lucas lied. “This Linc guy, we’ve heard that he’d set up to shoot some children. We think he already killed one kid.”
“I heard about that. He shot the wrong kid, that’s what they’re saying on CNN.”
“He did, and he’s going to shoot again. We think he’s . . . unbalanced. Bob and Rae are trying to locate him, they thought your husband might have some idea of who he is. Linc and Toby Boone are friends. And he’s friends with a guy named Cop.”
“He, uh, Mark, doesn’t talk to marshals much. He’s not much for police in any way, shape, or form.”
“I understand he’s had his problems with the law.” Lucas glanced at the couch, where Bob, Ray, and Sutton were deep in discussion, then leaned toward Amy Sutton and said, quietly, with a grin, “We’ve been talking to as many of the White Fist people as we can find, and, well . . . most of them don’t have a pretty young wife and babies to come home to. They’re real dead-enders . . . kind of . . . strange guys. Rather have a gun than a woman. In my observation.”
She nodded. “There are some unusual men around Toby. He sort of pulls them in. Me’n Mark . . . I’m trying to get him away from all that. We’re hoping he can find a job in trucking. He used to be a loader, but he’d like to be a driver. Get that white-line fever.”
They talked about that for a moment and she said full-time drivers could make more than fifty thousand a year, and Lucas said he heard that it could be even more than that. Then, “Where are the kids?”
“Put them back in the bedroom. I call it their playroom.”
“They’re quiet,” Lucas said. “One of each or . . .”
“One of each, “she said. “C’mon, let’s take a peek. They are pretty quiet. Maybe too quiet.”
They walked down a short hall to a bedroom door, and Amy opened it quietly, and they both peeked. The kids, a boy maybe three and a girl maybe two, were piling up stuffed animals into a pyramid, intent upon the process.
Amy nodded and pulled the door shut and whispered, “Don’t know what they’re doing, but they’re working at it.”
“So damn cute at that age,” Lucas said. “I’ve got an older girl, we just got her through the teenage years, and let me tell you, that can be a trial.”
They tiptoed back to the kitchen and Lucas took a business card from his pocket and said, “If you have a chance to talk with Mark about this later, I mean, you know, this Linc guy, if it turns out we can save a child’s life . . . give me a ring. I won’t tell anyone where the tip came from. Not even other cops. But we’re pretty desperate.”
She nodded, didn’t say anything, but took the card and stuck it in her back jeans pocket. Lucas asked, “You guys lived here long. Settled in?”
“We move around a bit . . . I’d like to get a permanent place before we put the kids in school so they don’t have to change much . . .”
They chatted for a while, about schools, and then Bob and Rae stood up, and Bob shook hands with Sutton and said, “Listen, if anything occurs to you, man, call us. You’ve got my card. I mean, we’re talking about children.”
“Yeah, sure,” Sutton said. There was an undertone in his voice of “fuck you and the horse you rode in on.”
Out in the hallway, before the door was closed, Bob asked