none of them. “LA has their mug shots all over California and up in Vegas and Portland and Seattle, and down in New Orleans, but we never got a hint,” Rae said. “We believe that all four of them were ready to run at the drop of a hat. Both Nast and Vincent each had two fake IDs, including real California driver’s licenses with paid-up auto insurance. Wherever those three guys went, nobody’s found them. And nobody knows where to look, either.”
“It’s possible that they’re still around,” Lucas said. “How many people in Southern California? More than twenty million. These guys have already got California driver’s licenses, and car tags, and they’re familiar with the territory.”
“Rocha doesn’t think so,” Bob said. “She says it’s too hot down here—too many chances they’ll run into an acquaintance who’ll know who they are and who needs a favor from the cops. You could get one big favor for turning in a gang that shot a couple cops in a gunfight even if they didn’t do the shooting. To say nothing of a cannibal.”
“Could be right,” Lucas said. “But could be wrong,”
During the gunfight, Nast had managed to hit a house across the street with a dozen bullets. It was made of concrete blocks and none of the bullets had penetrated all the way through. Nobody got hurt, but the owner had sued LA County for reckless endangerment, and Lucas, Bob, and Rae would probably be called to testify if it ever went to trial.
* * *
—
NOW LUCAS, on this hot August night, stood in his driveway, dripping sweat, fighting the nausea. He knew he’d heal sooner or later, but what bothered him most was the persistent weakness.
He’d started playing hockey in elementary school, and back then, in the bad old days, there’d been a lot of emphasis on gutting it out and hanging tough. He’d never felt weak, even as a kid. He knew, in theory, that if he managed to survive to old age, at some point he’d probably start feeling weak.
But when you got old, you’d adapt, and you’d have time to adapt. He hadn’t had any time. At the hospital, when he could walk again, the nurses had to help him get out of bed, to use the bathroom. They’d led him down the hall to the imaging department, pushing a pole with a saline bag on it, shuffling along in a robe like an old man. They’d flown home on a private jet, and he’d had to walk down a set of stairs to the tarmac and had held on to the handrail for dear life, afraid his legs wouldn’t hold him upright.
Unlike any of his other injuries—he’d been shot twice before—this one had gotten to his head.
As he stood there, catching his breath, Weather walked out and put a hand on his back and asked, “Have you thrown up?”
“Not quite.”
“Goddamnit, Lucas, you’re pushing too hard,” she said.
“Gotta push. Better to break than to rust.”
“Those aren’t the only two choices . . . Anyway, Rae’s on the phone.”
* * *
—
LUCAS FOLLOWED her inside, picked up his cell phone, and said, “Hey, babe. Have you nailed Tremanty yet?”
“Can’t talk about that,” Rae said. “Listen, you said to call you tonight. I’m calling. How’re things?”
“I’m going back to LA,” Lucas said.
“Are we coming with you?”
“If you want,” Lucas said. “I’d like the company.”
“Hell, yes.” He heard her turn away from the phone and call, “We’re going back.”
“Bob’s there?”
“Yes. We came down to watch them close the scene at Deese’s cabin. They’re running an eight-foot hurricane fence around the entire site. They spent the whole day putting up posts, pouring concrete around them. They’re turning it into a fort. Eleven graves, twelve bodies.”
“Speaking of forts, I’ll call Russ Forte tomorrow,” Lucas said. “I don’t know exactly when . . . What’s your schedule look like?”
They talked schedules, and since they were going back to California anyway, Lucas wanted to take a day to swing by Stanford to see Letty. She was going into her final year and trying to figure out what to do next: grad school or a job.
“I’d say a week or ten days,” Lucas said. “I talked to Rocha a couple of days ago, and the LA cops are dead in the water. They’d love to get their hands on Beauchamps and Cole, but they believe they’re gone. They’re probably right.”
“Where are we going to start?”
“That Englishman at the Flower Child’s bar. You didn’t mention him to Rocha, did