Free Wicked Prey by John Sandford Page B

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.”

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