Mortal Prey

able to leave the department in the hands of friends.
    He could leave the politics, though—the chief was a lot better at it than he was. The real problem was Weather. Weather was a surgeon, a maxillofacial resident at Hennepin General. She and Lucas had circled each other for years, had had one wedding fall through. Lucas loved her dearly, but worried that the relationship might still be fragile. To leave her now, five months into the pregnancy…
    Weather’s secretary answered at Hennepin General. “Lucas? A patient just went in.”
    “Grab her, will you? I’ve got to talk to her right now,” Lucas said. “It’s pretty serious.”
    Weather came on a second later, showing a little stress. “Are you all right?”
    “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”
    She was exasperated. “Lucas, when you call like this, and you say it’s important, and you’ve got to talk to me right away, tell Carol, ‘I’m not hurt, but it’s important.’ That’ll keep me from an early coronary. Okay?”
    Lucas sighed. “Yeah, sure.”
    “So what’s going on?” she asked. She was looking at her watch, Lucas thought.
    “Mallard called….” He told her the story in thirty seconds, then listened to four seconds of dead silence, and opened his mouth to say, “Well?” or apologize, or something, but didn’t quite get there.
    “Thank God,” she blurted. “You’re driving me crazy. You’re driving the entire construction company crazy. If you’ll just get out of the country for a few days, I could finish the wedding plans and maybe the builders could get some work done.”
    “Hey…” He was offended, but she paid no attention. She said, “Go to Cancún. God bless you. Call me every night. Remember: Flying is the safest way to travel. Have a couple martinis. Or better yet, there’s some Valium in my medicine cabinet. Take a couple of those.”
    “You’re sure you don’t—”
    “I’m sure. Go.”
    “You’re sure.”
    “Go. Go.”

3
    THE TRIP TO HOUSTON WAS THE USUAL nightmare, with Lucas hunched in a business-class seat, ready to brace his feet against the forward bulkhead when the impact came. Not that bracing would save him. In his mind’s eye, he could clearly see the razor-sharp aviation aluminum slicing through the cabin, dismembering everybody and everything in its path. Then the fire, trying to crawl, legs missing, toward the exit…
    He’d talked to a shrink about it. The shrink, an ex–military guy, suggested three martinis or a couple of tranquilizers, or not flying. He added that Lucas had control issues, and when Lucas asked, “Control issues? You mean, like I don’t wanna die in an airplane crash?” the shrink—who’d had three martinis himself—said, “I mean, you wanna tell people how to tie their shoes, because you know how to do it better, and that means you don’t want somebody else to fly you in an airplane.”
    “Then how come I’m not scared of helicopters?” The shrink shrugged. “Because you’re nuts.”
     
    IN ANY CASE , the Valium hadn’t helped. He’d just had time to drive to Weather’s place, put some clothes and his shaving kit together, along with a small tube of drugs, and make it back to the airport in the Tahoe. He didn’t want to leave the Porsche in the airport ramp because it might get stolen, and even if it didn’t, he might not ever find it again. And pound for pound, he’d rather lose the Chevy than the Porsche.
    The plane failed to crash either on the way to Houston or on landing—when he really expected it, so tantalizingly close to safety—or even when it was taxiing up to the gate, and a little more than five hours after speaking to Mallard, Lucas led the parade through the gate into the terminal.
    Louis Mallard, who pronounced his name “Louie,” was a stocky, professorial man who wore gold-rimmed professorial glasses and a dark professorial suit. He had a wrestler’s neck and sometimes carried a .40-caliber automatic in a shoulder holster. Waiting with him, in a lighter-blue professorial suit, and carrying a black briefcase, was a lanky gray-haired woman named Malone. The last time Lucas had seen Malone, he’d seen quite a bit more of her.
    “Louis,” Lucas said, shaking the other man’s hand. Malone turned a cheek, and Lucas pecked it and said, “Louis tells me you got one on the line.”
    She looked at Mallard, who said hastily, “I didn’t exactly say that.”
    “Mmmm,” Malone said. To Lucas: “It’s somewhat