Read Online Extreme Prey by John Sandford - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Sandford
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tonight?”
Lucas sent back: “Don’t know for sure, but probably in Iowa City, with Henderson’s campaign crew.”
With the e-mail out of the way, he got cleaned up, went out to the car, and at nine o’clock headed south and west.
SIX
F rom Ames to Atlantic was a two-hour drive—a skim across the north side of the Des Moines metro area, then west on I-80, cutting the edges of a succession of small towns, with more endless acres of dark green corn and beans sprawling across the rolling prairie. Lucas stopped once, to buy gas and fill the cooler with Diet Cokes. He was at the gas station, scraping bugs off the windshield, when Mitford called.
“You’re good to talk to Norm Clay this afternoon. Best to do it in Burlington, because after that you’d have to chase them up to Davenport. You don’t want to get stuck on that boat ride.” He gave Lucas a phone number and said, “Good luck.”
—
ATLANTIC WAS ten or twelve minutes south of I-80, a neatly kept town of a few thousand people, Lucas supposed, a service satellite for the surrounding farm country. He did a quick run through the business district to get a sense of the place—it looked like a lot of small towns in the Midwestern countryside, harkening back to thelate nineteenth to middle twentieth century, brick, concrete block, low and sprawling—and then punched Leonard’s address into his nav system. The nav took him to a trailer park east of the business district. Leonard lived in a dilapidated beige single-wide, with a dusty Jeep Patriot sitting in front of the stoop.
Lucas got out of the Benz, looked around, saw no one, climbed the stoop, heard a television playing, and knocked on the screen door. A moment later a heavyset, sleepy-eyed woman in a quilted housecoat opened the inside door, looked at him through the screen, and asked, “You the police?”
“No. Should I be?” The odor of toast and eggs filtered through the screen, and reminded Lucas that he was hungry.
She said, “I dunno. If you’re the police, you gotta say so.”
“I’m not the police. I work for Governor Henderson. I want to talk politics with Mr. Leonard. You know, the Prairie Storm thing,” Lucas said.
She blinked, then looked past him at the Benz. “I guess you’re not the cops, unless the cops inherited a lot of money. Not much going on with Prairie Storm, not anymore. Anyway, Dave’s not here. He’s usually down at Winn’s this time of day.”
“What’s Winn’s?” Lucas asked.
“Bar. Roadhouse out 83, ’bout a mile past the Mormon church.”
—
LUCAS THANKED HER, prompted her for better directions to the bar—“Go straight out to 83 and hook a left, it’s three or four miles out there, look for the eyesore.”
He checked the car clock: not yet eleven in the morning. Fiveminutes later, he was looking at Winn’s, a low rambling place that was a few asbestos shingles short of a full set of siding, that might once have been a motel, and maybe still rented out a few rooms. A yellow plastic roller-sign in the gravel parking lot said “Happy Hour, 4–6” and in smaller letters, “Free First D ink For Ladies.”
A dive, Lucas thought. Not a dive-themed bar, but the real thing, and as the woman had said, a genuine eyesore. He took a moment to hope that “D ink” was simply “Drink” with a missing letter.
He got out of the truck and went inside.
—
THE PLACE WAS DARK and smelled like spilled beer and microwaved cheese and beans and was smaller than it had seemed from the outside. A bartender was watching a rerun of a Cubs game on a TV hung in a corner, next to a stuffed deer head, and a dozen guys were scattered around the interior in booths, one, two, and three at a booth. A few were drinking coffee and eating microwave tacos, the rest were looking at beers. A coin-op pool table sat at the back, but nobody was playing. The customers all wore work clothes, T-shirts and jeans and boots and baseball caps. The bartender took in Lucas’s suit
Lucas sent back: “Don’t know for sure, but probably in Iowa City, with Henderson’s campaign crew.”
With the e-mail out of the way, he got cleaned up, went out to the car, and at nine o’clock headed south and west.
SIX
F rom Ames to Atlantic was a two-hour drive—a skim across the north side of the Des Moines metro area, then west on I-80, cutting the edges of a succession of small towns, with more endless acres of dark green corn and beans sprawling across the rolling prairie. Lucas stopped once, to buy gas and fill the cooler with Diet Cokes. He was at the gas station, scraping bugs off the windshield, when Mitford called.
“You’re good to talk to Norm Clay this afternoon. Best to do it in Burlington, because after that you’d have to chase them up to Davenport. You don’t want to get stuck on that boat ride.” He gave Lucas a phone number and said, “Good luck.”
—
ATLANTIC WAS ten or twelve minutes south of I-80, a neatly kept town of a few thousand people, Lucas supposed, a service satellite for the surrounding farm country. He did a quick run through the business district to get a sense of the place—it looked like a lot of small towns in the Midwestern countryside, harkening back to thelate nineteenth to middle twentieth century, brick, concrete block, low and sprawling—and then punched Leonard’s address into his nav system. The nav took him to a trailer park east of the business district. Leonard lived in a dilapidated beige single-wide, with a dusty Jeep Patriot sitting in front of the stoop.
Lucas got out of the Benz, looked around, saw no one, climbed the stoop, heard a television playing, and knocked on the screen door. A moment later a heavyset, sleepy-eyed woman in a quilted housecoat opened the inside door, looked at him through the screen, and asked, “You the police?”
“No. Should I be?” The odor of toast and eggs filtered through the screen, and reminded Lucas that he was hungry.
She said, “I dunno. If you’re the police, you gotta say so.”
“I’m not the police. I work for Governor Henderson. I want to talk politics with Mr. Leonard. You know, the Prairie Storm thing,” Lucas said.
She blinked, then looked past him at the Benz. “I guess you’re not the cops, unless the cops inherited a lot of money. Not much going on with Prairie Storm, not anymore. Anyway, Dave’s not here. He’s usually down at Winn’s this time of day.”
“What’s Winn’s?” Lucas asked.
“Bar. Roadhouse out 83, ’bout a mile past the Mormon church.”
—
LUCAS THANKED HER, prompted her for better directions to the bar—“Go straight out to 83 and hook a left, it’s three or four miles out there, look for the eyesore.”
He checked the car clock: not yet eleven in the morning. Fiveminutes later, he was looking at Winn’s, a low rambling place that was a few asbestos shingles short of a full set of siding, that might once have been a motel, and maybe still rented out a few rooms. A yellow plastic roller-sign in the gravel parking lot said “Happy Hour, 4–6” and in smaller letters, “Free First D ink For Ladies.”
A dive, Lucas thought. Not a dive-themed bar, but the real thing, and as the woman had said, a genuine eyesore. He took a moment to hope that “D ink” was simply “Drink” with a missing letter.
He got out of the truck and went inside.
—
THE PLACE WAS DARK and smelled like spilled beer and microwaved cheese and beans and was smaller than it had seemed from the outside. A bartender was watching a rerun of a Cubs game on a TV hung in a corner, next to a stuffed deer head, and a dozen guys were scattered around the interior in booths, one, two, and three at a booth. A few were drinking coffee and eating microwave tacos, the rest were looking at beers. A coin-op pool table sat at the back, but nobody was playing. The customers all wore work clothes, T-shirts and jeans and boots and baseball caps. The bartender took in Lucas’s suit
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