Deadline(144)

            Virgil was almost, but not quite, convinced when they lowered him into the boat. Johnson and Shrake got in the boat with him, and Virgil followed in the second boat, and Virgil called the sheriff’s department and asked that an ambulance meet them at the marina.

            Again, Virgil thought what a nice night it was, out on the river. The towboat passed in front of them, throwing out a healthy wake, which they rode up and over, and then they rolled on into the marina, where two paramedics were waiting. Shrake rode in the ambulance with them, so he could manage the handcuffs, and also shake Laughton down to make sure he had no more weapons.

            Virgil and Johnson tied off the two boats, and Johnson said he’d call their owners with an explanation. “What I want to know is, who’s going to pay for my boat?”

            “Your boat was a piece of shit,” Virgil said. “I do mean was. Right now it wouldn’t even make a good petunia planter. Had more holes in it than a fuckin’ colander. Looked like some kinda industrial sprinkler head. Looked—”

            “Okay, okay,” Johnson said. “But somebody’s gonna pay.”

            They walked back down the dark lane to the cabin, and Virgil went inside and washed his face and hands, while Johnson counted holes in his boat. “They picked it up and dragged it over here and used it as a fuckin’ armored duck blind,” Johnson said. “You were the duck.”

            —

            AT THE CLINIC, they found that both Jenkins and Jennifer 1 were on their way to Rochester, the nearest surgical hospital. The doc at the clinic told them that Jenkins had a buckshot lodged in his calf, and it might take a little surgery to remove it. Jennifer Barns needed to be cleaned up and repaired, and it would be some time before she’d be sitting up again.

            Laughton had probably faked the heart attack, although the doc said, “Sometimes stress can give you chest pains that aren’t related directly to the heart. I understand he was under quite a bit of stress lately.”

            Shrake said, “Not as much as he’s gonna be.”

            Johnson: “Not much of a Viking, was he? More like a, more like a, more like . . .”

            “A sissy,” Shrake offered.

            “Yes,” Johnson said. “Like that.”





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            VIRGIL CALLED DAVENPORT from the hospital: “We’re all back in Minnesota. We might have a little legal whoop-de-do, because we had the guy, and we were gonna hold him for the Wisconsin authorities, but he claimed he was having a heart attack, so we evacuated him to the nearest clinic . . . which was back across the river, here in Minnesota.”

            “Did he have a heart attack?” Davenport asked.

            “They’re not sure, but they think not,” Virgil said. “At the end of the chase, he fell in a golf course sand trap. I think he was mostly embarrassed.” Virgil gave him a succinct summation of the shoot-out and chase.

            “Let the legal guys sort it out. Maybe we’ll have to drive him back over, then extradite him. Who cares? I talked to Jenkins, on the way up to the Mayo. He’s pissed.”

            “I hope his leg’s not bad.”

            “It’s not. He’ll be off his feet for a day or two. Weather says anytime you’ve got a bullet-like object penetrating into a muscle, it’s not something you want to take lightly.”

            “Especially if it’s your heart muscle,” Virgil said. “I’ll stop and see him on the way home. We got a mountain of paperwork to do, and he can do that sitting down. Right now, I’ve got to look at a movie.”