Laurent continued, “There are a couple of artists living in the inn, she hasn’t seen them, so the Pilates may have them. She doesn’t think the artists have guns. There might be more Pilates on the other side of the street in the old hardware store. She thinks there might be some in the blue house by the creek.”
Frisell said, “That’s right there,” and pointed to his left.
Lucas left Frisell and, walking in a deep crouch, crossed under the bridge and crawled up the bank where he could see the blue house. Laurent knelt beside him a few seconds later. The house stood by itself, in an open yard, with a garage around back, fifteen or twenty yards from the house.
“That looks tough,” Laurent said.
Lucas said, “I think we sneak back to the trucks, then go farther back in the brush and circle around to the posse.”
“What if they sneak across the creek into the woods?” Laurent asked.
“Sneak to where?” Frisell asked. “Nearest town is probably fifteen miles down that way. They’d die out there in the woods, and they couldn’t walk on the road without being seen.”
“They got keys for that car.”
Lucas said, “Give me your rifle.” And to Laurent, “Tell your guy in the posse that they’re going to hear some gunfire and not to get excited about it.”
As he did that, Lucas crawled up the bank, waited until Laurent said, “I told them,” and Lucas fired a shot into each of the car’s three wheels that he could see. That done, he slid back down the bank and handed the rifle to Frisell, and said, “They’ll need some tires before they take the car anywhere.”
“All right,” Laurent said. “I’ll go first. They can’t see me from that window, but they probably could from the roof.”
“Be best if they thought we were still here . . . probably be a good idea to crawl down there,” Frisell said.
“That’s a goddamn mud hole,” Laurent said.
Lucas looked at him and said, “You already look like the fuckin’ swamp monster. A little more mud won’t make any difference.”
Laurent said, “Goddamnit,” and started off at a fast crawl. It took him a minute to get far enough down the creek to stand up, and wave Lucas over. Frisell came in a couple of minutes after Lucas, and they continued walking up the creek, past their vehicles, out of the settled area and into the woods.
Ten minutes later, they emerged on the other side of town, where the posse was dug in.
? ? ?
THE POSSE HAD STRUNG a line of cars across the road and over the shoulder and into the trees on both sides. No way out that way.
Peters, the lawyer, wearing a bulletproof vest, had been organizing the cops. He waved Lucas, Laurent, and Frisell over behind a van, where he’d set up with a couple of deputies with radios.
“We’ve got more phone numbers, and we think we know where everybody is. We think there are eight or nine of them, five or six men and at least three women. Some of them have rifles—I guess you know that. There’s a good possibility that they have a couple hostages at the inn. Hasn’t been any shooting that wasn’t either from you guys, or at you guys.”
The Pilates were apparently holed up in structures that formed a rough triangle, and there were probably two or three people in each building. “We need to talk to them,” one of the deputies said. “Be better to talk them out of there, than try to shoot them out.”
Lucas nodded. “You’re right about that. If we could get a phone number for those artists . . . the ones that might be at the inn . . . we could try ringing them.”
Peters said, “Nobody knows the artists real well—they’ve been there for three weeks, pretty much camping out. Nobody’s lived in the inn for years. We know their names are Sandy and Larry Birch, but we don’t know where they come from. Someplace around Detroit, maybe.”
“Do they have a car?” Lucas asked.
“Don’t know,” Peters said.
“If we could get their tags . . . we could get everything else.”
“That’s like the whole story of this chase,” Laurent said. “If we only had the tags.”
The deputy said, “What about a white flag . . . ?”
“Better you than me,” Lucas said. “They’ve already shot three cops in cold blood. I don’t think they’re gonna quit because we wave a hanky at them.”
Peters said, “Before we do anything, I want to put a patch on your neck. You sort of sprung a leak there.”
“Is this gonna hurt?” Lucas asked.
“I think so,” Peters said.
There were nine disciples, holed up in three different places, hooked up by their cell phones. They knew there were some town people in a couple of other buildings, because they’d traded gunfire with them.
“We ain’t in California no more,” Pilate said. “Every fuckin’ body up here’s got a gun. Even that old lady in the hamburger shop, shot Michelle.”
Pilate, Kristen, Bell, and Laine were all on the second floor of the inn, while Coon, Richie, and Carrie were in an abandoned hardware store, and Chet and Ellen were in the blue house. Pilate was looking out a window that faced a line of cars near the entry to the town; Bell was looking straight down on the highway; Kristen was watching the back, and had shot at Lucas’s SUV and Laurent’s truck, scoring three hits on the trucks, none on the passengers.
Laine was watching the creek side. She said she thought all the cops had left the bridge, going back the way they’d come in—she’d seen flashes of movement, all going that way, three times, and nothing since. The fourth man had driven the wounded cop out.