''Fuck the clinic,'' he snapped, his voice a rasp. ''Gosomeplace where you're not supposed to be, and wait there. If the guy comes after you, he might start killing your patients, too. Everybody can wait an hour or two.''

''Lucas…''

''I don't have time to chat, goddamnit, just do it.'' He cut off a white-haired guy in a red Chevy Tahoe and could see the guy pounding the steering wheel as he went by.

Sherrill was working an ag assault in a bar off Hennepin, drunk college kids beating a black guy with bar stools until he stopped moving. He still wasn't moving, but he wasn't quite dead, either. Sherrill called, and Lucas gave her the word on Del.

''Oh, my God, I'm going over there,'' she said.

''No. Call Mike, tell him to take a walk. Tell him to go sit in a restaurant until you get to him. We want everybody where they shouldn't be until we figure out what's going on.''

Dispatch came back: ''Del hit LaChaise-there's blood on the sidewalk, going out to where a truck was parked. All the hospitals know, we're covering the emergency rooms…''

Kupicek came up. He and his kid were at a peewee hockey match. ''Call your wife, you all go out to eat somewhere on the department, catch a movie,'' Lucas said.

''Check with me before you go home. Look in your rearview mirror, stay on the radio.''

''How's Del's wife?'' Kupicek asked.

''I don't know: we've got people on the way to Hennepin.''

''Keep me tuned, dude,'' Kupicek said.

Thirty seconds later, the dispatcher came back, and asked Lucas to switch over to a scrambled command frequency. ''What?'' he asked.

''Oh, God.'' The dispatcher sounded as though she were weeping, a sound Lucas hadn't heard from Dispatch. ''

Roseville called: Danny's wife's been shot. She's dead. In the store at

Rosedale.''

Lucas felt the anger rising, building toward a black frenzy: ''Don't put this on the air, don't tell anyone outside the center… when did this happen?''

''The call came in at five-seventeen, but they think she might have been shot about five-twelve.''

''When was Del?''

''About five-fifteen.''

So there had to be more than one shooter. How many?

''Who'll tell Danny?'' the dispatcher asked.

''I will,'' Lucas said. ''Does Rose Marie know?''

''Lucy's on the way to her office.''

Lucas called Kupicek back. ''Danny, where are you?''

''Hennepin and Lake. Looking for a phone.''

''Change of plans: We got Roseville with your wife, we need you at the emergency entrance to Hennepin General. Right now. You gotta light with you?''

''Yeah.''

''Light it up and get it in there…''

''I got the kid.''

''Bring him: he'll be okay.''

When Kupicek was gone, Lucas got back to Dispatch: ''Check Danny's file: he's got a sister named Louise Amdahl and they're tight. Get her down to Hennepin

General. Send a car and tell them to move it, lights and sirens all the way.''

And he thought about Sherrill and Weather. He punched up the phone again, caught

Weather, told her about Kupicek's wife: ''I'm not coming. But you gotta hide out and I'm not bullshitting you, Weather, I swear to God, you gotta get out of sight, someplace where I can get you. The guy could be in the hospital right now.''

''I'm going,'' she said.

''Take care, please, please, take care,'' he said. And he got Sherrill: ''Did you reach Mike?''

''No, Lucas, they can't find him.'' Her voice was high, scared. ''He's supposed to be there, but they can't find him. I'm going there.''

''I'm sending a squad.''

''Lucas, you don't think…?'' Her marriage had been on the rocks for a while.

''We don't know what to think,'' Lucas said. Sherrill didn't know about Danny's wife. He didn't tell her. ''Get on up there.''

Back to Dispatch: ''Two cars, get them up there. You gotta beat Sherrill up there…''

LUCAS WENT STRAIGHT THOUGH THE CITY TRAFFIC, not slowing for any light, green, yellow or red, his foot on the floor: driving the Explorer was like driving a hay wagon, but he beat Kupicek by two minutes, pulling in a car length behind

Rose Marie Roux. The chief was pale, nearly speechless: She said, ''This…'' and then shook her head and they ran inside, Lucas banging the doors out of the way.

Del, covered with blood, stood in the hallway, talking to a doctor in scrubs:

''Sometimes she gets stress headaches in the afternoon and she takes aspirin.

That's all. Wait, she drinks Diet Coke, that's got caffeine. I don't know if she took any aspirin this afternoon…''

He saw them coming, Lucas and Rose Marie, and stepped toward them.

''He hit her hard,'' he said. He seemed unaware that tears were running down his seamed face: his voice was absolutely under control. ''But if there aren't any complications, she'll make it.''

''Aw, Jesus, Del,'' Lucas said. He tried to smile, but his face was desperately twisted.

''What happened?'' Del said. He looked from one of them to the other. ''What else happened?''

''Danny's wife's been shot; she's dead. And we can't find Mike Sherrill.''

''The motherfuckers,'' Del rasped.

Then Danny Kupicek banged through the entryway, a kid tagging along behind, still in his hockey uniform, wearing white Nikes that looked about the size of battleships, a shock of blond hair down over his eyes. He seemed impressed by the inside of the hospital.

''Del,'' Kupicek said, ''Jesus, how's Cheryl? Is she okay?''

''Danny…'' said Lucas.

Ten minutes later, they found Mike Sherrill. Marcy Sherrill arrived just in time to see the cops gathering around the Firebird, and thrust through them just in time to see the door pop open, and look straight into her husband's open eyes, upside down, dead.

She turned, and one of the uniforms, a woman, wrapped her up, and a moment later she made a sound a bit like a howl, a bit like a croak, and then she fell down.

LACHAISE WAS THE FIRST TO GET BACK TO THE HOUSE. Martin had called from a pay phone and LaChaise sent him to get Butters.

''You bad?'' Martin had asked, his voice low, controlled.

''I don't know, but I'm bleeding,'' LaChaise told him. ''Hurts like hell.''

''Can you breathe?''

''Yeah. I just don't want to,'' LaChaise said.

''Can you get in the house?''

''Think so. Yeah.''

''Get inside. We'll be there in fifteen minutes.''

LaChaise hurt, but not so bad that he couldn't make it to the house. That encouraged him. Except for the burning pain, which was localized, he didn't feel bad. There was no sense of anything loose inside, anything wrecked.

But when he got in the house, he found he couldn't get the jacket off by himself. When he lifted his arm, fire ran down his rib cage. He slumped on the living-room rug, and waited, staring at the ceiling.

Martin came in first, Butters, stamping snow off his sleeves, just behind him.

''Let's take a look,'' Martin said.

''You get yours?'' LaChaise asked.

Martin nodded and Butters said, ''Yep. How about you?''

''I got somebody, there were ambulances all over the place…''

They helped him sit up as they talked, and LaChaise told them about making the call, and then Del popping up behind his wife. ''And the fucker recognized me. .. careful, there…''

They peeled the parka off, then the vest, then the flannel shirt, each progressively heavier with blood. His undershirt showed two small holes and a bloodstain the size of a dinner plate.

''Better cut that,'' Butters muttered.

''Yeah.'' Martin took out his knife, and the Jockey T-shirt split like tissue paper. ''Roll up here, Dick…''

LaChaise tried to roll onto his left side and lift his arm; he was sweating heavily, and groaned again, ''Goddamn, that hurts.''

Martin and Butters were looking at the wound. ''Don't look like too much,''