Del frowned, shook his head. ''I don't know what that means. I can't see Harp running with the Seed guys. That's the last combination I could imagine.''

''Might be worth checking…''

Del looked at Sloan. ''Want to run it down?''

Lucas interrupted. ''Why don't you get cleaned up first? Sloan and Franklin can stay with the phones. When I get back, we'll all go down.''

LUCAS WAS THE LAST ONE IN THE DOOR. THE MEETING included Roux, the mayor and a deputy mayor; Frank Lester, head of investigations; Barney Kittleson, head of patrol; Anita Segundo, the press liaison; and Lucas.

Rose Marie was talking to Segundo when Lucas eased through the door. She asked,

''How bad?''

''CBS, NBC, ABC, CNN and one or two of the Fox cop shows all have people on the way. Nightline is doing a segment tonight. They're talking about LaChaise and his group being militia. Ever since the federal building was blown up in

Oklahoma City, that's a hot topic.''

'' Are they militia?'' the mayor asked. ''Do these media guys know something?''

''The FBI says LaChaise was on the edge of things, but they don't show him really involved,'' Lester said. ''He knew some of the Order people back in the eighties…''

''Didn't the Order kill that radio guy in Denver?'' the mayor asked.

Lester nodded: ''Yes. But the feds took them out a little while later. LaChaise was a big guy in the Seed, and some of the militia people from Michigan were involved in the Seed back when it was a biker gang. And later on, some of the

Seed people got involved with Christian Identity-that's sort of an umbrella group. And we know LaChaise used to sell neo-Nazi stuff in his bike shop: The

Turner Diaries, and all that. Some people think the Seed got its name from a rightwinger who went on the radio and said it was too late to stop the movement, because there were Seeds everywhere. But that could be bullshit.''

''We gotta nail that down,'' the mayor said, jabbing a finger at Roux. ''If these are militia, we gotta start thinking in terms of bombs and heavy weapons.''

Roux glanced at Lucas, scratched her head and said, ''I don't think…''

She stopped, and the mayor's eyebrows went up. ''Yeah?''

''I don't think that's much of a possibility, Stan. I think we're basically dealing with some goofs, with guns. Three guys, psychos, who maybe rode together in a biker gang. And maybe messed around on the edge of the Nazi stuff.''

''Well, you're probably right,'' the mayor said. ''But if they blow up the fuckin' First Bank, I don't want to be standing there with my dick in my hand, trying to explain why we didn't know what was coming.''

Roux nodded. ''That's one thing: we're gonna need a very tight public relations operation, or we're gonna get run over,'' she said. ''We'll have cops gettin' paid off, we'll have reporters chasing witnesses…''

''The guy at Rosedale-the other clerk with Kupicek's wife, in the TV store-he's already signed up for Nightline,'' Segundo said.

The mayor was an olive-complected, bull-shouldered man, with fine curly black hair just starting to recede. He looked at his deputy, then at Roux: ''Rose

Marie, it's gonna be you and me.''

''Sounds like a hit song from the fifties,'' the deputy said, ''Rose Marie, it's you and me.''

Everyone ignored him.

''We lay down the law about cops talking to the press: if you do it, you better get a lot of money, 'cause you won't be working here anymore,'' the mayor said.

''We have four major press briefings every day: one early, to catch the morning shows; one just before noon; one just before five; and one at eight forty-five, to catch the late news. You'll have to coordinatewith your investigators-we should have a bone to throw them at every press conference. Doesn't have to be real, but it has to be satisfying…''

The mayor went on for five minutes, laying out the handling of the press.

Then he turned to Lester and Lucas: ''Lucas, I want you and your people totally off stage. We don't want any arguments about whether the response was provoked by the shootings at the bank.''

''I didn't know that was still a question,'' Lester said.

''There isn't a question,'' the mayor said irritably. ''But the media'll chew on any goddamned bone they can find. You gotta remember we're dealing with the entertainment industry. Die Hard, Oklahoma City, it's all the same. Now it's our turn to make the movie.'' He rapped on the table with his knuckles, still looking at Lester and Lucas: ''We can only bullshit them for so long. We gotta catch these guys.''

''We've got a procedure in emergencies,'' Roux said, and the mayor swiveled back to her. ''We run two parallel investigations. Lucas and his bunch play the angles, and Frank runs the main sweep. Everybody coordinates through Anderson.

He puts out a book every day on every little piece we get. Nobody hides anything from anybody.''

''It works?'' asked the mayor.

''So far,'' Lucas said.

''Then let's do that,'' the mayor said. ''Do we have one single thing we can move on now? Anything?''

''Maybe one,'' said Lucas. He was thinking about the laundromat: a place to start.

SANDY DROVE WHILE BUTTERS LEANED AGAINST THE window on the passenger side.

Elmore followed in Sandy's truck. Elmore hadn't wanted to go at first, and

Butters agreed: Butters wanted Sandy, not her husband.

''I'm not going,'' Sandy had said.

Butters said, ''I ain't got time to argue, Sandy. You're going.'' There was no doubt that she was going: he didn't bother to show her a gun, but it was there.

Butters had an affable, southern-boy line of bullshit, but beneath it, he was as cold as Martin. When she went to get her coat, Butters went with her.

''Are you guarding me?'' she asked.

''I'm making sure that you come along,'' Butters said. ''I know you don't want to.''

''You gonna tell me what happened? Who shot him?''

''No,'' Butters said. He'd told them that LaChaise had been shot in a fight.

Sandy and Elmore had been feeding the stock, and hadn't seen any television.

When it was clear that Sandy was going, Elmore insisted that he go along too.

Butters finally agreed, because he didn't want to waste time arguing: ''But you come down in the van-Sandy goes with me,'' Butters said. ''We're still gonna need both trucks for a while.''

They stopped at the old folks' home, where Sandy still filled in when somebody was sick. A big first-aid kit in the nurse's office gave up bandages, needles and thread, razor blades and antiseptic. A large illegal bottle of Tylenol-3 was kept stashed in the bottom desk drawer, for the miscellaneous aches and pains of old age, and she emptied it. What else? Surgical scissors, a couple of Bic disposable razors, tape. Saline. There was a stock of sterile saline in the storeroom. She took five liters.

The nurses each had a personal drawer in a row of filing cabinets. Nobody bothered to lock them, and Sandy dug around in Marie Admont's drawer and found the bottle of penicillin pills. Marie had gotten them after a crazy old lady had raked her with her fingernails. Marie had only used a fewof the pills, and a half-dozen remained in the bottle. Sandy took them.

THE DRIVE TO ST. PAUL SEEMED TO LAST FOREVER, THE dark strip through Wisconsin, then the winding road out to the interstate on the Minnesota side. Butters said a half-dozen words during the trip, Sandy four or five. Both were caught in their own thoughts.

Once in the Cities, Butters guided them down the interstate, then back into the narrow ice-clogged streets of Frogtown. They parked behind Martin's truck, and got out. Elmore parked behind them, and hurried through the snow, whitefaced, and said, ''I want to talk to Sandy. One minute. Before we go in there.''

Butters said, ''Get your asses in there, goddamnit.''