''Anything on Butters? Local contacts?''

''Not as far as I know, but Anderson's working the computers,'' Roux said.

''Nothing happening down there?''

''Not yet,'' he said. ''I'll go turn on the TV.''

''The word's out about the money you put on the street, the ten thousand,'' Roux said. ''Channel Three has it, and if they've got it, everybody else will in an hour. I'm not sure it's a good precedent.''

''There aren't any precedents for this,'' Lucas said.

''All right. I hope it dredges something up,'' Roux said. ''By the way, this

Butters-his nickname is 'Crazy.' Crazy Ansel Butters.''

''That's what I want to hear,'' Lucas said.

LUCAS, DELANDSMALLSTOODAROUNDTHETELEVISION while Jennifer packed the kids: The regular Nightline host was on vacation, and an anonymous ABC newsman fronted the show. He started with ''a significant bit of breaking news,'' and a black-and-white photograph of Ansel Butters filled the screen.

''If you have seen this man…''

A moment later, he launched into his prepared introduction, and said,

''Minneapolis, a city crouched in shock and terror this wintry night,'' and all three of them-Lucas, Del and Small-said ''Jesus'' at the same time.

JENNIFER LEFT WITH THE KIDS IN A THREE-CAR CONVOY. Neighbors were wakened, and cops installed in corner houses. The snow stopped at midnight, and Lucas, Small and Del, trying to keep the house looking awake, watched on the weather radar as the snow squalls drifted off to the northeast and into Wisconsin.

At 12:30, which Small said was their usual time, they began turning off lights and killed the television. Moving cars were scarce. They sat behind the darkened windows and grew sleepy.

''Maybe it was just a bullshit call,'' Small said.

''Maybe, but we've got nothing else working,'' Lucas said. ''Whoever it was had my card and my direct line. That says something.''

''Maybe somebody's jerking you around,'' Del said.

Lucas yawned. ''I don't think so. The guy knew something.''

''I hope they come in,'' Del said fervently, in the dark. ''I hope they come.''

WHILE LUCAS DASHED TO SMALL'S HOME, STADIC crossed the St. Croix at Taylors

Falls and headed into the Wisconsin night on Highway 8. The going was slow: there were no lights, and at times, as he passed through the intermittent snow squalls, the highway virtually disappeared. A green sign-Turtle Lake 17-flicked past; and much later a John Deere sign, and then lights.

He was running on adrenaline now: only five hours since the attacks, and it seemed like a lifetime.

At Turtle Lake, he passed a hotel with a No Vacancy sign, and then the casino loomed out of the snow like an alcoholic hallucination. He turned into the lot and had to drive halfway to the back to find a parking space. The casinos were always full, even at midnight, even in a blizzard.

A uniformed security officer stood just inside the doors, eyes watchful. Stadic asked, ''Where's the phone?'' and the security man pointed down the length of the casino. ''Outside any of the rest rooms,'' he said.

The first phone, mounted on the wall between the men'sand women's rest rooms, was occupied by a woman who appeared to be in crisis: she had a handkerchief in her hand and she twisted it and untwisted it as she cried into the phone. Stadic moved on, found another one. The noise from the slots might be a problem, he thought, but he needed the phone. He cupped his hand around the receiver and dialed the fire station.

A sleepy man answered. Stadic, watching the casino traffic, said, ''This is

Sergeant Manfred Hamm with the Minnesota Highway Patrol out of Taylors Falls,

Minnesota. To whom am I speaking?''

The sleepy man said, ''Uh, this is Jack, uh, Lane.''

''Mr. Lane, you're with the Turtle Lake Fire Department?''

''Uh, yeah?''

''Would you by any chance cover a rural fire route, Mr. and Mrs. Elmore

Darling?''

''Uh, yeah.'' Lane was waking up.

''Mr. Lane, we've got a problem here. Mrs. Darling has been involved in an automobile accident outside of Taylors Falls, and we need to send a man to speak to Mr. Darling. We don't know exactly where his house is, as all we have is a rural route address. Would you have a location on the Darling house?''

''Well, uh… Just a minute there.''

Stadic heard the fireman talking to somebody, and a moment later he came back:

''Sergeant Baker?''

''Sergeant Hamm,'' Stadic said.

''Oh, yeah, Hamm, sorry. The Darlings live at fire number twelve-eighty-nine.

You stay on Highway 8, and you go a little more than a mile past the Highway 63 turnoff, and you'll see Kk going to the south. They're about a mile down that road… You'll see a red sign by the driveway, says, Township Almena and the number. Twelve-eighty-nine. Got that?''

''Yes, thank you,'' Stadic said, scribbling it down. ''We'll send a man.''

''Was, uh, the accident…?''

''We're not allowed to say more until the next of kin are located,'' Stadic said formally. Then: ''Thank you again.''

THE SNOWFALL HAD EASED AS HE CREPT OUT KK, TRYING to stay in the middle of the road. Although the air was clear, the fresh snow flattened everything: he couldn't see the edge of the road, or where the ditches started. He crawled along, past the big rural mailboxes, hunting for the fire signs in the beam of a six-cell flashlight.

And he found it, just like the fireman had said he would.

The Darling house sat back from the road, and showed a sodium vapor yard light at the side of a three-car pole barn. The inverted mushroom shape of a satellite

TV antenna sprouted at the side of the pole barn, pointing south. The house was two stories tall, white and neat. A white board fence led off into the dark and snow.

A fresh set of tire tracks led to the garage: with the snow coming down as it had been, there must have been a recent arrival. Stadic continued a half-mile down Kk to the next driveway, turned around and headed back.

LaChaise had given him a local phone number in the Cities, and another man had answered when he called. So at least two of them were down there-and after the fight, they were probably all three hanging together.

He wasn't sure what he'd find at this place: but if they were friends of

LaChaise, they might know where he was… and they might know Stadic's name.

Just short of the Darlings' driveway, he turned off his headlights and eased along the road with the parking lights. He turned into the end of the driveway and, keeping his foot off the brake, killed the engine and rolled to a stop.

He had a shotgun in the back, on the floor. He picked it up, jacked a shell into the chamber, zipped his parka, put on his gloves and cracked the door. He'd forgotten the dome light: it flickered, and he quickly pulled the door shut.

Watched. Nothing. He reached up, pushed the dome light switch all the way to the left, and tried the door again. No light. He got out, and headed down the drive, the shotgun in his hand.

A shaft of light fell on the snow outside the kitchen. Stadic did a quick-peek, one eye, just a half-second, past the edge of a yellowed pull-down shade. A gray-faced man in a plaid shirt and blue jeans, with a bare-neck farmer haircut, sat alone at a kitchen table. He was eating macaroni out of a Tupperware bowl, washing it down with a can of beer. He was watching CNN.

Stadic ducked under the window and, walking light-footed, testing the snow for crunch, continued past the house to a detached garage, and down the side of the garage to a window. He flicked his pocket flash just long enough to see the truck inside. He checked the plates: Q-HORSE2. So they had two vehicles. There were probably no more than two people inside the house, because that was the nominal capacity of the truck. And there was probably only one person inside, the one he could see, because the other truck was gone.