Sandy shivered. ''I'm not thinking about running,'' she said. ''I'm just cold.''

''Bullshit,'' Martin snorted.

''Whyn't you put some shoes on?'' LaChaise said. ''Let's go out.''

''Go out?'' she asked doubtfully. She looked toward a window: it was pitch black outside. Then she looked back at LaChaise. ''Dick, you're hurt.. .''

''Hell, it ain't that bad. There's no bleeding. And I can't be cooped up in here,'' LaChaise said. Despite the headache, he was almost cheerful.

''I'd rather stay here.''

''Don't be an asshole,'' he snapped. ''Let's go out and see what's cookin'. One of you can drive, I'll sit in the back.''

WHILE SANDY AND MARTIN GOT READY, LACHAISE turned on the television, clicked around the channels and found nothing of interest but a weather forecast. The snow would diminish during the morning, and the sun might peek through in the afternoon. Big trouble was cranking up in the Southwest, but it was several days away.

''Cold,'' Martin grunted, coming back from his bedroom. He was wearing his camo parka.

''Better for us, since they plastered pictures of me and Butters all over hell,'' LaChaise said. ''Less people on the street.''

''Nothing must've happened with Ansel. They'd be going on all channels if he'd done something.''

''Maybe backed off,'' LaChaise said. ''Maybe nothin' there.''

Martin looked at Sandy: ''You ready?''

''I'm not sure about this,'' she said. ''If somebody sees us.. .''

''We're just gonna ride around,'' LaChaise said. ''Maybe go to a drive-through and get some Egg McMuffins or something.''

''Gonna be light soon,'' Martin said.

BUTTERS GOT BACK TO THE HOUSE AND SAW THE SNOWFREE spot where Martin's truck had been parked, and the tracks leading away. Hadn't been gone for more than a couple of minutes, he thought: wonder what's going on? He parked Sandy's truck over the same spot and went inside. A note in the middle of the entry floor said, ''Cabin fever. Gone an hour. We'll check back.''

Butters shook his head: Cabin fever wasn't a good enough reason to go out. Of course, he'd been out. Still. LaChaise had once saved his life, LaChaise was as solid a friend as Butters had ever known… but nobody had ever claimed that he was a genius.

WHEN LUCAS ARRIVED AT THE PARKING LOT OFF UNIVERSITY and Lexington, the St. Paul cops were putting together the entry team under a lieutenant named Allport. Four plainclothes Minneapolis cops, all from homicide or vice, were standing around the lot, watching the St. Paul guys getting set.

Allport spotted Lucas and walked over to shake hands: ''How're you doing?''

''Anything we can do to help?''

Allport shook his head. ''We got it under control.'' He paused. ''A couple of your guys were pretty itchy to go in with us.''

''I'll keep them clear,'' Lucas said. ''Maybe we could sit out on the perimeter.''

Allport nodded: ''Sure. We're a little thin on the ground 'cause we're moving fast. We want to get going before we have too many people on the street.'' He looked up into the sky, which seemed as dark as ever with snow clouds. But dawn was coming: you couldn't see it on the horizon, but there was more light around.

''Why don't you take your guys up on the east side, up on Grotto. You'll be a block off the house, you can get down quick if something happens.''

''You got it,'' Lucas said. ''Thanks for letting us in.''

''So let's go,'' Allport said.

Lucas rounded up the Minneapolis cops: ''There'll be two squads on Grotto, which is a little thin. We'll want to spread out along the street. St. Paul will bring us in as soon as the entry team pops the place.''

A sex cop named Lewiston said, ''St. Paul don't have a lot of guys out here.''

''There's a time problem,'' Lucas said. ''They want to get going before they have too many civilians on the street.''

Lewiston nodded, accepting the logic, but Stadic said, ''I wish we were doing the entry. These fuckin' shitkickers…''

Lucas grinned and said, ''Hey.'' Then: ''We don't even know if it's anything.

Could be bullshit.''

The entry team left, followed by the other cops in squads and their personal cars, a morose procession down through the narrow streets of Frogtown, staying two blocks from the target, walking in the last block.

STADIC HUNG BACK AS THEY WALKED, HIS SHOTGUN under his arm. He'd been caught up in the rush around theoffice, when word got back that Davenport's source might have something. Now he was worried: if they got tight on the house, they just might pull some people out of it alive…

Davenport pushed on ahead, walking fast with two other Minneapolis cops. This was his first chance, and probably his last: Stadic stepped behind a dying elm, took his cellular from his pocket and pushed the speed-dial button.

''Yeah?'' LaChaise answered in two seconds, as though he'd been holding the phone.

''Get out of there,'' Stadic rasped. ''There's a St. Paul entry team coming in right now. Go out the back, go east, they're thin up there. Get out.''

After a second of silence, LaChaise said, ''We ain't there.''

''What?''

''We're in the truck. Where're you at?''

''Old house in St. Paul, north of the freeway a few blocks

… If that's your place, you stay away. I can't talk, I gotta go.''

He heard LaChaise say ''Shit'' and then Stadic turned the phone off and hurried to catch the others.

BUTTERS HAD WALKED UP THE STAIRS TOWARD THE bathroom when he glanced out a back window and saw the man dart through the streetlight a block over. The motion was quick, but heavy. Not a jogger, a soldier. He knew instantly that the cops were at the door.

He was still wearing his camo parka. He ran light-footedly down the stairs to the hall, where Martin had stacked the weapons in an open hall closet, out of sight but easy to get to. Butters grabbed the AR-15, already loaded, and four loaded magazines. He jammed the mags in his pocket and jacked a shell into the chamber and kept going, right to the back door.

The rear of the house was still dark, and he listened for amoment. He couldn't hear anything, but the door was the place they'd come. He turned back, crossed the house to the darker side away from the back door, went into Martin's bedroom, and tried a window. Jammed. He went to the next, turning the twist lock, lifting it. There was a vague tearing sound as old paint ripped away; the smell of it tickled his nose, but he had been quiet enough, he thought. The oldfashioned storm windows opened behind some kind of withered, leafless bush.

He looked out, saw nobody, pushed open the storm window and peeked. Still nothing, too dark. He took a breath and snaked over the windowsill into the snow behind the hedge.

The snow crunched beneath his weight where dripping water from the eaves had stippled the surface with ice. He lay still for a moment, listening. Listening was critical in the dark: he'd spent weeks in tree stands, turning his head to the tweaks and rustles of the early morning, the deer moving back to bedding areas, the foxes and coyotes hunting voles, the wood ducks crunching through dried-out oak leaves, the trees defrosting themselves in the early sun, the grass springing up in the morning. Ansel Butters had heard corn grow; and now he heard footsteps in the snow, coming from the back, and then more, from the front.

Butters went down the side of the house, listening to the crunch of feet coming in: they wouldn't hear him, he decided. They were making too much noise on their own, city people in the snow, carrying heavy weapons. He went left, to the house next door, pressed himself against its weathered siding. Trying to see, trying to hear…

And here they came, through the backyard, three or four of them, he thought.

Staying low, he moved to the corner of the house, then around it, to the east.