Lester and another cop named Davis talked about ways of blocking off the drive without being too conspicuous about it. Lucas and Del showed up, cold, damp, hurried.

''You get the new composites on the street?'' Lucas asked Lester.

''Yeah, and we got the car out,'' Lester said. As they talked, they drifted toward a group of chairs a few feet from Stadic. ''Big brown car. What the fuck does that mean? What we got to do is break out where they're hiding.''

''Until we do that…''

Davenport went on talking but Stadic blanked. All he could think of was, Big

Brown Car. And he thought, Oh, shit, they're at Harp's.

At noon, he was relieved of duty. He stopped at the office just long enough to pick up a pair of 8 50 naval binoculars, then drove down toward Harp's place. He stopped a blockand a half away and put the glasses on the windows above the laundromat. He hadn't been watching for more than five minutes when he saw the blinds move-somebody looking out at the street.

All right, he had them again. Same deal? He could wait in the street until they came out-they'd be in the car, that'd be a problem. He could maybe park across the street, and wait: and when he saw the garage door going up, he could run over to the driver's side, blow it up from one foot away-press the muzzle of the shotgun against the glass and pull the trigger. That would take out the driver, then the other guy… He'd need his vest.

He chewed his thumbnail nervously. A lot could go wrong. There'd be questions, later, too. But he could talk those away. He kept thinking about the death of

Sell-More, he'd say, and how Harp seemed to tie into it. He ran Harp's name on the computer and came up with a Lincoln… but why wouldn't he tell everybody at that point? Why would he go in by himself?

He tried to work it through, but his mind wasn't right: too tired. He drove past the apartment to a liquor store with a pay phone, and dialed LaChaise again.

''We're looking for a big brown car, a Lincoln or a Buick.''

''That's it? No tags?''

''No tags. But they've got a new composite out on you-it won't be on TV until the late news, they want to see if you hit the hospital. But they say you've got gray hair, and gray beards, and you look like old men.''

''That fuckin' Winter,'' LaChaise said. Then, ''What's it like at the hospital.

Security?''

''Tighter than a drum.''

''Goddamnit…''

''If I was you, I'd think about packing up and getting out,'' Stadic said.

''Your time's running out.''

After a moment, LaChaise said, ''Maybe.''

Stadic could hear him breathing; five seconds, ten. Then Stadic said,

''Really?''

''We're talking about it,'' LaChaise said. ''Mexico.''

THE WHOLE DAY DRAGGED, THE HOURS SQUEEZING BY: every cop in the department was on the street: there were rumors that the local gangs were filling up the

Chicago-bound buses, just to get out of the pressure.

Lucas had run out of ideas, and spent half the day at the hospital, with dwindling expectations.

Night came, but no LaChaise…

THE HOSPITAL WAS QUIET, DARK. NURSES PADDED around in running shoes, answering calls from individual rooms, pushing pills. Lucas, Del and a narcotics cop named

McKinney hung out in an office just off the main lobby. There was no telling where LaChaise and Martin would try to crack the place-if they tried at all-but from the lobby, they could move quickly to either end of the building.

''Unless they come in by parachute,'' McKinney said.

''That'd be good,'' Del said. ''You see that movie?''

''Yeah… actually, there've been a couple of them. There was that one where the guy jumps out of the plane without a'chute, you see that one? Grabs the guy in midair?''

''What's-his-name was in it, the kid, you know, the Excellent Adventure guy,''

Lucas said.

''Yeah, I saw that,'' said McKinney. ''That's what got me jumpin'.''

''Hey, you jump? Far out…''

They talked about skydiving until they wore it out, then Lucas went back down the hall and crawled into an empty bed. Del sat up with McKinney; when first light came, he put his gun away and went to sit with Cheryl until she woke.

''YOU WANT ME TO DRIVE?'' MARTIN ASKED SANDY.

''No, I'm okay,'' she said.

''Watch your speed. We don't want to attract no cops,'' Martin said.

''Maybe we should of stopped in Des Moines,'' LaChaise said. ''This is a long fuckin' way.''

LaChaise had spent the trip in the backseat. Whenever they passed a highway patrolman-they'd seen three-he sprawled out of sight.

''Yeah, well, we're almost there,'' Martin said. ''See that glow out there? Way off, straight ahead? That's Kansas City.''

They'd made the decision late in the afternoon, LaChaise and Martin, and just after dark, LaChaise had walked back to the bedroom and said, ''Get your stuff ready.''

Sandy sat up. ''Where're we going?''

''Mexico.''

''Mexico? Dick, are you serious?'' She felt a quick beat of hope. If they made it out of town, they'd have some room. And someplace along the road, they'd forget about her for a while, and she'd walk away. A dusty little restaurant someplace, a small town out on the desert… she'd wait until they started eating, then she'd tell them she had to go to the ladies'room and then she'd walk out, leave a note on the car seat, hide until they were gone.

It was all there, in her mind's eye: and when they were gone-long gone-she'd turn herself in. Work it out.

A possibility.

But now Dick was complaining that they'd come too far? What was all that about?

She thought about it, a sinking feeling, and finally asked, ''Why is Kansas City too far, Dick?'' He didn't answer immediately. ''Dick?''

''Because we don't want to drive in the daytime,'' Martin said. He looked at his watch. ''It'll be light in another hour. We've got to find a motel.''

Martin spotted an all-night supermarket on the outskirts of the city, and told

Sandy to take the off ramp. LaChaise waited in the car with Sandy until Martin returned: he'd bought two loaves of bread, a couple of pounds of sandwich meat, and two big bars of dark green auto mechanic's soap.

''What's the soap for?'' Sandy asked, peering into the bag.

''Whittlin','' Martin said, grinning at her.

LaChaise rented a room in a chain motel called the Red Roof Inn. LaChaise went in because he'd shaved just before they left the Cities, and Sandy had given him a neat trim. Wearing one of Harp's suits with a silk tie, he looked like a

Republican. He paid cash for the room, two days, said he was alone, and asked that the maid be told not to wake him up.

''Been traveling all night,'' he said.

''No problem,'' said the woman behind the desk.

The room was on the back side of the motel, with two double beds and a TV. They slept, restlessly, until two o'clock, when Martin got up and ordered a pizza,

Coke and coffee from a local pizza place. The stuff was delivered, no questions, and they ate silently. At four, with the sun slipping down in the west, they went back out to the car.

Martin said, ''I'll drive.'' ''That's all right, I…''

''Get in the back and shut up,'' LaChaise said.

''What's going on?'' Sandy asked. LaChaise grabbed her by the jacket and jerked her forward, until his face was only an inch from hers: she could smell the cheese and onions from the pizza.

''Change of plans. Now get in the fuckin' car.''

She got in the car. ''Dick, what're you going to do? Dick… ?''

''We're gonna rob another goddamned credit union, is what we're gonna do,''

LaChaise said.

LUCAS WAS AT THE HOSPITAL BECAUSE HE COULDN'T think of any better place to be: they now hadn't heard from LaChaise for thirty-six hours. Del, Sloan, Sherrill came and went and returned. They were running out of conversational gambits, sitting in dark rooms, out of sight, waiting…