Halfway back, Lucas, with his eyes closed and one hand tight around an overhead grip, said, "Twenty-three months. Couldn't have been much of a rape."

"A rape is a rape," Connell said, an edge in her voice.

"You know what I mean," Lucas said, opening his eyes.

"I know what men mean when they say that," Connell said.

"Kiss my ass," Lucas said. The pilot winced-almost ducked-and Lucas closed his eyes again.

"I'm not interested in putting up with certain kinds of bullshit," Connell said levelly. "A male commentary on rape is one of them. I don't care if the guy back at Waupun calls me a girl, because he's stupid and out of touch. But you're not stupid, and when you imply-"

"I didn't imply jackshit," Lucas said. "But I've known women who were raped who had to think about it before they realized what happened. On the other hand, you get some woman who's been beaten with a bat, her teeth are broken out, her nose is smashed, her ribs are broken, she's gotta have surgery because her vagina is ripped open. She doesn't have to think about it. If it's gonna happen, which way would you want it?"

"I don't want it at all," Connell said.

"You don't want death and taxes, either," Lucas said.

"Rape isn't death and taxes."

"All of the big ones are death and taxes," Lucas said. "Murder, rape, robbery, assault. Death and taxes."

"I don't want to argue," Connell said. "We have to work together."

"No, we don't."

"What, you're gonna dump me because I argue with you?"

Lucas shook his head. "Meagan, I just don't like getting jumped when I say something like, 'It must not have been much of a rape,' and you know what I'm talking about. I mean, there must not have been a lot of obvious violence with the rape, or they would have given him more time. Our killer is ripping these women. He might be smoking a cigarette while he's doing it. He's a fuckin' monster. If he rapes somebody, he's not gonna be subtle about it. I don't know the details of this rape, but twenty-three months doesn't sound like our man."

"You just don't want it to be that easy," Connell said.

"Bullshit."

"I'm serious. I keep getting the feeling you're playing some kind of weird game, looking for this guy. I'm not. I want to nail the asshole any way I can. If it's easy, that's good. If it's hard, that's okay too, as long as we put him in a cage."

"Fine. But stay out of my face, huh?"

Del was sitting on the City Hall steps, elbows on his knees, smoking a Lucky Strike. He was watching red ants crawl out of a crack in the sidewalk. His hair was too long and plastered down with something that might have been lard. He wore an olive-drab army shirt with faded spots on the sleeves where sergeant's stripes had been removed, and a fading name tag over the right pocket that said "Halprin," which wasn't his name. The army shirt was missing its buttons, and was worn open, showing a giveaway rock-station T-shirt that said "KQ Sucks." Tattered khaki pants with dirt on the knees and black canvas sneakers completed his outfit. The sneaks had a hole near the base of his right big toe, and through the hole, the visible skin was as grimy as the shoes.

"Dude," he said, his head bobbing as Lucas and Connell came up. He had the nervous submissiveness of somebody who has eaten out of garbage cans for too many years.

Connell walked past him with a glance. When Lucas stopped, she said, "C'mon."

Lucas, hands in his pockets, nodded at Del. "What're you doing?"

"Watchin' ants," Del said.

"What else?"

Connell, who'd gotten as far as the door, drifted back toward them.

"Asshole's getting out in a few minutes. I want to see who picks him up." Del snapped the cigarette into the street and looked up at Lucas. "Who's the chick?"

"Meagan Connell. Investigator with the state," Lucas said.

Connell said, "Lucas, we're in a hurry, remember?"

Lucas said, "Meagan. Meet Del Capslock."

She looked down, and Del looked up and said, "How do."

"You're a…" She couldn't find the right word.

"A police officer, yes, ma'am, but there's been some bureaucratic foul-up and I ain't been paid the last few years."

"You gotta see this asshole?" Lucas asked him.

"Don't gotta."

"Then come on inside. We're doing this thing…"

"Yeah?"

"The Seeds came up."

Del had a database on the Seeds known to Wisconsin, Minnesota, Iowa, and Illinois police agencies. Joe Hillerod came in for twenty lines. "His brother Bob is heavily involved," Del said, scanning a computer file. "He transported drugs out of the port, down here and over to Chicago and maybe St. Louis, for some medium-time dealers. He didn't retail himself, not at the time, although he might be now. Then he had some hookers working all the big truck stops around Wisconsin and northern Illinois. Joe… the information says he mostly drove for his older brother but wasn't much of a businessman. Apparently he's a wild one; likes women and good times. And he seems to be the enforcer when they need one."

"What're they doing now?" Connell asked.

"Small-time retailing coke and crank through the roadhouses up there. And they've got a salvage yard outside of Two Horse."

"Any chance that they were involved with those fifty-cals you found?" Lucas asked.

Del shook his head doubtfully. "The Seeds have a bunch of little splinter groups. The fifty-cal guys are into this weird right-wing white-supremacy Christian-Nazi shit. And they're mostly holdup guys and armored car guys. The Hillerods are a different splinter, mostly based around the old biker gang the Bad Seeds. They're dope and women. A couple of them supply women to the massage parlors over in Milwaukee and here in the Cities. One of them has a porno store in Milwaukee."

Lucas scratched his head and looked at Connell, who'd been peering over Del's shoulder. "I guess the only way we're gonna find out is go up there and roust them."

"Be a little careful," Del said.

"When?" Connell asked.

"Tomorrow," Lucas said. "I'll call the sheriff tonight, and we'll go first thing in the morning."

"Driving?"

Lucas showed a sickly grin. "Driving."

Lucas and Connell agreed to meet at eight o'clock for the drive up north. "I'll check the medical examiner on Marcy Lane and see if anything's come up," she said. "I'll get everything I can on the Hillerods. The whole file."

Lucas stopped at homicide to check with Greave, but was told he was out. Another cop said, "He's down with that thing at Eisenhower Docks. He should be back by now."

From his office, Lucas called Lincoln County Sheriff Sheldon Carr at Grant, Wisconsin; touched the scar on his neck as Carr picked up the phone. Carr had been there when Lucas was shot by the child.

"Lucas, how are things?" Carr was hardy and country and smart. "You comin' up to fish? Is Weather pregnant yet?"

"Not yet, Shelly. We'll let you know… Listen, I gotta talk to George Beneteau over in Carren County. Do you know him?"

"George? Sure. He's okay. Should I give him a call?"

"If you would. I'll call him later on and talk. I'm going up there tomorrow to look at a guy involved with the Seeds."

"Ah, those assholes," Carr said with disgust. "They used to be around here, you know. We ran them off."

"Yeah, well, we're bumping into them down here now. I would appreciate an introduction, though."

"I'll call him right now. I'll tell him to expect to hear from you," Carr said. "You take it easy with those bad boys."

Greave came in with a kid. The kid was wearing a black-and-white-striped French fisherman's T-shirt, dirty jeans, and stepped-on white sneaks. He had a pound of dirty-blond hair stuck up under a long-billed red Woody Woodpecker cap.

"This is Greg," Greave said, throwing a thumb at the kid. "He does handyman work around the apartments."