“If it’s so remote, why do the Juggalos come up here?” Lucas asked.
“Because it’s nice in the summer. Most of them come up from the Detroit area, where the Insane Clown Posse comes from, which is not nice, in the summer or mostly any other time. We got good lakes and, like I said, no cops—we leave them alone,” Laurent said. “They want to smoke a little weed, no problem. Besides, everybody up here wants them to come. They’ve been up here for four years now, don’t cause us a lot of trouble, other than hauling some trash out of the park. They’ve got their own medics and if somebody ODs, they haul them off to Sault Ste. Marie—no hospital in Jeanne d’Arc. And the Juggalos probably leave a quarter million dollars behind. In Barron County, that’s big.”
After a while, Laurent asked, “How many guys traveling with this fruitcake?”
“Well, we killed one of them. So, not more than twenty,” Lucas said.
Laurent said, “Wait a minute. There are twenty crazy killers coming up here?”
“At the most,” Lucas said. “As far as we know.”
Laurent laughed; and that reassured Lucas. He wasn’t working with someone who was easily frightened. Or maybe, Lucas thought, he really was dumber than the dog.
• • •
THE ENTRANCE TO the county park was a gravel road that broke off the highway, followed a winding road through a stand of oaks, and then plunged into a pine forest and emerged at a series of campgrounds spread around a lake.
A few local families were in the nearest campgrounds, set up around picnic tables. Two small boats bobbed in the lake; judging from his own lake, at his cabin, Lucas thought it might be five hundred acres or so.
At the far end of the road, at the end of the lake, the park opened up into a field with a baseball diamond at one end. Fifty cars and pickups and a few RVs were already scattered around the field, and a flatbed truck was unloading green fiberglass porta-potties. Laurent left his truck at the near end of the parking area, and as Lucas got out, the scent of pine trees, wood smoke, and roasting weenies hit him in the face.
Laurent asked, “Now what?”
“We know that they had an RV when they left Wisconsin. Let’s kinda cruise those. We’re looking for a tribe of people, who hang together. Probably look a little more California than the locals. The Pilate guy dressed as a priest at the Wisconsin Gathering. As I understand it, the RV was at the center of a cluster of cars in Wisconsin.”
They cruised the RVs and found no cluster of cars, or anyone dressed as a priest. In fact, they found only a few people in Juggalo makeup: most of the people were involved in setting up. They’d just taken a look at the last of the RVs when Lucas spotted a green John Deere utility cart bouncing down the field with the fat man in the back.
Lucas headed them off, flagged them down. “You remember me?” he asked the fat guy.
The fat guy pointed a finger-pistol at him and said, “The cop from Minneapolis with the daughter. How is she?”
“Got a big black eye and some cracked ribs. Listen—it’s Randy, right?—we’re looking for those guys who killed the girl down in Wisconsin. You see anyone like them?”
“Not yet—I’ve been too busy setting up. Give me your cell phone, and if they come in, I’ll call you.”
“We especially want the guy who dressed like a priest,” Lucas said, as he scribbled the cell number on the back of a business card.
“I will do that,” the fat man said.
• • •
AFTER A LAST WALK-THROUGH, Lucas and Laurent left the park. “You think they’ll still show up?”
“Don’t know,” Lucas said. “We’ll catch up with them somewhere, but it’d be nice if we could take them down right now. I’ll tell you, Rome, the ideal thing would be to bust a bunch of them, and get one to turn.”
“Did anyone turn in the Charlie Manson bunch?”
“Yeah. One woman, big-time. And a few other people who knew about Manson, but weren’t part of the gang. These guys are not quite the same thing. They’re a little more careful, even if they’re not a lot smarter. But from what the L.A. cops tell me, they’re off in the same direction.”
“Oh, boy.” Laurent scrubbed at his upper lip with a knuckle. “Let me call some folks, my reserve deputies. They’ll help. Why don’t we get together at my place, tonight, see what we can figure out. You know, scenarios.”
“Why the reserves?”
“Because they’re all smart guys,” Laurent said. “I think we need smart guys for this.”
• • •
LUCAS GOT THE LAST ROOM at the Holiday Inn Express, which turned out to be a handicapped room. That was fine, because it had a better shower than the standard rooms and apparently there were no handicapped people who really needed it. He got cleaned up, and took a phone call from Del about the guy who stole the safe full of diamonds.
“I found Cory.”
“Where is he?” He was looking out a window, at cold, steel-gray waves marching across Lake Michigan.
“In a house out in the sticks west of Wyoming, backing up to Carlos Avery. Since that’s public land, I snuck up on his place, from the back, with a pair of binoculars. Never saw him, but guess what: there’re two standard oxygen tanks lying on the back porch. I think he’s running an oxyacetylene torch in the garage, trying to cut the safe open. Since he technically became a fugitive when he stopped talking to his PO, we don’t even need a search warrant.”
“Goddamnit. I’m over in the UP,” Lucas said. “You’re gonna have to talk to Jon, organize a raid on the place.”
After a long silence, Del said, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Lucas.”
“We can’t wait, Del. It might already be too late,” Lucas said. “If he’s cutting that safe open, he could get through it anytime, and once he does, the diamonds are gone.”
“Yeah, but . . .”
“What?”
“Sands is really pissed at you for going up to the UP and at Flowers for dumping that state senator’s investigation,” Del said. “He called Flowers and jacked him up, and Flowers apparently told him to suck on it. What I’m saying is, this is a fairly high-profile case and you guys could use the credit for busting it. If we get Jon involved . . . I mean, he’s not a bad guy, but if he sees a commendation coming down the road, he’d be the first guy to jump in front of it.”
Lucas laughed: “You really think I need to blow Sands?”
“No. He’s got his own political problems. What I’m saying is, Davenport could use some . . . some . . . image-building. Flowers will be okay: everybody loves Virgil. But you’ve got a U.S. senator who hates you, you’ve got a big newspaper that’d fuck you any way they could . . .”
“Governor sort of likes my ass.”
“Yes, he does. That’s why you’re still working here,” Del said. “But he’s gone in a year and Rose Marie goes with him, and then you’re out there naked. So . . .”
“Del, I appreciate what you’re saying—but fuck it. I don’t care much about the credit,” Lucas said. “Talk to Jon. He can have Jenkins and Shrake help, if you can hit Cory tonight, but tomorrow, Jenkins and Shrake might be out-of-pocket on another thing. If Jon gets you and Jenkins and Shrake to go on the raid, then everybody will know it’s our group who took Cory.”
Another silence, then Del said, “This feels bad to me.”
“Do it, okay? I’ve got a real headache over here. So just do it.”
“I’ll try to get Jon to do it tonight, and I’ll call Jenkins and Shrake,” Del said. “Goddamnit, man . . .”
“Yeah, I know, Del. Call me when it’s done.”
• • •
LUCAS HAD WORN tan slacks, a Façonnable shirt, and a blue knit sport jacket on his drive over to the UP, an effort to look somewhat official when meeting out-of-state cops. Having checked out Laurent, he decided that wasn’t necessary, and changed into jeans, a pullover shirt, and a light leather jacket that hung down over his .45.