Gathering Prey

ALSO BY JOHN SANDFORD

Rules of Prey

Shadow Prey

Eyes of Prey

Silent Prey

Winter Prey

Night Prey

Mind Prey

Sudden Prey

The Night Crew

Secret Prey

Certain Prey

Easy Prey

Chosen Prey

Mortal Prey

Naked Prey

Hidden Prey

Broken Prey

Dead Watch

Invisible Prey

Phantom Prey

Wicked Prey

Storm Prey

Buried Prey

Stolen Prey

Silken Prey

Field of Prey

KIDD NOVELS

The Fool’s Run

The Empress File

The Devil’s Code

The Hanged Man’s Song

VIRGIL FLOWERS NOVELS

Dark of the Moon

Heat Lightning

Rough Country

Bad Blood

Shock Wave

Mad River

Storm Front

Deadline

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

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Copyright © 2015 by John Sandford

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Sandford, John, date.

Gathering prey / John Sandford.

p. cm.—(Prey ; 25)

ISBN 978-0-698-15251-9

1. Davenport, Lucas (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2.  Private investigators—Minnesota—Minneapolis—Fiction. 3.  Homeless persons—Crimes against—Fiction. 4.  Serial murder investigation—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3569.A516G38 2015 2015005017

813'.54—dc23

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For Michele

S
kye and Henry stood on a corner of Union Square on a fading San Francisco afternoon in early June, the occasional odor of popcorn swirling through, trying to busk up a few dollars. Skye saw the devil go by in his black ’85 T-top, crooked smile, ponytail, twisty little braids in his beard. His skinny blond girlfriend sat beside him, tats running across her bare shoulders like grapevines, front teeth filed to tiny sharp points. Skye turned away, a chill running down her back.

Henry was strumming on a fifty-dollar acoustic guitar he’d bought at a pawnshop. Skye played her harmonica and kept time with a half tambourine strapped to one foot, jangling out into the evening, doing their version of “St. James Infirmary,” Henry banging between chords and struggling through,

“When I die, bury me in a high-top Stetson hat . . .”

He did not sound like any kind of black blues singer from the Mississippi Delta. He sounded like a white punk from Johnson City, Texas, which he was.

•   •   •

SKYE WAS STOCKY
with high cheekbones and green eyes. She wore an earth-colored loose knit wrap over a sixties olive-drab army shirt, corporal’s stripes still on the sleeves, and gray cargo pants over combat boots. Her hair was apricot-colored and tangled, with a scraggly braid hanging down her back.

Henry was a tall apple-cheeked man/boy with a perpetually smiley face, dressed in a navy blue Mao jacket buttoned to the throat, and matching slacks, and high-topped sneakers. Their packs sat against the wall of the building behind them, big, capable nylon bags, with a peeled-pine walking stick attached to one side of hers.

“Put a ten-piece jazz band on my tailgate to raise hell as we roll along . . .”

They both smelled bad. They washed themselves every morning in public bathrooms, but that didn’t eliminate the musty stink of their clothes. A laundromat cost money, which they didn’t have at the moment. A cigar box on the sidewalk held five one-dollar bills and a handful of change. They’d put in two of the dollar bills themselves, to encourage contributions, to suggest that their music might be worth listening to.

They weren’t the worst of the buskers on the square, but they were not nearly the best, and in terms of volume, they couldn’t compete with the horn players.

As Henry wound down through the song, his shaky baritone breaking from time to time, Skye noticed the young woman leaning on a fire hydrant, watching them.

Was she with the devil? She was the kind he went for. Thin but hot. Not blond, though. The devil went for blondes.

The young woman was casually dressed in a loose multicolored blouse, jeans, and sneakers, each of those separate components suggesting money: the blouse looked as though it might be real silk, the jeans fit perfectly, and even the sneakers suggested a secret sneaker store, one that only rich people knew about.

Her dark hair had been styled by somebody with talent.

Skye thought, Maybe with the devil—but if not, maybe good for a five? Even a ten? A ten would buy dinner and a cup of coffee in the morning . . .

Henry gave up on the “St. James Infirmary,” said, “Fuck this. We ain’t doing no good.”

“Don’t have enough cash to eat. Let’s give it another ten minutes. How about that Keb’ Mo’ thing?”

“Don’t know the words yet.” He looked around the square. “We should have gone up to the park. Can’t fight these fuckin’ horns.”

•   •   •

THE YOUNG WOMAN
who’d been leaning against the fire hydrant ambled up to them. She smiled and nodded to Henry, but spoke to Skye. “I don’t give money to buskers . . . or panhandlers . . . because I’m afraid they’ll spend it on dope. I got better things to do with it.”

“Well, thank you very fucking much,” Skye said. Her voice was harshed by smoke and a good bit of that had been weed.

“You’re a traveler,” the woman said, showing no offense.

“You know about us?”

“Enough to pick you out,” the woman said. “My name’s Letty. What’s yours?”

“Skye. My friend is Henry.” Skye was calculating: this woman was either with the devil, or . . . she could be worked. And Skye was hungry.

“Let’s go up to the park,” Henry said.

“Hang on,” Skye said. Back to the young woman: “If you won’t give us money, could you get us a bite?”

“There’s a McDonald’s a couple blocks from here,” Letty said. “I’ll buy you as much as you can eat.”

“Them’s the magic words,” Henry said, suddenly enthusiastic, his pink face going even pinker.

•   •   •

THE TWO TRAVELERS
shouldered their packs and Henry carried his guitar case and they started down Geary, walking toward Market Street, weaving through the tourists. “Where are you coming from and where are you going?” Letty asked.

Skye said, “We were in Santa Monica for the winter, then we started up here a couple weeks ago. Planning to be here for a couple of weeks, get some money, then go on up to Eugene, and maybe Seattle.”

Henry said to Skye, “I could have sworn I saw Pilot go by a few minutes ago. I heard they were traveling this summer.”

“We stay away from that asshole,” Skye said. “He’s the devil.”

“Is not,” Henry said. “He’s cool.”

“He’s not cool, Henry. He’s a crazy motherfucker.”

“Been in movies, man,” Henry said. “He said he might be able to get me a part.”

Skye grabbed his shirtsleeve, turning him: “Henry. He’ll kill you.”

“Ah, bullshit.” Henry started walking again and they could see the McDonald’s sign beyond him. He looked back at the two women. “You don’t know a chance when you see one, Skye. He could get me a part. I’d like to be in a movie. I’d really like that.”

“Why? So you know you’re alive? You’re alive, Henry. Let’s try to keep it that way.”

Henry shut up and they got to the McDonald’s.

•   •   •

INSIDE, THE TWO TRAVELERS
loaded up on calories: Henry ordered a Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese, large fries, a chocolate shake. Letty said, “Get a couple burgers, if you want.”

“You serious?” Henry asked.

“Go ahead.”

They did—two sandwiches, two fries, and a shake for each of them. Letty got a fish sandwich and a Diet Coke. When they’d spread out at a table, Letty asked Skye, “So . . . you feel safe when you’re on the road?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty safe,” Skye said. She took a big bite of the first burger and said, “I’m usually with somebody. Which helps. When I’m alone, getting ready to move, I’ll find a festival, or something like that, where there are a lot of people. You can ask around, find somebody going in your direction. Check up on him. Or her. Sometimes, when I got the money, I’ll ride the dog. One time, I met this guy in San Antonio, he was a dope dealer but, you know, he was okay. He bought me a ticket on the train to Los Angeles. More than three hundred dollars. And he didn’t want anything for it.”

“They usually want something for it?” Letty asked.

“Oh, sometimes they think they might get something . . . but they don’t,” Skye said. “If they’re the kind of guy who’s going to push it, I can usually figure that out ahead of time and I don’t go.”

“Ever make a mistake?” Letty asked.

Skye grinned at her, showing her yellow teeth, and said, “You’re kinda snoopy, aren’t you?”

Letty smiled back and said, “I used to work at a TV news station.”

Skye bobbed her head and took another bite of the sandwich. Eventually she said, “I made a couple of mistakes.”

“What’d you do about it?” Letty asked.

“Nothing. What could I do?”

“I would have killed them,” Letty said.

Henry was examining the side of his sandwich, and his eyes cut over to her and he said, “Easy to say, not so easy to do.”

“Not
that
hard,” Letty said.

•   •   •

SKYE AND LETTY LOCKED EYES
for a few seconds, then Skye said, “Jesus.” She swallowed and said, “You’re with Pilot, aren’t you?”

“What?”

Henry brightened up: “Hey, really? You’re with Pilot?”

“I don’t know who Pilot is,” Letty said. “I’m a student. At Stanford. I’m meeting friends in fifteen minutes, back at the square. We’re on a last shopping trip before summer vacation.”

Skye looked at her for another moment and then said, “Yeah. I can see that. You don’t know Pilot? He likes college girls. Or at least, college-girl types.”

“No. Who is he?”

“He’s an asshole,” Skye said. “Maybe the biggest asshole in California. Travels around with his disciples, he calls them. Fucks them all, men and women alike.”

“Does not,” Henry said. “Nothing queer about Pilot.”

“You hang with him, you’ll find out, little pink cheeks,” Skye said. She reached out and pinched his cheek. “And I’m not talking about these cheeks, either.”

“Fuck you, Skye.” He didn’t sound like he meant it, though.

•   •   •

“‘BIGGEST ASSHOLE IN CALIFORNIA’
would put him in the running for the national title,” Letty said. “What’d he do?”

Skye looked at her steadily for a moment, then said, “Might be a little more than a college girl would want to know.”

Letty said, “I’m not the standard-issue college girl. What’s he do? Besides being hot for Henry?”

“Shut up,” Henry said.

“Hot for Henry—we ought to write a song,” Skye said to Henry.

Henry knew the two women were teasing, and said again, “Shut up,” and, “You want all them fries?”

“Yes, I do,” Skye said. “So: Pilot. Pilot has these people he calls disciples, and they steal for him, the men do, and the women give him their paychecks and sometimes he sells them, the women. He peddles dope to TV people and sometimes these TV guys need to hustle a deal or hustle up some money, and Pilot’s women will go over and do whatever the money-men want.”

“Nasty,” Letty said.

“That’s not even the bad stuff,” Skye said. “There are probably twenty guys in Hollywood doing that. Pilot’s like one of those cult guys. He says the end of the world’s coming—he calls it the Fall—and the only thing that’ll be left are the outlaws. Like him and the disciples, and the dope gangs and bikers and Juggalos and the skinheads and like that. He believes that the groups need to bind themselves together with blood. By killing people. We both heard that he’s killed people. That the whole gang has.”

“All bullshit,” Henry said.

The women ignored him and Letty asked, “Why don’t you call the cops?”

“Nothing to call them about,” Skye said. “We say, ‘We heard he’s killed someone.’ They go, ‘Who?’ ‘We don’t know.’ ‘When?’ ‘We don’t know that, either.’ ‘Who told you?’ ‘We don’t know. Some street guy.’ The cops say, ‘Uh-huh, we’ll get right on it,’ and hang up.”

Letty said, “Huh.”

Skye: “He’d snatch you off the street in a minute.”

Letty showed some teeth in what wasn’t exactly a smile. “He’d get his throat cut.”

Henry swallowed a smile and said, “Yeah, right. Pilot eat you right up . . .”

Letty stared at him until he turned his eyes away. Skye squinted at her: “Where’d you get that mean streak?”

“I grew up dirt poor out on the prairie in northern Minnesota,” Letty said. “My old man dumped us and my mom was a drunk. I kept us going by trapping muskrats and coons, wandering around in the snow with a bunch of leg-hold traps and a .22. Must’ve killed a thousand rats with that gun. Pilot’s just another rat to me.”

“Bet you had to trap a lot of coons to get into Stanford,” Skye said.

Letty smiled again, and said, “Well, my mom got murdered and the cop who was investigating, he and his wife adopted me. They’re my real mom and dad. It was like winning the lottery.”

Skye: “For real?”

“For real,” Letty said.

Skye said, “Huh. How about your real pop?”

“Never really knew him,” Letty said. “He’s a shadow way back there.”

“He never . . . messed with you, or anything?”

“No, nothing like that,” Letty said.

“Sorry about your mom,” Skye said.

“Yeah, thanks. She . . . couldn’t deal with it. With anything.”

Skye nodded. “My mom is like that. She didn’t get murdered or anything—as far as I know, she’s still living in her old trailer.”

“What about your dad?”

“He’s probably still around, too. Probably messing with my little sister, if she hasn’t taken off already.”

Letty didn’t ask the obvious question; the
little sister
comment made it unnecessary.

•   •   •

SKYE FELT THAT
and bent the conversation in another direction. “What’s that little teeny watch you’re wearing?” she asked, poking a finger at the red band around Letty’s wrist.

“Ah, it’s one of those athlete things. Not a watch. Tells you how many steps you’ve taken in a day, and how high your heart rate got, and all of that.”

Skye held up a wrist. A piece of dark brown, elaborately braided leather was wrapped around it, and she said, “My bracelet doesn’t tell me anything.”

“Yours has more magic,” Letty said.

“Wanna trade?”

Letty’s eyebrows went up. “Are you serious? It isn’t important to you?”

“Nah. I buy the leather in craft shops, we go in and ask if they’ve got any scraps, and I make these up, then we sell them, when we can.”