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BROKEN PREY
ALS O 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

KIDD NOVELS

The Fool’s Run

The Empress File
The Devil’s Code
The Hanged Man’s Song
BROKEN PREY

John Sandford

G . P. P U T N A M ’ S S O N S
New York
 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Broken Prey

G. P. Putnam's Son Book / published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2005 by G. P. Putnam's Sons
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by
mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could
subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The G.P. Putnam's Sons Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

http://www.penguinputnam.com

ISBN: 0-7865-6461-X

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS BOOK®

G. P. Putnam's Sons Books first published by Penguin Publishing Group,
a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS and the "G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS" design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

Electronic edition: December 2005

For Barb Farmer and Sally Shannon
 1

C H A R L I E P O P E T R U D G E D down the alley with the empty garbage

can on his back, soaked in the stench of rancid meat and rotten bananas
and curdled blood and God knew what else, a man whose life had col-
lapsed into a trash pit—and still he could feel the eyes falling on him.
The secret glances and veiled gazes spattered him like sleet from a
winter thunderstorm. Everyone in town knew Charlie Pope, and they
all watched him.
He’d been on the front page of the newspaper a half dozen times,
his worried pig-eyed face peering out from the drop boxes and the
shelves of the supermarkets. They got him when he registered as a sex
offender, they got him outside his trailer, they got him carrying his can.
Pervert Among Us, the papers said, Sex Maniac Stalks Our Daughters,
How Long Will He Contain Himself Before Something Goes Terribly Wrong?
Well—they didn’t really say that, but that’s exactly what they meant.
Charlie tossed the empty garbage can to the side, stooped over the

1
JOHN SANDFORD

next one, lifted, staggered, and headed for the street. Heavy mother-
fucker. What’d they put in there, fuckin’ typewriters? How can they ex-
pect a white man to keep up with these fuckin’ Mexicans?
All the other garbagemen were Mexicans, small guys from some
obscure village down in the mountains. They worked incessantly, chat-
tering in Spanish to isolate him, curling their lips at the American per-
vert who was made to work among them.

C H A R L I E W A S A L A R G E M A N , more fat than muscle, with a

football-shaped head, sloping shoulders, and short, thick legs. He was
bald, but his ears were hairy; he had a diminutive chin, tiny lips, and
deep-set, dime-sized eyes that glistened with fluid. Noticeable and not
attractive. He looked like a maniac, a newspaper columnist said.
He was a maniac. The electronic bracelet on his ankle testified to the
fact. The cops had busted him and put him away for rape and aggra-
vated assault, and suspected him in three other assaults and two mur-
ders. He’d done them, all right, and had gotten away with it, all but the
one rape and ag assault. For that, they’d sent him to the hospital for
eight years.
Hospital. The thought made his lips crook up in a cynical smile.
St. John’s was to hospitals what a meat hook was to a hog.

C H A R L I E P U S H E D B A C K the thought of St. John’s and wiped the

sweat out of his eyebrows, wrestled the garbage cans out to the truck,
lifting, throwing, then dragging and sometimes kicking the cans back
to the customers’ doors. He could smell himself in the sunshine: he
smelled like sweat and spoiled cheese and rotten pork, like sour milk
and curdled fat, like life gone bad.
He’d thought he’d get used to it, but he never had. He smelled

2
 Broken Prey

garbage every morning when he got to work, smelled it on himself all

day, smelled it in his sweat, smelled it on his pillow in that hot, miser-
able trailer.
Hot and miserable, but better than St. John’s.

E A R LY M O R N I N G .
Charlie was across the park from the famous Sullivan Bank when the
chick in the raspberry-colored pants went by. The last straw? The straw
that broke the camel’s back?
Her brown eyes struck Charlie as cold raindrops, then flicked away
when he turned at the impact; he was left with the impression of soft
brown eyebrows, fine skin, and raspberry lipstick.
She had a heart-shaped ass.
She was wearing a cream-colored silk blouse, hip-clinging slacks,
and low heels that lengthened her legs and tightened her ass at the
same. She walked with that long busy confident stride seen on young
businesswomen, full of themselves and still strangers to hard decision
and failure.
And honest to God, her ass was heart shaped. Charlie felt a catch of
desire in his throat.
Her hips twitched sideways with each of her steps: like two bobcats
fighting in a gunny sack, somebody had once said, one of the other per-
verts at St. John’s, trying to be funny. But it wasn’t like that at all. It was
a soft move, it was the motion of the world, right there in the raspberry
slacks, with the slender back tapering down to her waist, her heels click-
ing on the sidewalk, her shoulder-length hair swinging in a backbeat to
the rhythm of her legs.
Jesus God, he needed one. He’d been eight and a half years without
real sex.
Charlie’s tongue flicked out like a lizard’s as he looked after her, and

3
JOHN SANDFORD

he could taste the garbage on his lips, could feel—even if they weren’t
there at this minute, he could feel them—the flies buzzing around
his head.
Charlie Pope, thirty-four, a maniac, smelling like old banana peels
and spoiled coffee grounds, standing on the street in Owatonna, pass-
ing eyes like icy raindrops, looking at a girl with a heart-shaped ass in
raspberry slacks, and telling himself,
“I gotta get me some of that. I just gotta . . .”

4
 2

T H E M I S T C A M E I N W AV E S , now almost a rain, now so light it

was more like a fog. Across the Mississippi, the night lights of St. Paul
shimmered with a brilliant, glassy intensity in the rain phases, and
dimmed to ghosts in the fog.
After two weeks of Missourilike heat, the mist was welcome, pat-
tering down on the broad-leafed oaks and maples, gurgling down the
gutters, washing out the narrow red-brick road, stirring up odors of cut
grass, damp concrete, and sidewalk worms.
A rich neighborhood, generous lawns, older houses well kept, a
Mercedes here, a Land Rover there, window stickers from the univer-
sities of Minnesota and St. Thomas and even Princeton . . .
And now the smell of car exhaust and the murmur of portable
generators . . .

5
JOHN SANDFORD

. . .

S I X C O P C A R S , a couple of vans, and a truck jammed the street.

Light bars turned on four of the vehicles, the piercing red-and-blue
LED lights cutting down toward the river and up toward the houses
perched on the high bank above it. Half of the cops from the cars were
standing in the street, which had been blocked at both ends; the other
half were down the riverbank, gathered in a spot of brilliant white light.
People from the neighborhood clustered under an oak tree; they all
wore raincoats, like shrouds in a Stephen King chorus, and a few had
umbrellas overhead. A child asked a question in an excited, high-pitched
voice, and was promptly hushed.
Waiting for the body to come up.

L U C A S D I D N ’ T W A N T to get trapped, so he left his Porsche at the

top of the street, pulled a rain shirt over his head, added a green base-
ball cap that said John Deere, Owner’s Edition, and headed down the side-
walk toward the cop cars.
When he stepped into the street, a young uniformed cop, hands on
her hips, maybe twenty-three or twenty-four, in a translucent plastic
slicker said, “Hey! Back on the sidewalk.”
“Sloan called me,” Lucas said.
He was about to add “I’m with the BCA,” when she jumped in, sharp,
officious, defensive about her own inexperience—part of the new-cop
scripture that said you should never let a civilian get on top of you: “Get
on the sidewalk. I’ll see if Detective Sloan wants to talk to you.”
“Why don’t I just yell down there?” Lucas asked affably. Before she
could answer, he bellowed, “HEY, SLOAN!”
She started to poke a finger at his face, and then Sloan yelled, “Lucas:
Down here!”
Instead of shaking her finger at him, she twitched it across the road

6
 Broken Prey

and turned away from him, hands still on her hips, shoulders square,
dignity not quite preserved.

A P O R T A B L E H O N D A G E N E R A T O R had been set up on the

street, black power cables snaking down the riverbank where a line of
Caterpillar-yellow work lights, on tripods, threw a couple of thousand
watts of halogen light on the body. Nobody had covered anything yet.
Lucas eased down the hillside, the grass slippery with churned-up
mud. Twenty feet out, he saw the body behind a circle of legs, a red-
and-white thing spread on the grass, arms outstretched to the sides,
legs spread wide, faceup, naked as the day she was born.
Lucas moved through the circle of cops, faces turning to glance at
him, somebody said, “Hey, Chief,” and somebody else patted him on
the back. Sloan stood on the slope below, leaning into the bank. Sloan
was a narrow-faced, narrow-shouldered man wearing a long plastic
raincoat, shoe rubbers, and a beaten-up snap-brim canvas hat that
looked like it had just been taken out of the back closet. The hat kept
the rain out of his eyes. He said to Lucas, “Look at this shit.”
Lucas looked at the body and said, “Jesus Christ,” and somebody else
said, “More’n you might think, brother. She was scourged.”

S C O U R G E D . The word hung there, in the mist, in the lights. She’d

been a young woman, a few pounds too heavy, dark hair. Her body,
from her collarbone to her knees, was crisscrossed with cuts that had
probably been made with some kind of flail, Lucas thought: a whip
made out of wire, maybe. The cut lines were just lines: the rain had
washed out any blood. There were dozens of the cuts, and the way
they wrapped around her body, he expected her back to be in the
same condition.
“You got a name?” he asked.

7
JOHN SANDFORD

“Angela Larson,” Sloan said. “College student at the U, from

Chicago. Worked in an art store. Missing since yesterday.”
“Cut her throat like she was a goddamn beef,” said one of the cops.
A strobe went off, a flash of white lightning. Lucas walked around the
body, down to stand next to Sloan.
Because his feet were lower than the victim, he could get closer to
her face. He looked at the cut in the throat. As with the wire cuts, it was
bloodless, washed clean by the rain, resembling a piece of turkey meat.
He didn’t doubt that he could have buried a finger in it up to the
knuckle. He could smell the rawness of the body, like standing next to
the meat counter in a supermarket.
“The neck wound’s what killed her, I think,” Sloan said. “No sign of
a gunshot wound or a stab wound. He beat her, whipped her, until he
was satisfied, and then cut her throat.”
“Ligature marks on her wrists,” said a man in plainclothes. His name
was Stan, and he worked as an investigator for the Hennepin County
Medical Examiner, and was known for his grotesque sense of humor.
His face was as long as anyone’s.
“We got a call last night when Larson didn’t get back to her apart-
ment,” Sloan said. “Her roommate called. We found her car in the park-
ing lot behind Chaps; she worked at a place called the MarkUp down
the block . . .”
“I know it,” Lucas said. Chaps was a younger club, mixed straights
and gays, dancing.
“. . . and used to park at Chaps because the store didn’t have its own
parking, the street is metered, and the Chaps lot has lights. She got off
at nine o’clock, stopped and said hello to a bartender, had a glass of
white wine. Bartender said just enough to rinse her mouth. Probably
about twenty-after she walked out to her car. She never got home. We
found her car keys in the parking lot next to the car; no blood, no wit-
nesses saw her taken.”
Lucas looked at the ligature marks on her wrists. The rope, or

8
 Broken Prey

whatever she’d been tied with—it was rope, he thought—had been a

half inch thick and had both cut and burned her. There were more
burns and chafing wounds at the base of her thumbs. “Hung her up,”
Lucas said.
“We think so,” Sloan said. He tipped his head down the bank. “Give
me a minute, will you?”

T H E Y S T E P P E D AWA Y, twenty feet down the bank, into the privacy

of the darkness.
Sloan took off his hat, brushed his thinning hair away from his eyes,
and asked, “What do you think?”
“Pretty bad,” Lucas said, turning back to the circle of lights. Even
from this short distance, the body looked less than human, and more
like an artifact, or even an artwork. “He’s nuts. You’ve checked her
friends . . .”
“We’ve started, but we’re coming up empty,” Sloan said. “She was
dating a guy, sleeping with him off and on, until a couple of months
ago. Until the end of the school year. Then he went back home to
Pennsylvania.”
“Didn’t come back to visit?”
“Not as far as we can tell—he says he hasn’t, and I sorta believe him.
He was there when she disappeared, we talked to him ten hours after
she dropped out of sight—and the Philadelphia cops called a couple
people for us, and he checks out.”
“Okay.”
“He said they were a little serious, but not too—she knew he planned
to go in the army when he got out of school, and she didn’t like the
idea. Her friends say he’s a pretty straight guy, they can’t imagine that
he’s involved. They don’t know she was involved with anyone else, yet.
And that’s what we’ve got.”
Lucas was still looking at the body, at the rain falling around the

9
JOHN SANDFORD

cops. “I’d put my money on a semistranger. Whoever did this . . . This

guy is pushed by brain chemistry. He’s got something wrong with him.
This isn’t a bad love affair. The way she’s displayed . . .”
Sloan half turned back to the lights: “That’s what I was thinking.
The goddamned display.”

T H E Y J U S T S T O O D A N D WA T C H E D for a minute, the cops mov-

ing around the lights, talking up and down the bank. The two of them
might have done this two hundred times. “So what can I do for you?”
Lucas asked. Lucas worked with the state Bureau of Criminal Appre-
hension. Minneapolis had its own murder investigators, who would tell
you that they were better than any BCA cherry who ever walked the
face of the earth.
Lucas, who had been a Minneapolis cop before he moved to the
state, mostly bought that argument: Minneapolis saw sixty or eighty
murders a year; the BCA worked a dozen.
“You agree he’s a nut?”
Lucas wiped his eyebrows, which were beading up with rain. “Yeah.
No question.”
“I need to talk to somebody who is really on top of this shit,” Sloan
said. “That I can get to whenever I need to. I don’t need some depart-
mental consultant who got his BA three years ago.”
“You want to talk to Elle,” Lucas said.
“Yeah. I wanted to see if you’d mind. And I wanted you to look at
the body, too, of course. I’m gonna need all the brains on this I can get,”
Sloan said.
“Elle’s an adult,” Lucas said. “She can make up her own mind.”
“C’mon, man, you know what I’m saying. It’s a friendship thing. If
you said not to call her, I wouldn’t. I’m asking you.”
“Call her,” Lucas said. “I would.”

10
 Broken Prey

. . .

S L O A N C A L L E D E L L E —Sister Mary Joseph in her professional life.

She was the head of the department of psychology at St. Anne’s Col-
lege and literally Lucas’s oldest friend; they’d walked to kindergarten
together with their mothers.
When Lucas became a cop and she became a teacher, they got back
in touch, and Elle had worked on a half dozen murders, as an unoffi-
cial advisor, and not quite a confessor. Then, once, a crazy woman with
a talent for misdirection caught Elle outside at night and had nearly
beaten her to death. Since then, Lucas had shied from using her. If it
happened again . . .
Elle didn’t share his apprehension. She liked the work, the tweezing
apart of criminal psyches. So Sloan called Elle, and Elle called Lucas, and
they all talked across town for two weeks. Theories and arguments and
suggestions for new directions . . .
Nothing. The murder of Angela Larson began to drift away from
them—out of the news, out of the action. A black kid got killed in a
bar outside the Target Center, and some of the onlookers said it had
been a racial fight. Television news pushed Larson back to an occa-
sional mention, and Sloan stopped trudging around, because he had no
place farther to trudge.
“Maybe a traveler?” Elle wondered. She had a thin, delicate bone
structure, her face patterned with the white scars of a vicious childhood
acne; Lucas had wondered if the change from a pretty young blond girl
in elementary school to a irredeemably scarred adolescent might have
been the impulse that pushed her into the convent.
She’d known he’d wondered and one time patted him on the arm
and told him that no, she’d heard Jesus calling . . .
“A traveler? Maybe,” Lucas said. Travelers were nightmares. They
might kill for a lifetime and never get caught; one woman disappear-

11
JOHN SANDFORD

ing every month or so, most of them never found, buried in the woods
or the mountains or out in the desert, no track to follow, nobody to pull
the pieces together. “But real travelers tend to hide their victims, and
that’s why you never hear much about them. This guy is advertising.”
Elle: “I know.” Pause. “He won’t stop.”
“No,” Lucas said. “He won’t.”

A W E E K A F T E R T H A T C O N V E R S A T I O N , a few minutes before

noon, on a dry day with sunny skies, Lucas sat in a booth in a hot St.
Paul bar looking at a lonely piece of cheeseburger, two untouched
buns, and a Diet Coke.
The bar was hot because there’d been a power outage, and when the
power came back on, an errant surge had done something bad to the
air conditioner. From time to time, Lucas could hear the manager, in
his closet-sized office, screaming into a telephone, among the clash and
tinkle of dishes and silverware, about warranties and who’d never get
his work again, and that included his apartments.
Two sweating lawyers sat across from Lucas and took turns jabbing
their index fingers at his chest.
“I’m telling you,” George Hyde said, jabbing, “this list has no cred-
ibility. No credibility. Am I getting through to you, Davenport? Am I
coming in?”
Hyde’s pal Ira Shapira said, “You know what? You leave the Beatles
out, but you got folk on it. “Heart of Saturday Night”? That’s folk.”
“Tom Waits would beat the shit out of you if he heard you say that,”
Lucas said. “Besides, it’s a great song.” He lifted his empty glass to a bar-
maid, who nodded at him. “I’m not saying the list is perfect,” he said.
“It’s just an attempt—”
“The list is shit. It has no musical, historical, or ethical basis,”
Hyde interrupted.
“Or sexual,” Shapira added.

12
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