Hidden Prey

stepped away.
    Lucas said to Kelly, “We’re gonna need the feds in a major way. This thing is out of control.”
    “You’re saying Reasons was killed by a Russian. A Russian Russian. By mistake.”
    Lucas said, “I don’t know anymore. For a pro, like you know, an international spy hit man, the guy kinda fucked up.”
    “I don’t see that. There was no reason to think that Jerry would be here,” Nadya said, the phone at her side. “Besides that, he was good enough.”
    “Yeah . . .” The orange glove caught his eye. “But would an international assassin wear a goddamn used blaze orange hunter’s glove? Where would he even get one at this time of year?”
    They thought about that for a minute, then Lucas: “Climbing down from the international intrigue for a minute . . . Has somebody gone to tell Mrs. Reasons?”
    Nadya, hand to mouth: “Oh, my God.” Lucas could hear Harmon’s voice: “Hello? Hello?”

     19 
    T REY PUT HER new apartment together in two long days. The apartment was off Cretin Avenue, in St. Paul, not far from St. Thomas University, in a well-kept gray-stucco building; two bedrooms, one of which she could use for an office. The rent was twelve hundred dollars a month, which was a lot, but the place felt right.
    She bought used furniture for it—good used furniture, most of it from low-end antique shops—and a new bed from Sears. She squandered another two thousand dollars at four different Target stores, buying bathroom and kitchen equipment and a small but nice-looking stereo and twenty CDs, and a television. She went to a used-book store and picked up thirty paperbacks, the best books she remembered from high school and college; To Kill a Mockingbird, like that.
    When she was done, the place looked almost like a home. All it needed was some living-in, some accumulation of detritus. Where doyou buy a clamshell full of pennies and nickels? She would get it, she thought.
    The day after that, at six in the evening, when she’d gotten her guts up, she drove down Summit Avenue to the brown-brick four-square house where she’d spent her teen years. There were lights on, and she drove on past, then two more times around the block. This was necessary, she thought. But what if they kicked her out without giving her a chance?
    She’d dressed up a little bit; a nice skirt and blouse, a navy blue jacket. Her face still looked a little wild—the kind of weathering she’d had, you didn’t get rid of in two weeks. Still: she was about a million percent different from the Trey of two weeks past.
    She finally parked, walked through a pattern of falling leaves up the sidewalk to the screened porch, through the outer door, crossed the porch—there was an oaken porch swing, but it looked as though it hadn’t been used in years. She swallowed, and rang the doorbell; rang it quickly, so she wouldn’t have a chance to run.
    When she heard the footsteps, she knew her father was coming. That was better: her mother was more skeptical, less given to romantic hope. She had her back to the door as he came up, and she turned just as he opened it.
    “Hi, Dad,” she said. “I need to talk with you.”
    “Annabelle . . .” He was a tall man, much balder than she remembered, older, and a little heavier. He seemed shocked.
    “I don’t need any money,” she said. “I’m looking more for . . . information, I guess.”
    “Annabelle,” he said again. He turned, still holding on to the doorknob. “Lucy—Annabelle is here.”
    After a moment, she heard her mother coming, and her father looked her over again and said, “Well, you better come in.”
    Her mother came out of the dining room and into the parlor. Her mother had always colored her hair, and still did—expensive coloring,the kind where they give you the touch of gray that looks almost natural. Her hair looked great, but her face no longer did: she had gotten much older, quickly. She said, “Annabelle. I . . . you look a lot better than last time.”
    “I’ve given up all that other stuff,” she said. “I finally burned out. I’ve been working—and as I told Dad, I don’t need money. I just need a little information. A little push in the right direction.”
    “Well, come in,” her father said. “What exactly are we talking about?”
    They moved into the parlor, and Annabelle perched on an easy chair while her parents faced her from a couch. “I need . . . a place to start. You know I got in trouble