Mean Woman Blues

following.
    But within five minutes, she saw it was hopeless; the FBI guys were returning to the McLean house where, Skip was certain, Karen wasn’t going.
    * * *
    Karen had no idea it was possible to have so much fury in her, boiling, coursing, like a toxin blasting through her veins. How dare David treat her like a child? How was it possible for an adult human being to think his wife was as dumb as she’d have to be to buy that crap on the phone?
    Her uncle had a gun; every Texan had a gun. All she had to do was to find it.
    And how in the name of the baby she’d lost had she for one minute entered into his puerile little fantasy about being president?
President,
for God’s sake. Talk about folie à deux! How the hell had he done it to her?
    The gun would be in the bedroom, she thought. People always thought a burglar was going to surprise them in bed, and they’d just surprise the burglar first. Her own father kept a gun in the drawer of his bedside table.
    And the damn escape plan! It was ingenious, something he’d taken a long time to think out, something he’d worked out long before today. “
I’ve got an idea
,” hell! He probably had a trunkful of ideas.
    First, she did exactly as her husband had told her: called a town car to pick her up at a particular time, at exactly the place he told her. A car with tinted windows.
    Then she tackled the bedroom. Her uncle’s nightstand, she figured, would be the one without the hand lotion on top. Gingerly, she opened the drawer, hoping she didn’t find sex toys.
    There were two pairs of spectacles in there and a box of tissues. No gun.
    Where else then? She checked under the pillow, feeling like a burglar herself, and then under the mattress. Her fingers closed on something hard and cold.
Please, God, don’t let it be a dildo.
    She lifted up the mattress to take a look. There it was, the obligatory Texas firearm. She wondered if it was loaded and if she could fire it.
    It felt way too light. She checked under the mattress again and found what must be a clip for it, meaning it must be an automatic. Good. Those were said to be easier. She loaded both items into a tote she’d brought from home.
    Now to lose the damned FBI and get to her office.
    She drove to the club, called the car service on her cell phone, verified that the car was in place, and went in, walking slowly, exactly as David had told her. Once she was in, she moved fast.
    She moved swiftly through the lobby, into the ballroom (which was currently bare), and turned right at the rear, vaguely aware of motion behind her. The damned feds were probably following. She tried to keep calm. She belonged here; no one cared about her speed. But two men chasing her would be noticed.
    She turned right at the far side of the ballroom, proceeded down the hall, and then downstairs to the restaurant. Here, there were two choices: You could turn right and go out the side entrance, or you could go through a door at the rear of the restaurant. Karen chose the rear entrance, which opened onto a short breezeway.
    Quickly, she loped through the breezeway, opened a door at the far side, and stepped into a small dining room, the sort where private lunches are held. At the rear of that she opened another unmarked door and entered the ladies’ locker room. It was ladies’ golf day, and the place was full. She hurried through, and just as she was turning right again, to enter the golf shop, she heard the screams.
    Ha! Home free. The feds— or at least one of them— had followed her. They’d have no choice except to apologize, leave the locker room, and retrace their steps. So now they were on the opposite side of the club; absolutely no way in hell they could catch her. She strode casually through the golf shop, saying her “hellos” as she exited, and slid into the waiting town car, already pointed toward the entrance opposite the main one at Mockingbird Lane.
    She had to hand it to David; that was one carefully thought-out plan. She asked the driver to take her to an intersection near the Quadrangle and told him to hurry.
    She kept watch out the back, but there was no sign of the FBI car.
    She got out at the intersection, paid the driver, watched the town car disappear, and strolled to the building that housed her office. The first thing she noticed was that the security guard wasn’t in his usual place. Gone on rounds, maybe. A half-smoked cigarette had gone out in the ashtray on his desk. She frowned and