Secret Prey

She patted him on the leg. ‘‘You worry too much. It’s all gonna work out.’’
    They followed the interstate northwest to Fargo, crossed the Red River into North Dakota, took I-29 north past Grand Forks, then recrossed the Red into Minnesota on a state highway to Oxford.
    ‘‘Starting to feel it in my back,’’ Sherrill said to Lucas. Lucas was behind the wheel again. ‘‘Probably would’ve been more comfortable in my car.’’
    ‘‘Yeah, I’m getting too old for this thing, I need something a little smoother,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘Good car, though.’’
    ‘‘Too small for you.
    Though you’ll probably start to shrink a little, as the age comes on. You know, your vertebrae start to collapse, your hair thins out and sits lower on your head, your muscle tone goes . . .’’
    ‘‘You go from a 34-C to a 34-long . . .’’
    ‘‘Oooh. That’s mean. But I kinda like it,’’ she said.
    They passed a sign warning of a reduction of speed limits; Lucas dropped from eighty to sixty as they went past the 45 sign. Past a farm implement dealer with a field of new John Deeres and Bobcats and antique Fords and International Harvesters; past competing Polaris and Yamaha snowmobile dealerships, both in unpainted steel Quonset huts; past a closed Dairy Queen and an open Hardee’s, past a Christian Revelation church and a SuperAmerica; and then into town, Lucas letting the car roll down to forty-five by the time they got to the 25 sign. Past a redbrick Catholic church and a fieldstone Lutheran church and then a liquor store that may once have been a bank, built of both fieldstone and brick.
    ‘‘Just like Lake fuckin’ Wobegon,’’ Sherrill said.
    ‘‘No lake,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘Nothing but dirt.’’
    ‘‘If I had to live here, I’d shoot myself just for the entertainment value,’’ Sherrill said.
    ‘‘Ah, there’re lots of good things out here,’’ Lucas said.
    ‘‘Name one.’’
    Lucas thought for a moment. ‘‘You can see a long way,’’ he said finally, and they both started to laugh. Then Sherrill pointed out the windshield at the left side of the street, to a white arrow-sign that said, ‘‘Proper County–Oxford Government Center.’’
    The Proper County Courthouse and Oxford City Hall had been combined in a building that resembled a very large Standard Oil station—low red brick, lots of glass, an oversized nylon American flag, and a large parking lot where a grassy town square may once have been. Lucas spotted three police cruisers at one corner of the parking lot, and headed that way.
    ‘‘Watch your mouth with these people, huh?’’ Lucas said, as they got out of the car.
    ‘‘Like you’re Mr. Diplomat.’’
    ‘‘I try harder when I’m out in the countryside,’’ he said. ‘‘They sometimes resent it when big-city cops show up in their territory.’’
    THE OXFORD POLICE DEPARTMENT WAS A STARKLY utilitarian collection of beige cubicles wedged into a departmental office suite twenty-four feet square. The chief’s office, the only private space in the suite, was at the back; the department itself seemed deserted when Lucas and Sherrill pushed through the outer door.
    ‘‘A fire drill?’’ Sherrill asked.
    ‘‘I don’t know. What’s that?’’ An odd, almost musical sound came from the back; they walked back between the small cubicles, and spotted a man in the chief’s private office, hovering over a computer. As they got closer, they could hear the boop-beep-thwack-arrghh of a computer action game. Sherrill gave Lucas an elbow in the ribs, but Lucas pushed her back down the row, walking quietly away. Then: ‘‘Hello? Anybody home?’’
    The boop-beep-thwack stopped, and a second later a young man with a round face and a short black mustache stepped out of the chief’s office.
    ‘‘Help you folks?’’
    ‘‘We’re looking for the chief of police, or the duty officer . . .’’
    ‘‘I’m Chief Mason.’’ The young man hitched up his pants when he saw Sherrill, and walked down toward them. Lucas took out his ID and handed it over. ‘‘I’m Deputy Chief Lucas Davenport from Minneapolis, and this is Detective Sherrill . . .’’
    He explained that they had come up to review documents and interview people who might have any information about the death of George Lamb, Audrey McDonald’s father, twenty-four years earlier. The chief, who had been staring almost pensively at Sherrill’s breasts, started shaking his head.