Secret Prey

the two guys from the crime scene crew stepped up to Lucas to look at the box. Lucas carried it into the kitchen, dumped it on the garbage bag.
    ‘‘Gimme the glass,’’ he said.
    He spotted the pill in a half-second: ‘‘Got it.’’
    ‘‘No.’’ Helen didn’t believe it.
    ‘‘That goddamn pill has been messed with,’’ Lucas said. He handed the glass to the crime scene man. ‘‘What do you think?’’
    The crime scene man squinted through the glass: ‘‘And guess what? There’s nothing better in the world than gelatin for picking up a fingerprint.’’
    ‘‘There’s a print?’’ Lucas asked.
    ‘‘A piece of one, anyway,’’ the crime scene man said. ‘‘Gimme a Ziploc, somebody.’’
    ‘‘No,’’ Helen said. ‘‘No.’’
    They pulled the capsule apart with forks, avoiding what appeared to be a fingerprint smudge. White powder spilled out. Lucas pulled apart one of the Prozac capsules from the bottle. ‘‘It’s different stuff,’’ he said.
    The lead crime scene tech got down close to the table, an inch from the white powder, barely inhaled, then straightened up, wiping his nose.
    ‘‘What?’’ asked Lucas.
    ‘‘Almonds,’’ the tech said. ‘‘That stuff is cyanide.’’

THIRTY-THREE

    LUCAS CALLED THE COUNTY ATTORNEY FROM HELEN Bell’s house, told him about the pill: ‘‘All right, that’s it,’’ Towson said. ‘‘Pick her up. We’ll put her away this time. No bail. No nothing.’’
    Lucas hung up and nodded to Sherrill: ‘‘We’re gonna go get her. Want to follow me over?’’
    ‘‘I’ll ride with you,’’ she said. ‘‘You can always drop me back here to get the car.’’
    ‘‘Let’s go,’’ he said. ‘‘We’ll get a squad to meet us there.’’
    Four miles out, Dispatch called and said a man from AT&T Wireless was on the phone.
    ‘‘Patch him through,’’ Lucas said.
    ‘‘There’re dozens of calls from that account in the past week,’’ the AT&T man said. ‘‘What was the time and date?’’
    Lucas gave it to him and said, ‘‘Look for a 699 prefix.’’
    After a moment’s wait: ‘‘Here it is. Here it is, by gosh.’’
    AUDREY WAS TALKING TO A FIDELITY ACCOUNT MANAGER when the phone rang in her purse. ‘‘I better take that,’’ she said, pleasantly. She was wearing her best, acting the banker’s wife: she wanted to get the money out of Fidelity before some legalism held it up. If she could get the cash and stash it somewhere, she would be good for at least a few years, no matter what else happened.
    ‘‘Let me get the rest of these numbers,’’ the manager said. She was a young woman dressed in a nice Ann Taylor suit, with a pretty silk scarf, nothing flashy, nothing too expensive. Audrey approved; maybe Fidelity wasn’t throwing her money away on exorbitant salaries.
    Audrey answered the phone on the third ring and Helen said to her, ‘‘Did you do it?’’
    And Audrey could hear Connie in the background, saying, urgently, ‘‘Mom, hang up. Hang up.’’
    ‘‘Do what?’’ Audrey said calmly, though she knew.
    ‘‘You’d know, if you did it.’’
    ‘‘That Davenport’s been there again, hasn’t he?’’ Audrey asked. ‘‘May I speak to him?’’
    ‘‘He’s gone,’’ Helen said. She choked on the words, and Audrey heard Connie say, ‘‘Mom, I’m gonna hang this up. You shouldn’t—’’
    And the connection was gone. Audrey looked at the phone for a moment, then punched the power button and turned it off. Davenport had found the pill. She wouldn’t need to talk to Helen again.
    As she walked out through the Fidelity office, she met the young manager on her way back: ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ Audrey said. ‘‘I’ve got something of a family emergency. I have to go home.’’
    She drove back toward her house on remote control. She didn’t have access to any serious money, so running was not a possibility. And with Helen alive, she didn’t really have many options left. She could think of precisely one.
    ‘‘I can die,’’ she said to the car. She was overwhelmed with a feeling of sadness, not for herself, but for the world. She’d be gone. The world wouldn’t have her anymore. ‘‘But they’ll see then,’’ she told the car. ‘‘That’s when they’ll see.’’
    The car seemed to steer itself, but she knew where it was going: North Woods Arms, in Wayzata. The gun shop was a small place, a door beside a picture window, the window laced over with