Secret Prey

security bars disguised as wrought-iron curlicues. The area beside the door and around the window had weathered-wood siding, to simulate a North Woods cabin; small Christmas lights blinked in the window, around a festive display of nine-millimeter pistols.
    A bell rang above the door as she walked in, and the owner looked up from a magazine. ‘‘Hello.’’
    ‘‘Hello,’’ Audrey said, glancing around at the rack of long guns. ‘‘I’m looking for a gun for my husband for Christmas.’’
    ‘‘You’ve come to the right place,’’ the owner said pleasantly. ‘‘Do you know what you’re looking for, or—’’
    ‘‘Yes.’’ Audrey unfolded a piece of yellow notebook paper. She’d thought that would be a nice touch. ‘‘A Remington 870 Wingmaster twelve-gauge shotgun.’’
    ‘‘No problem,’’ the owner said enthusiastically. ‘‘You know what he’s going to use it for?’’
    ‘‘Ducks, I guess. He mostly hunts ducks. And geese.’’
    ‘‘No problem . . .’’
    She took the 870 along with two boxes of No. 2 shells. The store owner took her check, carried the boxes out to the car, and said, ‘‘Tell your husband I said, ‘Good hunting.’ ’’
    ‘‘When I see him,’’ she said, and got in the car. The store owner thought that was an odd thing to say; he would mention it to his wife that night.
    LUCAS AND SHERRILL HAD GOTTEN TO THE Mc-Donald house before Audrey, and a minute before two patrol cops in a squad car. Lucas knocked on the front door, got no response, and while the uniforms waited in front, they walked together once around the house. Nobody. Peering through the deck windows, they saw no sign of movement or light. Back in front, Sherrill rang the doorbell again. Lucas said, looking up at the bedroom windows, ‘‘Nobody’s home. Feels too quiet. I hope she’s not running.’’
    They were standing in the ‘‘L’’ made by the front of the house, the living wing to the front, extending to the left, the three-car garage swinging off to the right. ‘‘Maybe put out a call on her. Or we could just wait,’’ Sherrill said. The uniforms were leaning on the front fender of their squad car, chatting.
    ‘‘I hope she’s not looking for Helen,’’ Lucas said. And thought about Elle Kruger, and his jaw tightened. ‘‘Or anybody else. By God, I’d like to be there to bust her; but maybe we’d better—Whoops. There she is.’’
    AUDREY TURNED INTO THE BOTTOM OF THE DRIVEWAY, saw the Porsche and the police car at the top. She reached up and pushed the garage door opener. The shotgun rode beside her, muzzle down, in the passenger foot-well, the butt resting against her hip. She’d loaded four shells, as many as it would take, and had two more loose on the seat for reloading.
    And she was ready for it. On the way home from the gun store, her vision had seemed to narrow: on the highway, she could see only the road itself. On the driveway, she could see only the garage door, until she made the little left, then right loop that could take her into the garage. Then, she looked out the passenger-side window and saw Davenport walking toward the garage, and her vision narrowed to a small point: Davenport’s face. A mean man, she thought. Harsh. A man like Daddy.
    WHEN THE GARAGE DOOR STARTED UP, THE TWO UNIFORMED cops pushed away from the fender of their squad car, and looked down the drive. Audrey rolled slowly up the drive, made a little jog that took her straight in toward the far door. Lucas and Sherrill started walking toward it from the front stoop, and the two uniformed cops started toward it from their parking spot at the edge of the driveway. The back of Audrey’s car had just cleared the inside of the door when it started down again.
    Lucas turned and said, ‘‘Side door.’’ Sherrill followed him toward an access door at the near end of the three overhead doors, just ambling along without thinking about it. Lucas opened the access door and stepped into the semidark garage, which was getting darker as the end door dropped the last couple of feet. ‘‘Mrs. McDonald,’’ he said.
    AUDREY HEARD THAT, AND LOOKING LEFT, SAW DAVENPORT step inside the garage. He was standing in a shaft of light from the open access door. She grabbed the shotgun with her right hand, took a second to make sure the safety was off, then opened the door with her left hand, pushed it out with her feet, and pivoted out of the car. The shotgun was long and awkward, and she