Secret Prey

ass,’’ he snarled. Then his eyes, which had been wandering, focused on the cold compress she held to her head. ‘‘What the fuck were you taking my scotch for?’’
    ‘‘Because we’ve got things to think about,’’ she said. ‘‘We don’t have time for you to get drunk. We have to figure out what to do with Kresge dead.’’
    ‘‘I already got his job,’’ he said, with unconcealed satisfaction.
    ‘‘What?’’ She was astonished. Was he that drunk?
    ‘‘O’Dell and Bone agreed I could have it,’’ he said.
    ‘‘You mean . . . you’re the CEO?’’
    ‘‘Well . . . the board has to meet,’’ he said, his voice slurring. ‘‘But I’ve already been dealing with the PR people, putting out press releases . . .’’
    She rolled her eyes. ‘‘You mean they let you fill in until the board meets.’’
    ‘‘Well, I think that positions me . . .’’
    ‘‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Wilson, grow up,’’ she said. ‘‘And go put some pants on. You look like a pig.’’
    ‘‘You shut the fuck—’’
    He came at her again and she pitched the vodka at his eyes. As he flinched, she turned and ran back into the living room, looked around, spotted a crystal paperweight on the piano, picked it up. Wilson had gotten the paperweight at a Senior Tour pro-am. When he came through the doorway after her, she lifted it and said, ‘‘You try to hit me again and I swear to God I’ll brain you with this thing.’’
    He stopped. He looked at her, and at the paperweight, then stepped closer; she backed up a step and said, ‘‘ Wilson.’’
    ‘‘All right,’’ he said. ‘‘I don’t want to fight. And we gotta talk.’’
    He looked in the corner, at the liquor cabinet, started that way.
    ‘‘You can’t have any more . . .’’
    She started past him and he moved, quickly, grabbed her hand with the paperweight, bent it, and she screamed, ‘‘Don’t. Wilson, don’t.’’
    ‘‘Drop it, drop it . . .’’ He was a grade school bully, twisting the arm of a little kid. She dropped the weight, and it hit the carpet with a thump.
    ‘‘Gonna fuckin’ hit me with my paperweight,’’ he said, jerking her upright. ‘‘Gonna fuckin’ hit me.’’
    He slapped her again, hard, and she felt something break open inside her mouth. He slapped her again, and she twisted, screaming now. Slapped her a third time and she fell, and he let her go, and when she tried to crawl away, kicked her in the hip and she went down on her face.
    ‘‘Bitch. Hit me with, hit me, fuckin’ bitch . . .’’ He went to the liquor cabinet, opened it, found another bottle. She dragged herself under the Steinway, and he stopped as though he was going to go in after her, but he stumbled, bumped his head on the side of the piano, caught himself, said, ‘‘I’m the goddamned CEO,’’ and headed back up the stairs to the tub, his fat butt bobbling behind him.
    Audrey sat under the piano for a while, weeping by herself, and finally crawled out to a telephone, picked it up, and punched a speed-dialer.
    ‘‘Hello?’’ Her sister, Helen, cheerful, inquiring.
    ‘‘Helen? Could you come get me?’’
    Helen recognized the tone. ‘‘Oh, Jesus, what happened?’’
    ‘‘Wilson’s drunk. He beat me up again. I think I better get out of the house.’’
    ‘‘Oh, my God, Aud, I’ll be right there . . . hang on, hang on . . .’’

FOUR

    LUCAS ARRIVED AT THE OFFICE LATE MONDAY MORNING, neatly dressed, neatly shaved, dead tired. The simpler things in life could be done on automatic pilot: take the clothes to the cleaners, shower, shave, and eat. Anything more complicated was difficult. Exercise took energy, and a heavy workout was impossible after a month without sleep.
    He’d been the route before. The last time over the edge, he hadn’t recognized what was happening, hadn’t seen it coming, and it’d almost killed him. This time the process felt slightly different. He could feel it out there—the depression, the breakdown, the unipolar disorder, whatever the new correct name for it was—but it didn’t seem to be marching on him with the same implacable darkness as last time.
    Maybe he could fight it off, he thought. But he still dreaded the bed. The minute his head touched the pillow, the brainstorm would begin. Sleep would come only with exhaustion, and then not until after daylight . . .
    IN THE WINTER JUST PAST, WEATHER KARKINNEN, THE woman he’d been about to marry, had been taken