Secret Prey

‘‘Not necessarily. O’Dell needs ten. I can’t see more than seven or eight. And frankly, I don’t think McDonald can swing votes. Why should people swing on his say-so? He’s gone.’’
    ‘‘It’s not all power and money equations,’’ Baki said. ‘‘Some of it’s family and friendship. And all he has to do is swing maybe two votes . . .’’
    ‘‘I don’t think he can do it,’’ Bone said.
    ‘‘You’re underestimating O’Dell,’’ Baki said.
    ‘‘No. I just know what I’m willing to do, and what I’m not. If she gets it—so be it. But I don’t think she will.’’
    REAL BAD DAY.
    Susan O’Dell took a small red diabetic candy from a bowl on her coffee table, unrolled the cellophane with her fingertips, popped the candy in her mouth, and said, ‘‘I’m sure about Anderson, Bunde, Sanderson, Eirich, Sojen, and Goff. If you can give me Spartz, Rondeau, Young, and Brandt, then we’ve got it: we’ve got ten.’’
    ‘‘We can. Wilson talked to his father today, and he’s got Rondeau’s commitment. Spartz, Young, and Brandt have already committed to whatever Wilson wants to do,’’ Audrey McDonald said. Audrey was sitting on a love seat, her feet squarely on the floor, her purse squarely on her lap. Her whole body hurt, but nothing had been broken. When Wilson beat you, he did it carefully. Thoroughly, but carefully.
    ‘‘We’ve got to be sure,’’ O’Dell said.
    ‘‘I’ll get written commitments if you wish,’’ Audrey said stiffly. She hated O’Dell, but this was necessary.
    ‘‘That’s absurd,’’ O’Dell said. ‘‘Nobody would do that. And it’s not necessary. No—I want to talk to them. It’ll all be very pleasant, but we have to talk.’’
    ‘‘I’ll arrange it,’’ Audrey said. ‘‘But we do want your commitment in writing. We won’t be able to show it to anyone, of course, if you go through with your end . . . but if you don’t do what you say, we’ll . . . hurt you with it.’’
    O’Dell shook her head. ‘‘Can’t do it.’’
    ‘‘You can if you want the job,’’ Audrey said. She twisted slightly, trying to ease a cramp in her back. He really had hurt her.
    O’Dell sat silently for a moment. Then: ‘‘Can I call you tomorrow? First thing?’’
    ‘‘First thing,’’ Audrey said. ‘‘There’s not a lot of time left.’’
    Audrey looked old, O’Dell thought, looking after her as she scuttled away toward the elevator. They were of an age, but already Audrey was bent over, stiff.
    O’Dell worked out, both for strength and flexibility. She was a long-range planner, and had every intention of living to a nice ripe ninety.
    AFTER LETTING AUDREY OUT, O DELL WENT TO THE REFRIGERATOR, got a bottle of Dos Equis, popped the top, and sat down on the couch to think about it. Five minutes later the telephone burped from the end table, a single half-ring. She waited, but whoever it was had rung off. She took a couple of sips of the beer, leaned sideways and picked up the phone, punched in Louise Compton’s number.
    Compton picked it up on the third ring, and O’Dell said, ‘‘Audrey McDonald was just here. She said she can deliver Spartz, Rondeau, Young, and Brandt. But there are some conditions.’’
    ‘‘Like what?’’
    ‘‘Like they want a written statement: I’m president and CEO, but Wilson gets the chairman’s job. He’d just be a figurehead, but the salaries would be the same.’’
    ‘‘That sounds . . .’’
    ‘‘Illegal. It might be.’’
    ‘‘Why don’t you see if you could commit yourself with a couple of witnesses—maybe a couple of the board members—rather than putting it in writing. Then in a couple of years, when we’ve got the place under control . . .’’
    ‘‘We bump him off.’’
    ‘‘Exactly.’’
    ‘‘I like your thinking,’’ O’Dell said. The doorbell rang, and she turned, frowned. ‘‘Somebody at the door. Hang on.’’
    O’Dell hopped off the couch and hurried across the living room, looked through the peephole into the hallway, frowned, and opened the door.
    ‘‘I . . .’’ Then she saw the muzzle of the gun. ‘‘No,’’ she said.
    In the narrow space of the reception hall, the shot sounded like the end of the world, and for O’Dell, it was. The slug hit her in the eye, and knocked out the back of her skull.
    She went down on her back, and a second later another shot hit her in the forehead: but she was already dead.
    The telephone lay on the