Secret Prey

twenty-five years now. She might not ever come out.
    FRANKLIN HAD BEEN IN A LONGTIME 401K PLAN. THE stocks had gone through the roof during the summer, so, like any Good American, he’d borrowed against the fund to buy a new black Ford extended-cab pickup truck, which he and Lucas walked around, Lucas shaking his head. Finally Franklin said, ‘‘So what next? Just wrap it up? We’re done?’’
    ‘‘Wrap it up,’’ Lucas said. They were standing at the curb outside McDonald’s house. ‘‘McDonald’s the man, and he’s dead: outa reach. I’ll spend a couple days trying to figure out the firebomb thing with Weather, then maybe go up to the cabin.’’
    ‘‘Going up alone?’’ Franklin asked.
    ‘‘Cut some firewood, put the snow blade on the Gator, haul the snowmobiles out and get them checked,’’ Lucas said.
    ‘‘Going up alone?’’
    ‘‘Get the batteries out of the boat, put the boat away. Maybe figure out some way to cover it. I had some squirrels get in it last year, in the shed, and the damn thing was full of decapitated acorn shells when I got it out this spring.’’
    ‘‘Jesus, I wish I was single again, sometimes,’’ Franklin said. ‘‘And had a cabin up north. Nothing like a little strange pussy in November.’’
    ‘‘If you’d asked me, I could have advised you against getting a Ford,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘Anyway, see you around.’’
    ‘‘See you around,’’ Franklin said. Lucas walked back up the long driveway to the house, where he’d parked, while Franklin strolled once more around the truck, rubbing out a couple of imaginary blemishes with the cuff of his coat. ‘‘I love you,’’ he said aloud. He was back at the driver’s side door, and about to get in, when Lucas arrived at the Porsche, a hundred and fifty feet away.
    ‘‘Going up alone?’’ Franklin bellowed.
    Lucas threw him the finger and got in the car.

TWENTY-ONE

    WHEN AUDREY MCDONALD OPENED HER EYES THE next morning, she knew something she hadn’t known when she closed them the night before.
    ‘‘Helen,’’ she said.
    Helen had been talking to Davenport. Helen had always hated Wilson, and must have called Davenport anonymously. That’s how Helen would have done it, maneuvering to get rid of Wilson without damaging her relationship with her sister—and that would explain why Davenport thought he’d spoken to Audrey. Helen and Audrey spoke with the same soft Red River Valley accent, with the rounded and softened o ’s of the Swedes; they said ‘‘boot’’ when they meant ‘‘boat.’’
    Davenport had picked that up, but hadn’t known of Helen.
    But this was new: Helen had realized that people were being murdered? Believed that Wilson had done it, and moved against him? Helen didn’t keep secrets very well: give her a secret, and she usually blurted it out the first chance she had.
    Audrey would have to think about this: How much did Helen know, and how much had she guessed? How early had she caught on? Had she taken any notes, mental or otherwise, that might point away from Wilson and toward herself? And did she know about all the incidents? Did she know about McKinney and the Bairds?
    WHEN LUCAS WOKE, HE THOUGHT ABOUT SHERRILL. The woman would sooner or later be a problem; maybe even a disaster. They worked too closely, on problems too complicated, for a romance to work very well. And when the word got out—and the word would get out—there would be serious sniping to deal with. He hoped Sherrill understood that: she was smart enough, she should.
    He wished she was in his bed now. He rolled over, awake, feeling fresh, pivoted and put his feet on the floor, realized that he hadn’t felt quite this good for months.
    And then he thought of Weather, and a touch of sadness came over him. He’d wanted to marry her. If she suddenly changed, and came back to him, he’d accept her in an instant.
    But she was falling away now. Her influence was fading: he didn’t think of her as much. Like Mom’s death, he thought. When Lucas’s mother died, of breast cancer, he’d thought of her every few minutes for what seemed like a year. Things she’d said, images of her faces, moments of their life together. That was all still there in his head, and the images came back from time to time, but not like those first few months. His mother had gone gently away, and now came back only when he reached for her.
    Like Weather.
    He sighed, and headed for the bathroom. He was a late riser,