Secret Prey (25 page)

‘‘Okay. Um, was that the last of the bologna?’’

• • •

SHE SLEPT ON THE LEFT SIDE OF THE BED, A GOOD
sign, since Lucas slept on the right. They’d settled down, talking, her hand on his stomach, when the phone rang.

Lucas glanced at the bedside clock. Ten after eleven. ‘‘Bet it’s Harriet Ashler.’’

And it was. ‘‘We’ve got a few bits and pieces, and a couple of good prints, but none that I can identify as from McDonald,’’ Ashler said. ‘‘None of the good ones are, for sure. In fact, I’m pretty sure that none of the fragments are either.’’

‘‘Okay.’’

‘‘Sorry to wake you.’’

‘‘No problem,’’ Lucas said. And he imagined a wry questioning tone in her voice. It was impossible, he thought as he headed back to bed, that anybody knew yet.

EIGHTEEN

ELEVEN O’CLOCK AT NIGHT, AND WILSON MCDONALD
was savagely drunk.

Stunned by the board’s impetuous decision and a patronizingly courteous afternoon meeting that Bone had called with the bank’s top managers, he’d stopped at the liquor store on the way home and purchased three-fifths of the finest single-malt scotch, which he proceeded to gargle down as though it were Pepsi-Cola.

After the board decision he’d been, in sequence, angry, despairing, resigned, and finally faintly upbeat. He imagined that he might have a future in the merged bank, until Audrey dismissed the idea with such withering contempt that he lapsed back to despair.

AUDREY HAD SPENT THE AFTERNOON IN THE BACKYARD,
wrapped in a winter parka, staring at the sky. The cold air and the hint of burning leaves—an illegal act in Minnesota, sure to be avenged by a politically correct neighbor—reminded her of the bad old days of her childhood on the farm with Mom and Pop and Helen. Hated the farm. Hated this suburb, rich as it was. She should have had a place in Palm Beach and Malibu to go with it.

The very top job at Polaris had always been their goal
and intent, the one goal that she and Wilson could agree upon, without reservation. There were other jobs that would have been as good—running First Bank, or Norwest, or 3M, or Northwest Airlines or General Mills or Pillsbury or even Cargill—but they’d been Polaris people, and Polaris was Wilson’s one real shot.

Few people outside of the top-management community realized the difference between, say, president and CEO on one hand, and executive vice president on the other. One was an American aristocrat, who held the lives of thousands of people in his hands, while the other was just another suit, a face, a yellow necktie. A CEO had the company plane and a car and driver; an executive vice president had to fight to go business class. And the spouse took status from the CEO: Audrey’d been a half-step from becoming a duchess. Now she was a rich housewife, but a housewife nevertheless.

And the things she’d done to get here: She’d married a brutal, drunken lout, because he seemed to have a chance to go the distance. And though she’d come to love him, at least a little, somewhere down in her heart, she knew exactly what he was . . . And she’d turned herself into a selfeffacing beetle of a woman, staying out of sight, out of mind, producing the perfect office parties when they were needed, at which she was never noticed, advising the lout on each and every career move . . . advising against the move to the mortgage company, where he had the title of president, which he’d been so proud of at that time, but now would be fatal . . .

EARLY IN THE EVENING, WITH WILSON UPSTAIRS
drinking and raving, the phone had rung, and a woman named Cecely Olene said, ‘‘There was a police officer just here asking about Wilson. I told him that I didn’t want to discuss my friends behind their backs and would call you and tell you they’d been asking.’’

‘‘Well,
thank you
,’’Audrey said. ‘‘I can’t imagine what they must think . . .’’

‘‘They think he killed Dan Kresge, is what they think,’’ Olene said bluntly. ‘‘And they were also asking about a lot of other people who’ve died in the past. George Arris and Andy Ingall. They said they have evidence. Fingerprints.’’

‘‘That’s absurd,’’ Audrey said. ‘‘Wilson can get angry, but he’d never in his life
kill
anyone. I suspect James Bone is leading them on.’’

‘‘Well, I don’t know about that,’’ Olene said. ‘‘In any case, I called you like I said I would. I hope things work out for you.’’

And she was gone; and given that last sentence, Audrey thought, probably wouldn’t be calling back. Ever.
I hope things work out for you
.

Things never just ‘‘work out,’’ Audrey thought. They were worked out. Always. When Audrey lived on the farm with Mom and Pop and Helen, she’d had to take any number of harsh decisions. She took another one now, sad in her heart.

She moved around downstairs, cleaning up; watched television for a while. Wilson came down once, dripping, raving. She avoided him, hiding in the basement, running the washing machine. By eleven o’clock, he was far gone, along with two of the bottles. She went to the kitchen, poured two inches of vodka into a water tumbler, drank it down, and went upstairs to confront the Whale.

MCDONALD WAS IN THE OVERSIZED TUB, HIS GUT
sticking up through the water level like the top of an apple pie, while the tip of his penis hung offshore of the pie, like a fishing bobber. He was reading a water-spattered copy of
Golf Digest
; off to his left, an open bottle of scotch sat on the ledge.

‘‘Well?’’ Audrey demanded. ‘‘Are you gonna drink all night?’’

‘‘Maybe,’’ he said. ‘‘Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.’’

‘‘You’re such a pig,’’ she said, surveying his whale body. ‘‘Little pathetic fucking dick floating around like an
acorn. You oughta get a pair of fingernail clippers and snip it off, worthless little wart. What a sap you are . . .’’

McDonald recoiled from this, astonished. They’d had their fights, but she’d never come on like this. He stared at her in stupefaction; then his face went rapidly from pink to red, and he heaved himself up, a sheet of water rolling out of the tub and onto the floor.

‘‘You bitch,’’ he bellowed. ‘‘I’m gonna beat your ass . . .’’

He was fast on his feet for a fat man, but she was ready for it. She was several steps out into the bedroom, heading for the stairs, before he was out of the tub. Once he was angry enough, she knew, he’d keep coming, and he was angry enough. She ran down the stairs—the alcohol still a warm glow in her stomach, but not yet reaching toward her head—punched her sister’s number on the speed-dial, listened, prayed she’d answer. In any case, Helen had an answering machine, which would do almost as well . . . she could hear McDonald thundering down the stairs, two rings, three—and then Helen: ‘‘Hello?’’

‘‘Helen,’’ she screamed. ‘‘Wilson is coming, Wilson—’’

‘‘Get the fuck away from there,’’ McDonald shouted. His face was twisted, purple, all the pent-up rage of the day now flowing out toward her. She’d never seen his face like this, not even at the beginning of the worst of the beatings she’d taken from him. But she gave him the finger and he ran toward her and when he was close enough, she swung the phone at his head like a hammer. He deflected it with his forearm, then grabbed it, but she held on, screaming, ‘‘Let me go, Wilson, let me go,’’ while he shouted, ‘‘Let go of the fuckin’ phone . . .’’

He was trying to twist the phone free, and when she held on, he stepped back and slapped her hard, knocking her down. She went facedown, slamming hard into the floor, closing her eyes just an instant before impact, deliberately letting her head snap forward; felt the crunch of her nose, the taste of blood in her nose and mouth.

‘‘Oh, Christ . . .’’ She tried to get up and McDonald kicked her and she went down again, and he was shouting into the phone, ‘‘You keep your nose out of this, Helen, this is between Audrey and me, if you stick your nose into this I’ll kick your ass too . . .’’

Audrey launched herself toward the living room, blood streaming from her nose; the blood left long trails across the gray tile floor and onto the rug. McDonald had hung up the phone, and was coming: she got to her feet, spotted the crystal golf trophy, picked it up and threw it at his head. He ducked, and it bounced off a bookshelf, and he turned and tried to catch it as it bounced across the floor; it was unbroken until the last bounce, when it hit the tile of the kitchen and an arm shattered.

McDonald groaned and picked up the biggest chunk of it and began blubbering: ‘‘You fuckin’ broke it, you broke my golf man . . .’’

He came after her hard then, with a balled fist. She screamed at him, ‘‘Wilson, don’t,’’ but he clubbed her with a balled fist, and she crashed into the music stand on the Steinway; more blood spattered across the music books, and she went down again.

‘‘Get up!’’ he screamed. ‘‘Get the fuck up . . .’’

Instead, she tried crawling under the piano, where she wrapped her arms around the pedal mechanism: and a very small part of her mind assessed the damage she had taken, and was pleased.

‘‘Get out here,’’ McDonald screamed. He’d fallen to his hands and knees, the golf trophy set to one side, and grabbed her ankle and pulled. She hugged the pedal housing, kicking at his face; he dug his fingernails into the skin of her leg, holding on, pulling, and she jerked her leg up sharply and kicked again, connecting with his hands.

‘‘You fuckin’ bitch!’’ he screamed, and he pivoted and began kicking her legs with his heavy bare feet, the kicks landing on her calves and thighs. She abandoned the pedals, crawled toward the other side, where a row of silk plants lined the edge of a low window. Behind her, she left traces
of blood; when she kicked his hands off her legs, he’d peeled two-inch strips of skin away and her legs were bleeding profusely; and she was still bleeding from her nose, blowing bubbles of blood out on the beige carpet.

‘‘Oh no you don’t,’’ McDonald said, as she crawled toward the plants. He stood up and lurched to the far side of the piano, kicked one of the fake plants out of the way, and stooped over to meet her.

But she’d already reversed herself and squirted out the other side of the piano; she spotted the broken golf trophy on the floor, picked it up, and turned to face him.

‘‘This what you want to do, Wilson?’’ she shrieked. She hit herself in the face with the trophy, and the edge of it cut her cheek from the corner of her left eye almost to her jawline. McDonald had been trying to get across the jumble of plants; now he stumbled, stopped.

‘‘What the hell are you doing?’’

‘‘I’m beating myself up, so you won’t have to do it,’’ she screamed. ‘‘Here, I’ll do it again,’’ and she hit herself again, slashing back at her skull with the broken edge. This drew real blood, and McDonald gawked at her.

‘‘Now,’’ she said, more quietly, ‘‘you take your turn . . .’’ And she pitched the trophy at him, hitting him square in the chest.

McDonald, reflexes working, trapped the trophy against his chest, still gawking at the bloody hulk of the woman ten feet away. Audrey turned and ran toward the back bedroom, and McDonald, carrying the trophy in one hand, drunk but struggling now for self-control, said, ‘‘Jesus Christ, Audrey, I knew you were fuckin’ nuts, but what the hell is this?’’

Audrey pushed back out of the bedroom, carrying Granddad’s favorite twelve-gauge. She looked like a nightmare from a horror film, blood matting her hair, running down her cheek into her blouse, bubbling from her nose over her lips and chin down her neckline, and running from her legs down to her feet; she’d left a row of bloody footprints into and out of the bedroom.

‘‘You loser,’’ she said, through the dripping blood. A sad look came over McDonald’s bully face as he looked into the muzzle of the gun: ‘‘I was afraid you’d killed all those people; but I didn’t want to know,’’ he said.

‘‘Well, now you do,’’ she said.

‘‘You don’t have to kill me.’’

‘‘Wilson, that goddamned Davenport is snuffling around after you, and he’s going to get you. He already knows about some of the other killings, and once he has those figured out—you’d cave in like a house of cards. My problem is, you might still be able to prove you were out of town for a couple of the killings. And I’ll tell you what, Wilson, after all the shit I put up with married to a goddamn loser . . .’’ The booze was beginning to have an effect, and she blinked once, twice, almost lost her line of thought. ‘‘After all that shit, I couldn’t stand going to jail for it.’’

‘‘You don’t have to,’’ he said, hastily. He took a step back. ‘‘You gotta think about this.’’

‘‘I have thought about it,’’ she said. ‘‘I would have had to do it sooner or later anyway.’’

‘‘You goddamn hillbilly,’’ he said, taking another step back.

‘‘You . . .’’ She couldn’t think of an answer to that, so she fired the shotgun, the load of buckshot blowing straight through the broken golf trophy McDonald had moved up over his chest, through an inch of yellow fat, and into McDonald’s heart. He wasn’t blown backward, the way people hit with shotguns were in the movies; he simply took another step back, tried to say something else, and then toppled.

Audrey checked to make sure he was dead, and then called 911.

‘‘I killed my husband,’’ she choked; and she really choked, because she had loved him, more or less. ‘‘I shot my husband,’’ she moaned. ‘‘Send somebody . . .’’