The two obvious targets for a diversionary attack were the nun and the surgeon—Davenport’s oldest friend and his lover. She decided on Karkinnen because Karkinnen was simpler.
Audrey knew Sister Mary Joseph from her college days: the nun had been her instructor in basic psychology, and Audrey remembered her as an intense young woman with a face terribly scarred by adolescent acne. But the nun, who was still at St. Anne’s, lived in a communal dormitory-style setting in which intruders would be instantly noticed. And attack would be risky.
Karkinnen, on the other hand, was out in the open. Audrey had been puzzled that the year-old article implied that Karkinnen was Davenport’s live-in lover, while Audrey’s search turned up different addresses, but she assumed there was something that she didn’t know. She considered the possibility that they’d broken up, but then found an engagement announcement only a few months old . . .
So she’d gone for Karkinnen. She’d thrown the bomb through the window, concerned not a whit for the possibility that she might kill the woman, but very concerned at the possibility of being caught. The final attack—out of the car, across the lawn, throw, back in the car, ten seconds— minimized the possibility, but it had still taken nerve.
She’d need the nerve again: but nerve had never been a problem for her. Audrey McDonald had nerve, all right.
She thought again about the possibility of going after Davenport himself. There were two problems with that: First, he was large and tough-looking, and carried a gun. He would be difficult to get at quickly without exposing herself. She couldn’t get close enough for poison, couldn’t risk a gun attack; if she missed, she’d be dead. And he was a cop, so might be a little more wary than the average citizen. Further, she didn’t have time to research him as she had Arris and Ingall. And the second big problem was that killing him might lead the cops investigating his killing to take a harder look at his current investigations, including her .
A diversion would lead them away from her . . . So it would have to be the nun.
Her legs twitched down the bed, a kind of running motion, as she began working out a possible plan. She’d have to do it the minute she got out. She’d have to emphasize her injuries, complain of cracked ribs, something that wouldn’t show on X rays, but would keep her from doing anything heavy. She’d have to hobble and whimper and limp and make people feel sorry for her, and the instant she was alone, she had to go for the nun.
She’d have no trouble with this. She’d been undercover for more than 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, and he looked back at the clock as he went: he wanted to be there when Audrey McDonald made her court appearance.
AUDREY’S ATTORNEY, JASON GLASS, SHOWED UP WITH a woman photographer, a load of photo equipment, a pair of gym shorts, and a soft halter top.
‘‘This is Gina,’’ Glass told Audrey. ‘‘We need to take some photographs of you, showing your injuries. This is absolutely critical for the case. Gina brought some terry cloth for modesty purposes . . .’’
They shot the pictures in an unoccupied hospital room, against the white drape that ran around the bed. At Gina’s direction, Audrey limped into the small bathroom and put on the shorts and halter top, carefully brushed her hair, and went out to face the cameras.
‘‘I’m sorry,’’ Gina said before she started shooting. ‘‘I should have told you to leave your hair as it was. Nobody will ever see these photos except attorneys, and frankly, we want them to look as . . . severe . . . as possible.’’
Audrey nodded; she knew what was needed. She trundled back into the bathroom and flipped her hair back and forth, stirred it around, then brushed it away
from the scalp wound. In the mirror, she looked like a photo of a nineteenth-century madwoman in Bedlam. And that, she supposed, was what they wanted.
‘‘Excellent,’’ Gina said, as she set up a couple of spindly light stands. ‘‘That is just beautiful.’’
When the photos were done, Glass, who’d waited in the hall, said to Audrey, ‘‘You look like you still hurt.’’
‘‘I do,’’ Audrey said, deliberately vague. She peered around as though she’d lost a pair of glasses, or her shoes, and her lip trembled. ‘‘I can’t believe Wilson is gone.’’
‘‘I’m going to put you in a wheelchair before we head over to the courthouse,’’ Glass said. ‘‘I think you’ll be more comfortable that way.’’
‘‘Thank you,’’ Audrey muttered.
A MAN NAMED DARIUS LOGAN WAS SAYING, ‘‘I KNOW I shouldn’t have done it, Your Honor, but the dude flipped me off, you know?’’ when a sheriff’s deputy wheeled Audrey into the courtroom, the two of them trailed by Glass.
Lucas was sitting in the back row, reading the St. Paul paper. Del sat next to him, thumbing through Cliffs Notes on Greek Classics . Two dozen other people were scattered around the courtroom, half of them lawyers, a couple of defendants’ wives, reporters for the local television stations and newspapers, waiting for the McDonald hearing, and two or three courthouse groupies following the TV people.
McDonald looked bad, Lucas thought. Her head was patched with white bandages, stark against her gray face. She was wearing a gingham dress with short sleeves, a summer dress really, but one that beautifully showed off the bruises on her arms and lower legs. She looked beaten, both physically and psychologically: then, as the bailiff wheeled her toward the defense table, she saw Lucas. And for a vanishingly small instant—a time so short that it must have been imaginary—Lucas felt her eyes spark. Not sparkle, but actually spark , as with electricity.
The judge, a prissy little blonde who was known for occasional bouts of judicial intemperance, had grown impatient with Logan. He said, ‘‘That’s all very well, Mr. Logan, but you’ve been here a number of times before and we’re getting a little tired of it. I’ll put bail at five thousand dollars and expect to see you back here at . . .’’ As he thumbed through a calendar, there was a meaty smack from the audience, as though somebody had just been punched. The impact came from the forehead of a young woman who’d just slapped herself with one heavy hand. The judge looked up and said, ‘‘Do you have something to say, young lady?’’
The woman stood up and said, ‘‘Your Honor, if we got to pay some bail bondsman seven hundred and fifty dollars to get Darius out of jail’’—she pronounced it ‘‘Dare-Ius’’—‘‘where in the hell am I gonna get the money for the kids’ dinners?’’
The judge’s eyes clicked to the face of a well-known TV reporter, then back to the woman. ‘‘Why don’t you leave Dare-I-us in jail for a while?’’
‘‘Don’t dare do that,’’ the woman said.
‘‘Why not?’’
‘‘Just don’t dare.’’
‘‘Okay. Sit down. Dare-I-us, are you gonna show up for the trial?’’
‘‘I sure will, Your Honor.’’
‘‘All right. Bail’s set at one thousand dollars, and you’ve got the young lady to thank for it.’’
‘‘Thank you, Your Honor.’’
As Logan left, the judge said, ‘‘Call the next one,’’ and the bailiff called out, ‘‘Audrey McDonald.’’
‘‘Here, Your Honor,’’ Glass called back.
The woman who’d gotten the bail reduced on Darius Logan wedged herself down a line of spectators, out to the center aisle, and headed for the door. As she passed, she saw Del, and Del said, quietly, ‘‘Quick pregnancy.’’
‘‘Shush,’’ she said, and was gone. Del looked at Lucas and said, ‘‘Didn’t have any kids last week.’’
‘‘It’s a miracle,’’ Lucas said, turning to sports.
AUDREY MCDONALD SAT HUNCHED IN HER CHAIR, her back to Lucas, as the hearing routine broke around her, speaking only two words: ‘‘Not guilty.’’
‘‘Your Honor, Mrs. McDonald’s attorney has offered Mrs. McDonald’s house as security for her appearance, and the state has no objection to that. As you may know, the circumstances around this particular incident could lead to a change in the charges against Mrs. McDonald . . .’’
And a while later, it was all done. Audrey waited as Glass talked to the assistant county attorney over a few details, then said, ‘‘We’ve got to sign the papers and then I’m going to talk to the press. If I don’t, they’ll be parked outside your house, hassling you . . .’’
She liked that, the press, though her face was determinedly grim.
‘‘. . . I don’t really expect you to say anything,’’ Glass was saying.
‘‘I’ll talk to them, if that will keep them away,’’ Audrey said.
THE PRESSCAUGHTTHEMOUTSIDETHECOURTHOUSE, at the curb, where Helen Bell was waiting in her car. Glass made a short speech about spousal abuse, said he anticipated that all charges would be dropped, then asked Audrey if she wished to answer questions.
She bobbed her head. ‘‘Did you kill your husband, Mrs. McDonald,’’ a woman reporter blurted.
She bobbed her head again. ‘‘Yes,’’ she said weakly. ‘‘I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t . . . He was hurting me so bad . . .’’ She touched the bandage on her scalp and peered at the camera lens. ‘‘Oh, God . . .’’ A tear trickled down her cheek. ‘‘God, I miss him. I’m so sorry . . .’’
‘‘Why do you miss him?’’
‘‘He was my husband,’’ she wailed. ‘‘I wish he could come back . . . But he can’t.’’ She seized Glass’s arm. ‘‘I can’t . . .’’ She gasped.
‘‘All right, all right,’’ Glass said. ‘‘She’s really weak. She’s got to go. I’m pleading with you all. If you have any sensitivity, leave her alone.’’
‘‘Mrs. McDonald . . .’’
Then she was in the car and Helen was driving them away. ‘‘My God,’’ Helen said. ‘‘My God, Audrey . . .’’
‘‘Just take me home.’’
‘‘No, no. You’re coming to my place.’’
‘‘No. I want to go home,’’ Audrey said. ‘‘Helen, please don’t argue with me. Just take me home. Please. I just want to turn off the phones and get some sleep.’’
AND BACK AT THE COURTHOUSE, LUCAS SAID TO Glass, ‘‘Quite a performance.’’
Glass was staring after Helen Bell’s car, turned to Lucas and said, ‘‘The last thing I expected.’’
‘‘You didn’t prep her?’’
‘‘Hell, no. I figured she was such a sad sack, we couldn’t lose. I didn’t think we was gonna get Greta Garbo. Did you see that tear?’’
‘‘I didn’t get that close.’’
‘‘A real tear,’’ Glass marveled. ‘‘Ran right down her cheek, and it was the cheek that was turned toward Channel Three. Tell you what, Lucas—if I lose this case, I’m gonna want to borrow one of your guns, so I can shoot myself.’’
• • •
THE HOUSE WAS SILENT: AUDREY ENTERED, LISTENING for the footfalls of Wilson’s ghost. She heard creaks and cracking that she hadn’t heard before—but she’d never before listened. Helen came in behind her, tentatively. ‘‘You’re sure you’ll be okay?’’ ‘‘I’ll be okay,’’ Audrey said, peering around. The police had been through the place, and though they hadn’t been deliberately messy, the house looked . . . disheveled. ‘‘I hope the police didn’t steal anything.’’
‘‘Do you want me to come over tonight?’’
‘‘No . . . no. I’m going to take a couple of pills and try to sleep. I just really need to sleep, I haven’t slept since before . . . before . . .’’
‘‘Okay. If you’re sure you’ll be all right.’’
‘‘Do you, uh . . . You used to take Prozac,’’ Audrey said. ‘‘Do you still use that?’’
‘‘Well, sure. Could hardly get
along without it,’’ Helen said.
‘‘Do you think it would help? In the next few days?’’ Helen shook her head. ‘‘I don’t think it’s for your kind of problem, honestly. I could give you a few and you could try them, but I think a doctor could give you something better.’’
‘‘Maybe if I could just try a couple. If I don’t sleep tonight . . .’’
‘‘Sure. We’ll talk tomorrow.’’
When Helen was gone, Audrey prowled through the house, already planning: she’d bundle up his suits, dump them at Goodwill and get a tax deduction. She got a notepad and wrote: ‘‘ACCOUNTANT/Taxes and Deductions,’’ and under that, ‘‘Suits.’’ Wilson had all kinds of crap she’d want to get rid of, starting with that XK-E. She wrote ‘‘Jag’’ under ‘‘Suits.’’ And he had a whole wall full of bullshit awards and plaques—chairman of this charity in 1994, director of that community effort in 1997. All worthless: straight into the garbage can, she thought.
So much to do.
Audrey really did hurt from Wilson’s beating, and from her own enhancements to the damage. The scalp wound, in particular, felt tight, like a banjo head, its edges seeming to pull against the stitches. After half an hour of cruising through the house, she went up to the bedroom, set the alarm clock for nine P.M., and tried to sleep.
But sleep, she found, wouldn’t come easily. Too many images in her head, a mix of plans and memories. If Wilson had only landed the chairmanship, none of this would have happened. She’d believed in him from the start, and the belief had only begun to falter after Kresge got the top job six years earlier. Kresge was a technocrat, and brought in other technocrats like Bone and Robles. They had no respect for family name, for fortune, for breeding or society. All they knew was how to make money. Wilson, running the mortgage division, which had always been one of the pillars of the bank, was suddenly out on a limb.
She didn’t know that sleep had come, but it must have. The clock went off: she sat up, a bit groggy, realized that the room was dark. She groped around the bedstand, found the clock, and silenced the alarm. Then she touched the light and swung out of bed.
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