"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 welclass="underline" 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?"