Hidden Prey Read Free Page B

propped on a foam pillow, a Leinie’s on the coffee table. Letty West, his twelve-year-old ward, was canoeing with a school group; his nine-month-old son slept quietly in his crib at the top of the stairs; the housekeeper was out shopping.
    He was alone, and he was doing something he did only secretly, with guilty pleasure—he was watching TV golf, his mind floating like a hummingbird in the dim space between sleep and the British golf-announcer’s hushed voice. This was the kind of quiet, private place where one might feel comfortable giving one’s nuts a thorough scratch.
     
    H E WAS DOING that when his wife drove through the garage door: WHANG!
    The impact jammed the house like an earthquake.
    The initial WHANG was followed a half second later by the screech of tearing metal, a second, smaller impact, and a sudden, short-lived silence. Into the short-lived silence, Lucas said, aloud, the heels of his hands pressed into his eye sockets, “Jesus God, don’t let it have landed on the fuckin’ Porsche.”
    In the next half second, the kid started screaming from his crib upstairs, the phone began to ring, and all the pleasurable ambience, the golf, the odor of the grass and gasoline, vanished like a pickpocket in a subway station.
    Given the sequence—the whang, the impact, the ripping noise, and the second impact, Lucas knew that his wife had just driven through the garage door, when the garage door was not entirely open. A few weeks earlier, he’d told her, “You keep coming in the driveway like that, you’re gonna run into the garage door.”
    She sniffed: “I’ve got the reflexes of a surgeon.” That was true, because she was one.
    “Combined with the driving skills of an anteater,” Lucas said. “You’re gonna hit the garage door and rip it off the ceiling.”
    “Excuse me?” she said. “Why don’t you worry about something real, like weapons of mass destruction?”
     
    A S THE KID continued screaming and the phone continued ringing, Lucas launched himself from the couch and ran barefoot through the kitchen, ignoring both kid and phone, down the hallway to the garage access door. He burst into the garage and found his wife’s Honda Prelude beneath the overhead door, which had come off the rails anddropped straight down onto her car. The Porsche, in the next stall, appeared to be untouched.
    Inside the Honda, Weather was on her hands and knees, hands on the passenger seat, knees on the driver’s seat, ass impolitely up in the air. The driver’s-side car door was pinned by the wreckage of the overhead garage door, and she was trying to get out the passenger side. Lucas stepped around the green John Deere riding mower and pulled open the door. “Are you okay?”
    Weather rarely cried. She considered crying an insult to the feminine mystique. But her lip trembled: “The door went up too slow.”
    Lucas had been married only a short time, but his history with women had been intense. He knew exactly what to say. He said, “Maybe there’s a brownout or something, and there wasn’t enough power. I was afraid you’d decapitated yourself. That you were hurt.”
    This, instead of screaming, “THAT’S BECAUSE YOU DROVE INTO THE DRIVEWAY AT FIFTY MILES AN HOUR, YOU FUCKIN’ MORON.”
     
    W EATHER CRAWLED OVER the stick shift and out the passenger side. The phone stopped ringing and she turned her head toward the house, her eyes narrowing: “What’s wrong with Sam?” They could hear the kid crying through the open door to the kitchen.
    “The noise scared him. The whole house jumped when you hit the door,” Lucas said. “He’d been sleeping fine.”
    A neighbor, a chubby balding man in cargo shorts and a golf shirt, came wandering up the driveway. He carried a brown paper grocery bag with a head of lettuce poking out the top, and a querulous look. “Jeez, hit the garage door, huh?”
    “The door went up too slow,” Weather said. “The garage-door opener didn’t work right.”
    The neighbor