The Bodies Left Behind

by Jeffery Deaver

  "Let me do it," Michelle said and dabbed at the skin. She handed back the sock and found a tissue in her pocket, pressed it onto the wound. By the time she lifted it away the bleeding had almost stopped.

  "How is it?"

  "It's okay," Michelle said. "You're right. It doesn't hurt anymore."

  They continued on their route, heading in the direction that Brynn pointed.

  Sure, she thought, Hart would pursue them and they'd have to remain vigilant. But he'd have no idea where they were headed. The women could have gone in any direction except south to the county road--since they'd have to sneak around the killers to get there.

  With every passing yard, Brynn grew more confident. At least she knew something about the forest and where the trail ahead of them lay. The men did not. And even if Hart and his partner happened to choose this direction, the men would surely find themselves lost in ten minutes.

  BACK ON THE

  shore near the Feldman house Hart was looking over the GPS function on his BlackBerry. Then he consulted the map of the area they'd brought with them. "The Joliet Trail," he announced.

  "What's that?"

  "Where they're headed."

  "Ah," Lewis said. "You think?"

  "Yep." He held up the map. "We're here." He tapped a spot then moved his finger north. "That brown line's the trail. It'll take 'em right to that ranger station there."

  Lewis was distracted. He was looking over the lake. "That was smart, I gotta say. What they did."

  Hart didn't disagree. Their short row into the lake had revealed that the women had propped up life vests to resemble bodies hunched down in the canoe and then shoved the boat into the water. The scream--at the sound of the shots--was ingenious. Had Brynn or Michelle uttered the sound? Brynn, he bet.

  Hart wasn't used to having to out-think his opponents. Part of him liked the challenge but a bigger part liked being in control. The contests he preferred were those in which he had a pretty good idea that the outcome would be in his favor. Like working with ebony: the wood was temperamental--hard and brittle--and could split easily, wasting hundreds of dollars. But if you took your time, you were careful, you foresaw any potential problems, the end result was beautiful.

  What kind of challenge was Brynn McKenzie?

  Smelling the ammonia.

  Hearing the crack, crack, crack of her gun.

  Ebony, of course.

  His aching arm prodded him to think too: And what kind was Michelle?

  That would remain to be seen.

  "So you're thinking of going after them?" Lewis asked. He opened his mouth and puffed out a bit of steam.

  "Yep."

  "I gotta say, Hart. This isn't what I planned on."

  Putting it mildly.

  Lewis continued, "Everything's changed. That bitch shooting you, trying to shoot me. The cop...You or me, in that bathroom, the ammonia trap. If it'd worked, one of us'd be blinded. And that shot in the house, the cop? Missed me by inches."

  I can dodge bullets...

  Hart said nothing. He wasn't riled up the way Lewis was. The women were just being true to their nature. Like that animal he'd seen. Of course they'd fight back.

  "So that's what I'm thinking," Lewis said. "I just want to get the hell out of here. She's a cop, Hart. Lives 'round here. She knows this place. She's halfway to that ranger station or something right now. They'll have phones in the park.... So we've gotta get outa here now. Back to Milwaukee. Whoever that girl is, Michelle, she's sure as hell not going to ID us. She's not stupid." He tapped his pocket, where her purse, containing her name and address, rested. "And the cop didn't really get a good look at us. So, back to Plan A. Get to the highway, 'jack a car. Whatta you say?"

  Hart grimaced. "Well, Lewis, I am tempted. Yes, I am. But we can't."

  "Hmm. Well, I'm inclined to think otherwise." Lewis was speaking softly now, more reasonable, less surly.

  "We have to get them."

  "'Have to'? Why? Where's that written down? Look, you're thinking I'm scared. Well, I'm not. Tonight, against two women? This's nothing. Let me tell you a story. I did a bank job in Madison? Last year?"

  "Banks? Never done a bank."

  "We got fifty thousand."

  "That's pretty good." The average bank robbery take nationwide was $3,800. Another stat Hart knew: 97 percent of the perps were arrested within one week.

  "Yep, was. So. This guard wanted to be a hero. Had a backup gun on his ankle."

  "He'd been a cop."

  "What I figured. Exactly. Came out shooting. I covered the other guys. Right out in the open. Kept him down. I didn't even crouch." He laughed, shaking his head. "One of my crew, the driver, was so freaked he dropped the keys in the snow, took a couple minutes to find them. But I held that guard off. Even stayed upright while I reloaded, and we could hear sirens in the distance. But we got away." He fell silent to let Hart digest this. Then: "I'm talking about what makes sense.... You stand your ground when you need to. You get the hell out when you need to. And then take care of 'em later." Another tap of Michelle's purse. "Nothing good's going to come of this." He repeated, "Everything's changed."

  A mournful call filled the moist air, a bird of some sort, Hart guessed. Waterfowl or owl or hawk, he couldn't tell them apart. He squatted down, pushed his hair off his forehead. "Lewis, I'm thinking that nothing has changed, not really."

  "Sure it has. The minute she tried to cap you, it all went to shit in there." A nod back at the house and a skeptical glance.

  "But it's shit we could've foreseen. We should've foreseen. Look, when you make a choice--signing on for this job, for instance--there's a whole slew of consequences that can follow. Things could go left, they could go right. Or, what happened tonight, they could turn around and slug you in the gut...."

  Or shoot you in the arm.

  "Nobody forced me to live this kind of life. Or you either. But we chose it and that makes it our job to think everything through, figure out what could happen and plan for it. Every time I do a job I plan everything out, I mean every detail. I'm never surprised. Doing the job itself's usually boring, I've been through it so often in my mind."

  Measure twice, cut once.

  "Tonight? I figured out ninety-five percent of what could happen and planned for that. But what I didn't bother to think about was the last five percent--that that Michelle was going to use me for target practice. But I should've."

  The slim man, rocking on his haunches, said, "The Trickster."

  "The what?" Hart asked.

  "My grandmother said when something went wrong, something you didn't think could happen, it was the Trickster's fault. She got it out of a kid's book or something. I don't remember. The Trickster was always hanging around looking for ways to make things go wrong. Like Fate or God or whatever. Except Fate could do you good things too. Like give you a winning lotto ticket. Or could make you stop for a yellow light, even if you would've gone through, and save you from getting T-boned by a garbage truck. And God would do things that were right, so you'd get what you deserved. But the Trickster? He was just there to mess you up." He nodded again at the house. "Trickster paid us a visit in there."

  "Trickster." Hart liked that.

  "But that's life sometimes, ain't it, Hart? You miss that five percent. But so what? Best thing still might be to get the hell out of here, put it all behind us."

  Hart rose. He winced as he accidentally reached his shot arm out to steady himself. He looked out at the lake. "Let me tell you a story, Lewis. My brother...younger'n me."

  "You have a brother?" Lewis's attention had turned from the house. "I've got two."

  "Our parents both died about the same time. When I was twenty-five, my brother was twenty-two. I was kind of like a father figure. Well, even back then we were into this kind of stuff, you know. And my brother got this job one time, easy, just numbers. He was a runner mostly. He had to pick up some money and deliver it. Typical job. I mean, thousands of people do that shit every day, righ
t? All over the world."

  "They do." Lewis was listening.

  "So I didn't have anything going on at the moment and was helping him out. We picked up the money--"

  "This was Milwaukee?"

  "No. We grew up in Boston. We pick up the money and're about to deliver it. But turns out we were going to be set up. The guy ran the numbers operation was going to clip us and let the cops find the bodies and some of the books and some of the money. The detectives'd think they closed up the operation."

  "You two were fall guys."

  "Yep. I had this sense something was wrong and we went around back of the pickup location and saw the muscle there. My brother and me, we took off. A few days later I found the guys hired to do the clip and took care of them. But the main guy just vanished. Word was he'd moved to Mexico."

  Lewis grinned. "Scared of your bad ass."

  "After six months or so I stopped looking for him. But it turns out he never went to Mexico at all. He'd been tracking us the whole time. One day he walks up to my brother and blows his head off."

  "Oh, shit."

  Hart didn't speak for a moment. "But see, Lewis, he didn't kill my brother. I did. My laziness killed my brother."

  "Your laziness?"

  "Yep. Because I stopped looking for that son of a bitch."

  "But six months, Hart. That's a long time."

  "Didn't matter if it was six years. Either you're in all the way, a hundred and ten percent. Or don't bother." Hart shook his head. "Hell, Lewis, forget it. This's my problem. I was the one hired on. It's not your issue. Now, I'd consider it a privilege if you came with me. But if you want to head back to Milwaukee, you go right ahead. No hard feelings at all."

  Lewis rocked. Back and forth, back and forth. "Ask you a question?"

  "Sure."

  "What happened to the prick killed your brother?"

  "He enjoyed life for three more days."

  Lewis debated a long time. Then he gave a what-the-fuck laugh. "Call me crazy, Hart. But I'm with you."

  "Yeah?"

  "You bet I am."

  "Thanks, man. Means a lot to me." They shook hands. Then Hart turned back to his BlackBerry, moved the bull's-eye to the closest part of the Joliet Trail and hit the START GUIDANCE command. The instructions came up almost immediately.

  "Let's go hunting."

  A SLIGHT MAN

  in his thirties, James Jasons sat in his Lexus, the gray car slightly nicked, a few years old. He was parked in the lot of Great Lakes Intermodal Container Services, Inc., on the Milwaukee lakefront. Jasons was watching the cranes offload the containers from ships. Incredible. The operators lifted the big metal boxes as if they were toys, swung them from the ships and set them down perfectly, every time, on the flatbed of a truck. The containers must've weighed twenty tons, maybe more. Jasons was always impressed by anybody with skill, whatever their profession.

  A rumble filled the night. A horn blared and a Canadian Pacific freight train ambled past.

  The door of the old brick building opened. A brawny man in wrinkled gray slacks, a sports coat, blue shirt, no tie, climbed down the stairs and crossed the parking lot. Jasons had learned that the head of the legal department of the company--Paul Morgan--regularly worked late.

  Morgan continued through the lot to his Mercedes. Jasons got out of his car, which was parked two slots down. He approached the man, arms at his side.

  "Mr. Morgan?"

  The man turned and looked over Jasons, who was nearly a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter than the lawyer.

  "Yeah?"

  "We've never met, sir. I work with Stanley Mankewitz. My name's James Jasons." He offered a card, which Morgan glanced at and put into a pocket where it could be easily retrieved when Morgan found himself near a trash can. "I know it's late. I'd just like a minute of your time."

  Morgan's eyes swept around the parking lot. Meaning, Here, now? Friday night? He hit the key fob and with a click the Mercedes unlocked.

  "Stanley Mankewitz didn't have the balls to come himself? Doesn't surprise me." Morgan sat down in the front seat, the car sagging, but he left the door open. He looked Jasons up and down, from the delicate shoes to the size-36 suit to the rock-hard knot in the striped tie. "You're a lawyer?"

  "I'm in the legal department."

  "Ah. There's a distinction for you," Morgan said. "You go to law school?"

  "Yes."

  "Where?"

  "Yale."

  Morgan grimaced. He wore a pinky ring that probably had a DePaul crest on it. Well, Jasons hadn't brought up the alma mater issue. "Tell me what your noble leader wants and then scoot off."

  "Sure," Jasons said agreeably. "We're aware that your company hasn't been particularly supportive of Mr. Mankewitz and the union during this difficult time."

  "It's a federal investigation, for Christ's sake. Why the fuck would I want to support him?"

  "Your employees are members of his union."

  "That's their choice."

  "About the investigation--you know that no charges have been filed." A good-natured smile on Jasons's face. "There are a few officials looking into some allegations."

  "Officials? It's the fucking FBI. Look, I don't know what you're after here. But we're a legitimate business. Look out there." He waved toward the brilliantly lit cranes. "Our customers know we're a union shop and that the head of that union, Stanley Mankewitz, is under investigation. They're worried that we're involved in something illegal."

  "You can tell them the truth. That Mr. Mankewitz hasn't been indicted for anything. Every union in the history of the country has been investigated at one point or another."

  "Which tells you something about unions," Morgan muttered.

  "Or about people who don't like the common folk standing up for their right to fair pay for hard work," Jasons replied evenly, remaining close to the man despite the odor of garlic rising on Morgan's breath. "Besides, even if Mr. Mankewitz was found guilty of something, which is highly unlikely, I'm sure your customers would be able to draw the distinction between a man and his organization. Enron, after all, was ninety-nine percent hardworking people and a few bad apples."

  "Again, 'hardworking.' Mr. Jason...Jasons? With an s? Mr. Jasons, you don't understand. You ever hear of Homeland Security?...We're in the business of moving shipping containers. Any hint of something wrong with the people we're connected to and everybody goes right to anthrax in our warehouses or a nuclear bomb or something. Customers're going to go elsewhere. And your hardworking common folk'll lose their fucking jobs. I repeat my question. What the hell do you want?"

  "Just some information. Nothing illegal, nothing classified, nothing sensitive. A few technical things. I've written them down." A slip of paper appeared in Jasons's gloved hand and he gave it to Morgan.

  "If it's nothing classified or sensitive, look it up yourself." Morgan let the slip float to the damp asphalt.

  "Ah."

  Morgan studied the thin, smiling face closely. He laughed hard and ran his hand through his thinning black hair. "So, what's this, like, The Sopranos? Only, instead of sending Paulie or Chris to extort me, Mankewitz picks a scrawny little asshole like you. That the plan? You whine at me until I cave?" He leaned forward and laughed. "I could fuck you up with one hand. I've got half a mind to do it. Send you back to your boss with a broken nose."

  Again, a good-natured grimace. "You look like you could, Mr. Morgan. I haven't been in a fight in probably twenty years. School yard. And I got whipped pretty bad."

  "You're not worth the sweat," the man snapped. "So what's next? The big boys come back with lead pipes? You think that scares me?"

  "No, no, there's nobody else coming. It's only me here and now, this one time. Asking if you'll help us out. Just this once. Nobody'll bother you again."

  "Well, I'm not helping you out. Now get the fuck off our property."

  "Thanks for your time, Mr. Morgan." Jasons started to walk away. Then he frowned, as if he'd remembered someth
ing, and lifted an index finger just as the lawyer was about to close the car door. "Oh, one thing. Just to be helpful. You hear about tomorrow morning?"

  Paul Morgan gave an exaggerated grimace and said, "What about tomorrow morning?"

  "Public Works is starting some construction on Hanover Street. On Saturday, can you believe it? And at eight-thirty. You might want to check out a different route if you want to get to the school by ten."

  "What?" Hand on the half-open door, Morgan was frozen, staring at Jasons. The word was a whisper.

  "For the concert." The slim man nodded pleasantly. "I think it's great when parents take an interest in their children's activities. A lot of them don't. And I'm sure Paul Junior and Alicia appreciate it too. I know they've been practicing hard. Alicia especially. Every day after school in that rehearsal room, three to four-thirty...Impressive. Just thought you might want to know about the roadwork. Okay, you have a good evening, Mr. Morgan."

  Jasons turned and walked to his Lexus, thinking that the odds of getting rushed were about 10 percent. But he got inside safely and started the car.

  When he looked out the rearview mirror, there was no sign of Morgan's Mercedes.

  The slip of paper was gone too.

  The first of this evening's tasks was finished. Now for the second. His stomach rumbled again but he decided he'd better get on the road right away. The directions told him it would take more than two hours to get to Lake Mondac.

  THE GROUND AROUND

  Brynn and Michelle was swampy and they had to be careful not to step on what seemed to be solid leaves but which was only a thin facade covering a deep bog. The frogs' calls were insistent, piercing and they irritated Brynn because the creek-crack could obscure the sound of anyone approaching. They walked for twenty minutes in tense silence--following the least choked route they could, sucked farther into the forest's discouraging labyrinth. Brynn and Michelle descended into a gully that was matted with blackberry, trillium, wood leek and a dozen plants Brynn didn't recognize. With considerable effort they climbed to the top of the other side.

  Where Brynn realized suddenly that she was lost. Completely lost.

  On higher ground they'd had more of a sense of the correct direction--due north to the Joliet Trail. Brynn had used certain landmarks to guide them: peaks, a stream, unusual patterns of tall oak trees. But they'd been forced farther and farther downward into the low ground by rocky cliffs and the compacted mass of brush and thorny bushes. All of her navigation beacons had vanished. She recalled the instructor at the State Police tactical procedures course saying that if you put somebody in unfamiliar territory without recognizable landmarks, they'd be completely disoriented within thirty-five minutes. Brynn had certainly believed him but hadn't realized that too many landmarks could be as much of a problem as too few.