The Bodies Left Behind

by Jeffery Deaver

  Skid marks, airbag dust, scrapes on the rocks and auto detritus--hunks of red plastic from lights, bits of glass--and an oil slick near the shore left no doubt. The car had sailed off the road, hit a rocky ledge then tumbled into the water.

  "Jesus," Graham muttered.

  What did this do to the scenario? Who was in the car?

  Or who is in the car still?

  "Doesn't mean it's hers for sure, Graham. Or that she was even in it."

  "Brynn!" her husband shouted. The voice echoed across the lake. Graham scrabbled down the rocks.

  "No!" Dahl said. "We don't know where the shooters are." Then to Munce: "Call back the State Police. We need a diver and a truck with a winch. Tell 'em Lake Mondac. Western shore. They can check the depth.... Graham that's a crime scene too. We can't have you fucking it up."

  Graham scooped something out of the water and dropped to his knees. His head was down. Dahl was about to shout at him again. But held back.

  "I get him up here?" Munce asked.

  "No. Let him be." Dahl made his way to the water's edge, moving carefully down the rocks, his game leg in agony.

  Graham stood slowly and handed the sheriff a Hagstrom map of the county. On the soggy cover was written in marker Dep. K. B. McKenzie.

  For a moment Dahl thought Graham was going to dive in after her. He was tensing to restrain him. But the big man did nothing. His shoulders were slumped, and he stared out over the black water.

  A hiss and a crackle. "Sheriff, Pete. I'm at Number One Lake View. Nobody's home and it's sealed up. But there's a car abandoned behind the house."

  "Abandoned?"

  "I mean recent. I called it in. Stolen in Milwaukee a few days ago. According to the VIN. The plates match the same year and model but not this ID number. And there're two bullet holes in the side and a rear tire's shot out."

  So that's the car that rimmed its way out of the Feldmans' drive.

  He thought of Graham and wished with all his heart the man was elsewhere. But he couldn't waste any time. "Pop the trunk. Tell me what's inside."

  "I did, Sheriff. Empty."

  Thank you, Lord.

  "And nobody broke into the house?"

  "No, I've been around it. They might've picked the lock and locked back up."

  "Forget it. Get to the closer house. Number Two."

  "Yessir."

  "You get over there too," Dahl said to Prescott.

  The big deputy nodded and he started up the dirt road.

  A lengthy silence. Graham rubbed his eyes, then peered into the lake. "Don't imagine it's that deep. She could've got out."

  "I'm sure of it."

  "You don't believe that, do you? You think she's dead. Well, she isn't."

  "I'm not saying that at all, Graham. She's real tough. One of the toughest."

  "You have to search the area."

  "We will."

  "I mean now! Get state troopers here."

  "They're on their way. I've already called."

  "The FBI. They'll get involved for something like this, won't they?"

  "Yep. They'll be here too."

  Graham turned and looked at 2 Lake View. Gibbs's squad car was pulling up now.

  Dahl had a lot on his mind but not so much that he couldn't offer a silent prayer that his deputy and the houseguest weren't in that house, dead as the Feldmans. "Go on home. Be with Joey. He'll need you now."

  Then an excited clatter through the tinny speaker: "Got something here, Sheriff," Pete Gibbs radioed.

  "Go ahead."

  "Been broken into. And I think I see bullet holes in some windows upstairs."

  "Stay put till Eric gets there." He nodded at the young hotshot of a deputy, who took off at an earnest run.

  "Looks empty to me," Gibbs said.

  "Hold your position."

  "Yessir."

  "When Eric gets there, move in. But assume they're inside. And we know they're armed."

  Graham was examining the shore, his back to Dahl, who was staring at the house. The minutes passed, slow as could be, and Dahl found himself holding his breath, waiting for a gunshot.

  Finally, the radio crackled teasingly.

  No transmission.

  Dahl didn't want to call back, and have their radios squawk, giving away their position.

  Nothing.

  Damnation.

  Finally Eric Munce called in. "House is cleared, Tom. They were here. Been a firefight. But no bodies. But we've got something weird."

  "Weird, Eric. I can't use weird. Just tell me."

  "Upstairs bedroom. There's ammonia all over the bathroom floor. Stinks like a baby's diaper bin."

  "Ammonia."

  "And we found Brynn's uniform. All her clothes."

  Graham tensed.

  "They were soaking wet and full of mud. And the closet and dresser were open. I think she changed clothes and then took off."

  Dahl glanced at Graham, who closed his eyes in relief.

  "Sheriff, it's Howie. I'm outside. I see two sets of footprints, women's, I'd guess, they're smaller, running to the woods behind the house. They go to a stream heading back to the Feldmans'. Then I lose them."

  "Roger that." Dahl put his arm around Graham's massive shoulders, walked the man back to his squad car. "Listen, we know your wife got outa the car okay. If anybody knows how to stay alive, it's her. I mean, I know that for a fact, Graham; I signed the payment request for her to go to all those training courses she takes. Hell, she takes so many of 'em they call her the Schoolmarm behind her back. Only don't tell her I said that. Come on, I'll drive you back to get your truck. You and me, we're too old to be out jogging."

  THE VAN'S AUTOMATIC

  lock clicked. Brynn turned toward the passenger door as it opened.

  Hart stood there, his gun forward, scanning carefully for threats. He saw her hands were taped and that the van was otherwise unoccupied. He climbed in.

  The door slammed behind him.

  He put his gun away and began searching through the mounds of junk on the floor and directly behind the front seats.

  Brynn said, "The girl back there, in the camper? The little girl?"

  "No. She's all right."

  "The fire?"

  "Diversion. The camper wasn't burning."

  Brynn looked. The smoke had cleared. He was telling the truth.

  Hart found some bleach, opened it and drenched his gloves and the keys, which were bloody. Then poured more in a tear in his leather jacket--the bullet hole from Michelle's shot, it seemed. He exhaled slowly from the pain.

  The chlorine stench rose and stung her eyes. His too. They both blinked.

  "Druggies...Can't be too safe nowadays." It was like he was apologizing for the fumes. Hart looked her over, focusing on her vastly swollen cheek. He frowned.

  "Are you telling me the truth? Is she alive?" Her eyes bored into his. He gazed back.

  "The girl? Yes, I told you. The mother, if she was the mother, she's not. The others aren't either.... You're interested, they left the kid in the camper when they thought it was burning. And ran outside. Maybe they just meant to fight. Or maybe they just meant to leave her to burn."

  Brynn looked him over. A solid face, gray eyes, long hair, dark and dry. Skin rough. She'd had a bout of acne as a girl; it had tormented her. But the condition had cleared up as soon as she hit college. He wasn't handsome, not really, but he had confidence in spades, an attraction all its own.

  "Brynn," he mused.

  How'd he know her name? Had Gandy told him before he died? No. The men had been in the second house along Lake View Drive, the bedroom. He would have seen the name badge on her blouse.

  "Hart."

  He nodded with an exasperated smile. "My friend was talking a bit much. Giving that away."

  "What's his name again?"

  The smile lingered.

  Brynn said, "Tell me where the girl is."

  "In her room in the camper." Hart continued, "She's in bed with some doll n
amed Chester. I found it for her. Or a rabbit. I don't know."

  "You left her there?" Brynn asked angrily. "She could look outside and see her mother's body?"

  "No, my friend's moving them all into the woods. I told the girl to stay put. Come morning this park'll have more cops per square foot than the police academy. They'll find her."

  "She's dead, isn't she? You killed her too."

  His face tightened. He was upset that she doubted him. "No, I didn't kill her. She's in bed with Chester. I told you."

  Brynn decided that she believed him.

  "So what happened?" he asked. "You met that fellow in the woods and he was going to let you use his phone here. And you walked into a meth lab."

  "I figured it out before. But not before enough."

  "Smelled it, right? The ammonia?"

  "Yep. And the chlorine too. And burning propane."

  "That's how I found it," Hart said. "I was down by that lake and could smell it down there."

  "Wind must've shifted," she said. "I didn't smell it till we were almost here."

  Hart stretched. "Phew. Quite a night. Bet you don't see many of 'em like this in...what's this county again?"

  "Kennesha."

  He looked again at the wound on her face. He'd be noting how infected it was, how painful. She supposed he'd be considering how long she could hold out before she told him where Michelle was.

  Forever.

  Wondering if that was true.

  And as if he were reading her thoughts: "Where is your friend Michelle?" he said evenly.

  "I don't know." Recalling that they'd found her purse. They knew who she was and where she lived.

  Hart moved in the seat slightly and grimaced, apparently at the pain in his shot arm. "What's that name--Brynn?"

  "Norwegian."

  He nodded as he took this in. "Well, about Michelle, you're lying to me. You do know where she is." He actually seemed offended. Or hurt. After a moment Hart said, "I talked to somebody tonight, you know. On the phone."

  "Talked to somebody?"

  "Your husband."

  She said nothing, thinking at first that he was bluffing. But then remembered that they'd taken her phone. Graham might have called and Hart might have answered.

  "I pretended I was another trooper. I told him you'd been delayed. He bought it. I could tell. There's nobody coming to save you. And before you get your hopes up I took the battery out. Can't be traced. Now, where is she? Michelle?"

  They held each other's eyes. She was surprised at how easy it was.

  "You killed her friends. Why would I tell you where she is, so you can kill her too?"

  "So," he said, nodding, "Michelle was a friend of the family? Is that how she got mixed up in this whole thing?" A laugh. "Wrong time and wrong place, you might say. A lot of that going around tonight."

  "We need to talk about making arrangements here."

  "I'll bet this's a first for you. Has been for me."

  "What?"

  "The game we've been playing tonight. Like poker. Bluffing. You fool me, I fool you."

  Poker...

  "My friend was telling me about this character. His mama or grandma, I forget, was talking about the Trickster. Some mythology thing, a fairy tale. He causes all kind of grief. That's what I've been calling you all night, Brynn."

  Trickster, she reflected.

  Hart continued, "That TV in the house at Number Two Lake View--finding a channel with women talking. That was smart. And the ammonia above the door. But now I think about it, you didn't rig it to fall, did you? You'd worry about rescue workers or your cop friends getting blinded. Funny--knowing you didn't come up with a cowardly trap...makes me feel better about you."

  Brynn McKenzie repressed a smile and didn't give him the satisfaction of a response.

  "Then the canoe. And the blood on the ledge."

  "And you in the three-wheeled car," she replied.

  "Didn't fool you, though, did it?"

  "I can say the same. After all, here you are. You found me."

  He looked her over. "The blood at the ledge. You cut yourself extra for that?"

  "Didn't bring any ketchup with me." She tilted her head so he could see the coagulated blood in her hair." Then she added, "The flashlight tricked me, on the ledge. What'd you do, make a rope out of a T-shirt?"

  "Yep. My friend's. Got to see more of his tattooed body than I wanted. I used a branch too so it'd hang out a ways and dangle in the wind."

  "But how'd you find us?"

  "BlackBerry."

  She shook her head, smiling ruefully. He has satellite. I have a homemade toy compass...though one worked as good as the other, Brynn thought. "The Sheriff's Department won't pay for those."

  "I figured you'd make for that trail, the Joliet, and north from there. And go to the interstate or Point of Rocks."

  "I'd decided on the interstate. The climb'd be a bitch but it's closer and by the time we got to the highway there'd be plenty of trucks on the road."

  "How come you didn't get lost?"

  "Good sense of direction." She looked him over closely. "Why are you doing this, Hart?" she asked. "It's hopeless."

  "Ah, Brynn, we're both too smart for hostage negotiation one-oh-one."

  She continued nonetheless, "Less than two percent of perps get away with murder--and those're usually drug clips where nobody cares about the victim or there're so many suspects it's not even worth investigating. But tonight...they won't stop until they get you.... You're not stupid, Hart."

  Again he seemed hurt. "That was condescending.... And what you're trying's cheap. I've been treating you with respect."

  He was right.

  He stretched and massaged his shot arm. The bullet hole was near the edge of the jacket. It had apparently missed bone and vital vessel. He mused, "Crazy line of work we're in, don't you think, Brynn?"

  "We're not in the same line of work." She couldn't help but scoff.

  "Sure we are.... Take tonight: We came up here to do jobs we'd agreed to do. And now we've still got the same goals. To stop each other and get out of this damn forest alive. Who writes your paycheck and who writes mine, that's just a technicality. Doesn't matter much why we're here. The important thing is that we are."

  She had to laugh.

  But he continued, as if she'd conceded his point. And looked into her eyes as he said, animated, "But don't you think it's what makes everything worthwhile? Even what's gone down tonight, all this crap. I do. I wouldn't trade the life I lead for anything. Look at most of the rest of the world--the walking dead. They're nothing but dead bodies, Brynn. Sitting around, upset, angry about something they saw on TV doesn't mean a single thing to them personally. Going to their jobs, coming home, talking stuff they don't know or care about...God, doesn't the boredom just kill them? It would me. I need more, Brynn. Don't you?" He massaged his neck with his uninjured arm. "Tell me where she is. Please. It's going to get bad."

  "I tell you and you let me live?"

  A pause. Then: "No, I can't hardly do that. But I have your phone number. I know you have a husband and you might have children, probably do. If you tell me, they'll be fine."

  "What's your full name?"

  He shook his head, giving her a frown.

  "Well, okay, Hart first or last name, listen: you're under arrest." She recited the Miranda warning, start to finish. She never used those laminated cards that bail bondsmen handed out. She'd memorized the language years ago.

  "You're arresting me?"

  "Do you understand your rights?"

  Amused, he said, "I know you know where she is. You had a meeting point somewhere, didn't you? I know that. Because that's what I would have done."

  Breaking the silence that followed he continued, "Life's funny, isn't it? Everything seems perfect. The plan, the background, the research, the details. You even nail that fishy human factor. Clear road, easy escape, you've distracted everybody who needs distracting. And then something small happens. Too
many red lights, tire goes flat, an accident ties up traffic. And the psycho security guard, who just got a new forty-four Desert Eagle he's itching to use, comes to work ten minutes early because he woke up before the alarm because a dog started barking two blocks away because a squirrel..."

  His voice faded. He tented his gloved fingers, wincing slightly when he moved his left arm. "And all your plans go up in smoke. The plans that couldn't go wrong go wrong. That's what happened to us tonight, Brynn. You and me both."

  "Undo my hands, give me your weapon."

  "You really think you're going to arrest me, just like that?"

  "You weren't paying attention. I already did."

  He stretched again. "Not as young as I used to be." He massaged his left arm. "How long have you been married?"

  She didn't answer but glanced involuntarily at his gloved hand.

  "Marriage doesn't suit me. Does it suit you, Brynn?...Come on, what's Michelle to you?"

  "My job. That's what she is."

  "How important can a job be?"

  Brynn, wrinkling her brow cynically--and with pain. "You know the answer to that."

  He began to speak then stopped. Tilted his head in concession.

  "You might've talked to my husband but you don't know him. He'll've put things in motion by now. He's not falling asleep after the ten o'clock news."

  Again, disappointment in his face. "That's a lie, Brynn."

  She inhaled slowly. "Maybe it is," she found herself saying. "So. Okay. No more lies, Hart. Graham might've gone to sleep. But he'll wake up about four A.M. for the bathroom. Which he does like clockwork. And when I'm not there he'll call my boss, and his first call'll be to mobilize the State Police. You have some time but not a lot. And not nearly enough for you to get me to tell you where she is. And that's not a lie."

  "Okay, what we could do is..." His voice faded.

  Brynn laughed. "You were going to lie to me, weren't you?"

  "Yeah, I was." He grinned.

  "Going to give me some hope, right?"

  "Yep. But it felt wrong." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a map. Opened it and spread it between them. He located the faint road where they were. Flicked on the overhead light. "Where is she, Brynn?"

  She noted the tiny blue dot that was the lake where Michelle waited. She said, "I'm not telling you."

  He shook his head. "Well, I won't hurt you. That's not dignified. And your family's safe."

  "I know that."

  He drew his gun. Glanced at it. "But...you understand."

  He's reluctant to shoot, she thought, surprised. But shoot he would. In a curious way, though, she felt that she'd won this part of the game. And she felt too, with a deep pang, that she'd also lost. Not because of her death. But for a dozen reasons that hovered far outside this van, this forest, this park.