The Bodies Left Behind (27 page)

Why would somebody take the trouble to dig out one but not the other bullets? Why? Because it had his DNA on it?

Most likely, and that meant he was wounded.

It also meant that he was a pro. Most crimes in Kennesha County involved people who didn’t even know what DNA was, much less worried about leaving any.

A hit man.

Okay, think. The two men had been hired to kill Emma Feldman. They’d done that—and killed her husband too. Then, maybe, they’d been surprised by the friend who’d driven up with them. Maybe she’d been out for a walk or upstairs in the shower when the killers arrived.

Or maybe it was Brynn who’d surprised them.

Somebody, Brynn probably, had shot one of the men, wounding him. He’d dug the DNA-coated bullet out of the wall.

But what had happened next?

Had they ditched their car somewhere and taken Brynn’s? Were the friend and Brynn with them, captives? Had the women put on those hiking boots to run off into the woods?

Were they dead?

He called deputy Howie Prescott on his radio. The big man was near
the lake in the yard between 2 and 3 Lake View, where they’d found some footprints. He was looking for any sign of a trail anybody’d left. Prescott was the best hunter in the office, though how the 280-pound man snuck up on his prey was a mystery to them all.

“Anything, Howie?”

“No, sir. But it’s dark as night here.”

Dark as night, Dahl thought. It
is
goddamn night.

“Keep looking.”

Dahl said to Eric Munce, who was rubbing the grip of his pistol the way a child plays with its sippy cup, “I want to get some bodies….” Dahl hesitated at the inappropriate word. “I want to get some searchers up here fast. As many as we can. But armed only. No volunteers.”

Munce hurried to his squad car to call in a search party.

Dahl stepped outside and gazed toward the lake. The moon was low, withholding most of its illumination from the surface.

Dahl’s radio crackled. “This’s Pete.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’m in the driveway of Number One. Haven’t checked it out yet but wanted to tell you.” He was breathless. “There’s a truck just passed me. White pickup. Headed your way.”

A truck.

“Who’s inside?”

“Couldn’t see.”

“Okay. Check out the house. I want to know what you find.”

“Will do.”

“Got company,” the sheriff said to Munce, then called Prescott and told him to keep an eye out for the vehicle.

They saw it approach slowly and turn up the drive.

Both Dahl’s and Munce’s hands were near their weapons.

But it turned out not to be a threat.

Though it was certainly a complication.

Graham Boyd climbed out of the cab, leaving his passengers, three fuzzy bushes, in the back, and walked straight up to Dahl.

“She’s not here, Graham. We don’t know where she is.”

“Let me see,” the big man said in an unsteady voice, heading for the house.

“No, I can’t let you in. There’s some bodies. People’ve been killed, shot. It’s a crime scene.”

“Where
is
she?” Graham’s voice was ragged.

The sheriff put his arm around the man’s solid shoulders and led him away. “Brynn and those folks’ friend got away, we think.”

“They did? Where?”

“We don’t know anything for sure. We’re getting a search team up here now.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Look, let us do our job here. I know it’s hard. But I’m going to ask you to help us out and go on home. Please.”

The radio crackled once more. “Sheriff, it’s Howie. I was looking around the shore and found something.”

“Go ahead.”

“A car off the road. Went into the lake, looks like.”

“
Looks
like?” he snapped. “Or did?”

A pause. “Yeah, it did.”

“Where?”

“Can you see the flashlight? I’m signaling.”

Two or three hundred yards away a small yellow dot waved through the darkness.

Graham shouted, “What’s the debris, what color?”

A hesitation. Dahl repeated the question.

Prescott said, “There’s a bumper here. It’s dark red.”

“Oh, shit,” Graham said and started running.

“Goddamn,” Dahl spat out. He and Munce climbed into the sheriff’s car, Munce driving. They stopped and Graham climbed in the back, then they sped to the shore.

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

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 named 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?”