Brynn screwed the lid on the bottle and slipped it into her pocket, picked up her spear. They started walking again. They’d pause every so often to take another reading. As long as they continued north they would have to cross the Joliet Trail sooner or later.
Curious, she thought, how much reassurance she’d gotten by making this little toy. Kristen Brynn McKenzie was a woman whose worst enemy, worst fear, was the lack of control. She’d begun this night without any—no phone or weapon—crawling cold, drenched and helpless out of a black lake. But now, with a crude spear in hand and a compass in her pocket she felt as confident as that character out of one of Joey’s comic books.
Queen of the Jungle.
THE DANCE.
What Hart called it.
This was a part of the business and Hart was not only used to dancing, he was good at it. Being a craftsman, after all.
A month ago. Sitting in a coffee shop—never a bar; keep your head about you—he’d looked up at the voice.
“So, Hart. How you doing?”
A firm handshake.
“Good. You?”
“I’m okay. Listen, I’m interested in hiring somebody. You interested in some work?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. So how do you know Gordon Potts? You go back a long ways?”
“Not so long.”
“How’d you meet him?” Hart had asked.
“A mutual friend.”
“Who’d that be?”
“Freddy Lancaster.”
“Freddy, sure. How’s his wife doing?”
“That’d be tough to find out, Hart. She died two years ago.”
“Oh, that’s right. Bad memory. How does Freddy like St. Paul?”
“St. Paul? He lives in Milwaukee.”
“This memory of mine.”
The Dance. It went on and on. As it has to.
Then two meetings later, credentials finally established, the risk of entrapment minimal, the dancing was over and they got down to details.
“That’s a lot of money.”
“Yeah, it is, Hart. So you’re interested?”
“Keep going.”
“Here’s a map of the area. That’s a private road. Lake View Drive. And there? That’s a state park, all of it. Hardly any people around. Here’s a diagram of the house.”
“Okay…This a dirt road or paved?”
“Dirt…Hart, they tell me you’re good. Are you good? I hear you’re a craftsman. That’s what they say.”
“Who’s they?”
“People.”
“Well, yeah, I’m a craftsman.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m curious. Why’re you in this line of work?”
“It suits me,” he’d said simply.
“It looks like it does.”
“Okay. What’s the threat situation?”
“The what?”
“How risky’s the job going to be? How many people up there, weapons, police nearby? It’s a lake house—are the other houses on Lake View occupied?”
“It’ll be a piece of cake, Hart. Hardly any risk at all. The other places’ll be vacant. And only the two of them up there, the Feldmans. And no rangers in the park or cops around for miles.”
“They have weapons?”
“Are you kidding? They’re city people. She’s a lawyer, he’s a social worker.”
“Just the Feldmans, nobody else? It’ll make a big difference.”
“That’s my information. And it’s solid. Just the two of them.”
Now, in the middle of Marquette State Park, Hart and Lewis circled around a dangerous stand of thorny brush. Like a plant out of a science fiction movie.
Hart reflected sourly, Yeah, right, just the two of them. Feeling the ache in his arm.
Angry with himself.
He’d done 95 percent.
It should’ve been 110.
At least they knew they were on the right path. A half mile back they’d found a scrap of tissue with blood on it. The Kleenex couldn’t’ve been there for more than a half hour. Hart now paused and gazed around them, noted some peaks and a small creek. “We’re doing fine. Be a lot tougher without the moonlight. But we’ve caught a break. Somebody’s looking out for us.”
The Trickster…
“Somebody…You believe that?” Lewis said this as if he did.
Hart didn’t. But no time for theology now. “I’d like to move a little faster. When they hit the trail they might start running. We’ll have to too.”
“Run?”
“Right. Smooth ground’ll give us the advantage. We can move faster.”
“Them being women, you mean?”
“Yep. Well, and one of them being hurt. Pain slows people down.” He paused and stared to their right. Then hunched over the map and examined it closely with the flashlight, its lens muted by his undershirt.
He pointed. “That a smoke tower?”
“What’s that?”
“Rangers look for forest fires from them. It’s one of the places I thought she might go for.”
“Where?”
“On that ridge.”
They were looking at a structure about a half mile away. It was a tower of some sort but through the trees they couldn’t tell if it was a radio or microwave antenna or a structure with a small enclosure on top.
“Maybe,” Lewis said.
“You see any sign of them?”
Now that their eyes were used to the dark, the half-moon provided fair illumination but the ravine separating the men from the ranger tower was shadowy, and in the bottom a canopy of trees provided perfect cover.
The women heading for the tower made some sense, rather than the Joliet Trail or the ranger station. The place might have a radio, or even a weapon. He debated for a moment and risked scanning the ground with the flashlight. If the women were near, at least they’d be moving away and might not see the light.
Then they heard a rustle of leaves, and turned fast toward the sound.
Six glowing red eyes were staring at them.
Lewis laughed. “Raccoons.”
Three big ones were pawing at something on the ground. It glistened and crackled.
“What’s that?”
Lewis found a rock and pitched it toward them.
With a mean-sounding hiss, they ran off.
Hart and Lewis approached and found what they’d been doing—fighting over some food. It looked like bits of crackers.
“Theirs?”
Hart picked one up, broke it in half with a snap. Fresh. He studied the ground. The women had stopped here apparently—he could make out prints of knees and feet. And then they had continued north.
“Women. Stopping for a fucking picnic.”
Hart doubted, though, it was to rest. That wasn’t Brynn. Maybe somebody needed first aid; he believed he smelled rubbing alcohol. But, whatever the reason, the important thing to Hart was that they hadn’t made for the fire tower; they were headed right for the trail.
He consulted the GPS and pointed ahead. “That way.”
“Mind that patch there,” Lewis said.
Hart squinted. When the moon was obscured by branches or a wisp of cloud, the forest around them turned black as a cave. He finally saw what Lewis was pointing at. “What’s that?”
“Poison ivy. Bad stuff. Not everybody’s allergic. Indians aren’t.”
“Doesn’t affect them?”
“Nope. Not a bit. You might not be allergic but you don’t want to take a chance.”
Hart hadn’t known that. “What were you, a Boy Scout?”
Lewis laughed. “Funny, hadn’t thought about that for years. But, yeah, I was. Well, not really in them. I went on a couple camping trips then kind of dropped out. But I know that’s poison ivy ’cause my brother threw me in a patch once. And that fucked me up good. I never forgot what it looked like.”
“You were saying you have two? Brothers?”
“He was the
older one, what else? I’m in the middle.”
“He know it was poison ivy?”
“I don’t think so. But something I always wondered about.”
“Must’ve sucked, Lewis,” Hart said.
“Yup…Oh, ’bout that. My friends call me Comp. You can use that.”
“Okay, Comp. Where’s that come from?”
“Town where my parents lived when I was born. Compton. Minnesota. My parents thought it sounded, you know, distinguished.” He snickered. “Like anybody in our family was ever distinguished. What a joke. But Daddy tried. Give him that. And yours’re both dead? Your folks?”
“That’s right.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Was a while ago.”
“Still.”
They continued on through the tangled brush in silence for what seemed like two miles though it was probably a quarter of that. Hart checked his watch. Okay, he decided. It’s time.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone he’d been carrying. He pushed the ON button, and it went through that electronic ritual they all did nowadays. He figured out the settings and put the ringer on vibrate. Then scrolled through recent calls. The one on top was “Home.” He noted that the call had lasted eighteen seconds. Long enough for a message was all.
He wondered how long it would take before—
A light flashed and the phone buzzed.
Hart touched Lewis’s arm and motioned for him to wait, then lifted his fingers to his lips.
Lewis nodded.
Hart answered the call.
GRAHAM FELT HIS
scalp crawl when Brynn’s mobile actually began to ring, rather than go right to voice mail. It clicked. He heard the rustle of wind and his scalp stopped tensing but his heart took over, thumping hard. “Brynn?”
“This’s Officer Billings,” said the low voice.
Graham frowned and glanced at Anna.
The voice asked, “Hello?”
“Well, this is Graham Boyd, Brynn McKenzie’s husband.”
“Oh, sure, sir. Deputy McKenzie.”
“Is she all right?” Graham asked fast, chest throbbing.
“Yessir. She’s fine. She gave me her phone to hold.”
Relief flooded through him. “I’ve been trying all night.”
“Reception’s terrible up here. Comes and goes. Surprised when it rang just now, to be honest.”
“She was due home a while ago.”
“Oh.” The man sounded confused. “She said she called you.”
“She did. But her message said she was coming right home. It was a false alarm or something.”
“Oh, she was going to call again. Probably couldn’t get through. About the case, turned out it wasn’t a false alarm, after all. Was a domestic dispute, pretty ugly. Husband tried to downplay it. Lot of times that happens. Deputy McKenzie’s talking to the wife right now, getting the facts sorted out.”
The relief was so thick Graham could taste it. He smiled and nodded to Anna.
Billings continued, “She left her phone with me, didn’t want any distractions. She’s calming the situation down. She’s good at that. That’s why the captain wanted her to stay. Oh, hold on a minute, sir…Hey, sergeant?…Where’s Ralph?…Oh, okay…” The trooper came back on the line. “Sorry, sir.”
“Do you know how long she’ll be?”
“We’ve got to get Child Protective Services up here.”
“Lake Mondac?”
“Near there. Could be a few hours. Bad situation with the kid. Husband’s going to spend the night in jail. At least the night.”
“Few hours?”
“Yessir. I’ll have her call you when she’s free.”
“Okay. Well, thanks.”
“You bet.”
“’Night.” Graham hung up.
“What?” Anna asked and he explained what was going on.
“Domestic situation?”
“Sounded pretty bad. Husband’s going to jail.” Graham sat on the couch, staring at the TV screen. “Why’d she have to handle it, though?”
Not expecting an answer. But he was aware that the knitting needles had stopped and Anna was looking up from the scarf she was knitting. The colors were three shades of blue. It was pretty.
“Graham, you know Brynn had some trouble with her face.”
“Her jaw? Sure, the car accident.”
He had no idea where she was going with this.
The woman’s gray eyes were on his. That was one thing about Anna McKenzie. As demure as she could be, as polite and proper, she always looked you right in the eye.
“Accident,” she repeated slowly. “So you don’t know.”
More yellow jackets, Graham was beginning to sense.
“Go on.”
“I just assumed she’d told you.”
He was alarmed and hurt at the lie, whatever it might be. Yet he wasn’t very surprised. “Go on.”
“Keith hit her, broke her jaw.”
“What?”
“Wired shut for three weeks.”
“God, it was that serious?”
“He was a big man…. Don’t feel too bad she kept it from you, Graham. She was embarrassed, ashamed. She didn’t tell hardly anybody.”
“She said he was moody. I didn’t know he hurt her.”
“Moody? True. But mostly it was his temper problem. Like some people drink and some people gamble. He’d lose control. It was scary. I saw it happen a few times.”
“Rage-aholic. What happened?”
“The night he hit her? I’m sure it wasn’t anything big that set him off. It never was. That was the scariest. It could be the power went out before a game, the store was out of his brand of beer, Brynn telling him she was going back to work part-time when Joey got a little older. Whatever it was, he’d just snap.”
“I never knew.”
“So domestic problems—they mean a lot to her.”
“She does run those a lot,” Graham agreed. “I always thought it was Tom Dahl. You know, wanting a woman there.”
“No. She’d volunteer.”
“What did she do? After Keith hit her?”
“She didn’t have him arrested if that’s what you mean. I think she was worried about Joey.”
“He ever do it again?”
“No. Not that she ever told me.”
Hitting someone you were married to. He couldn’t imagine it. Hell, hitting anyone, unless it was self-defense, was almost impossible to picture.
Graham was matching this information against other incidents in their past, against his wife’s words, her behavior. Dozens of times she’d touch her jaw in the morning. Even her waking, sweaty and groaning, from dreams. Her moodiness, her defensiveness.
Her control…
He pictured her hand, coasting along the uneven line of her jaw as they sat at the dinner table or watching TV on the green couch.
Still, sitting back, he said, “She didn’t know what was going on at Lake Mondac until she got there. Domestic may’ve been why she stayed tonight. It’s not why she volunteered to go in the first place. That’s what I want to know.”
“I think the answers’re pretty much the same, Graham.” The needle clicks resumed as Anna cranked up the assembly line of yarn once again.
THEY PAUSED TO
take a compass reading, as they’d been doing every quarter mile or so. The routine was that Brynn and Michelle would kneel down, rest the alcohol bottle on its side and tease their magnetic vessel into the center of its tiny ocean, where it would nose out north for them. The compass was a lifesaver. Brynn was astonished at how easily they would start to veer in the wrong direction, though she’d been absolutely convinced they were on course.
Michelle asked, “How did you know how to make that?” Nodding at the compass as Brynn slipped it back into her pocket. “You have children? A school project?”
“A course I took through the State Police. But I do have a son.” She tried to imagine ska
teboarding fiend Joey sitting still long enough for a science fair project. The idea was amusing.
“How old is he?” Michelle was suddenly animated.
“Twelve.”
“I love children,” she said. Then she smiled. “What’s his name?”
“Joseph.”
“Biblical.”
“I guess so. We named him after his father’s uncle.”
“Is he a good boy?”
“He sure is.” Hesitated. “Though he gets into things sometimes.” She told Michelle about the skateboarding incident today, some of his scrapes at school. The woman listened with interest—and sympathy. Brynn asked, “You and your husband have kids?”
Michelle glanced at her. “Not yet. We lead pretty busy lifestyles.”
“And you’re an actress, you were saying?”
A shy smile. “Just little things now. TV commercials, community theater. But I’m going to get into Second City. The improv comedy troupe. I’ve had a couple of callbacks. And I’m auditioning for the touring company of Wicked.”
Brynn listened attentively as the young woman told her about some parts she was pursuing. Brynn’s opinion, though, was that she was a dilettante. It sounded like she jumped from medium to medium, hoping to find one she was talented at. Or one that was easier than others. She wasn’t surprised to learn that Michelle also tried her hand at writing plays, but had recently decided that independent films were the way to go. And was thinking of getting a job in L.A. to meet people in the movie industry.
They were walking uphill now and, breathless, fell silent as they slogged their way over another quarter mile.
She’d thought they’d have come across the Joliet Trail by now. It couldn’t be that far away. But with all this dense brush, she had no realistic sense of how fast they were traveling. Like treading through water; a lot of effort didn’t lead to a long distance covered.
After fifteen minutes they paused in a clearing surrounded by briars to take another compass reading. The lighter flared and Brynn saw they were on track. “Okay, shut it out.”
According to the routine they’d fallen into, they now sat for a moment or two, eyes squeezed shut to help them adjust to the dark.
The Bodies Left Behind: A Novel Page 13