The Bodies Left Behind: A Novel

by Jeffery Deaver

  “I talked to Social Services myself, Michelle. Steven Feldman’s supervisor. And to the witnesses and to your son’s teacher. Brad regularly had bruises on his arms and legs. Your daughter, Tory, had marks too.”

  “Oh, they have an accident or two. You take a child into the emergency room and right away you’re an abusive parent. I’ve never beaten him…. Oh, what a politically correct world this is,” she snapped. “Everybody swats their kids. Don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you should.” She was smiling cruelly. “Maybe you wouldn’t be having so much trouble with Joey, like you were telling me. And you let him get away with it. My son won’t get run over by a car or break his neck skateboarding…. Children need direction. They don’t respect you if you’re not firm. And they want to respect their parents.”

  Brynn now said, “Michelle, let me run through the case that we’ve got against you.” She rattled off summaries of expert testimony, witness statements and forensic evidence. It was overwhelming.

  The woman began to cry. “It’s not my fault! It isn’t!”

  Brynn reached over and shut off the camera.

  The woman looked up cautiously. She dried her eyes.

  “Michelle,” Brynn said softly, “here’s the situation. You heard the case against you. You will be convicted. There is no doubt in anyone’s mind about that. If you don’t cooperate you’ll go into a ten-by-four cell, solitary confinement, forever. But if you do cooperate you’ll stay out of a super-prison, probably go to medium security. You may have the chance to see life outside before you’re too old to appreciate it.”

  “Can I see my children? I’ll agree if I can see my children.”

  “No,” Brynn said firmly. “That’s not in their interest.”

  This troubled Michelle for a moment but then she asked brightly, “A nicer cell? I’ll get a nicer cell?”

  “Yes.”

  “And all I have to do is confess?”

  “Well, that’s part of it,” replied Brynn, as Michelle stared at the place on the camera where the glowing red eye had been.

  BRYNN MCKENZIE SAT

  in the lunchroom of the Kennesha County Sheriff’s Department, opposite Tom Dahl, who was reading through the transcript of the interview. The chairs were small, almost like the chairs at Joey’s school. Dahl’s body overhung his considerably. Brynn’s did not. Her issue was tummy, not thigh. Brynn was looking over her upside-down notes and the transcript.

  Dahl startled her by slapping the transcript and looking up. “Well, you got yourself a confession. Good job. And won’t cost us much in terms of a plea. She’ll go into Sanford? Medium-sec?”

  “No furloughs, though. She sees the kids only if the social worker okays it.”

  “And twenty-five minimum, no parole.”

  Dahl ate some macaroni. “You’re not hungry?”

  “No.”

  “What about Hart? She say anything about him?”

  “Hardly a word.”

  “Maybe he’s just gone away.”

  She laughed. “I don’t think people like him do that. They may hide out for a while but they don’t beam themselves off the planet, like Star Wars.”

  “That was Star Trek. TV show. Before your time.”

  Brynn said, “Well, too bad he can’t. Somebody better find him fast, the FBI or Minneapolis PD or somebody. For his own sake.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Apparently he’s on a few lists. He’s done work for a lot of people who don’t want him caught—professional hits and robberies, extortion. Now the word’s out that he might get collared for the Lake Mondac thing, they’re afraid he’ll roll over. And Compton Lewis’s family aren’t real happy either about what happened to their kin.”

  Dahl looked at her notes. She studied his baby skin. His face looks younger than mine, even subtracting the broken jaw and the buckshot wound.

  Where’s the justice in life?

  “Why’d a pro like Hart get involved in something small like this, with the Kepler woman?” Dahl asked. “Money? Sex? That woman wasn’t ugly.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  The sheriff laughed.

  Brynn said, “Don’t think either of those would’ve swayed him. You want my opinion? He was bored.”

  “Bored?”

  “He was between jobs. It came along. He wanted a rush.”

  Dahl nodded and wasn’t smiling when he said, “You,” pointing a dramatic finger at her.

  She blinked. “Me?”

  “Just like you.” The sheriff waved his arm around the department. “Well, you don’t exactly do this for the money. You like the excitement, don’tcha?”

  “I do it ’cause I love my boss.”

  “Heh. So what’s next? You’re going after Hart, I assume. I need to beg the county supervisor for a budget increase?”

  “Nope. I’m leaving the whole thing to the State Police to follow up on.”

  Dahl stopped the massage. “You are?”

  “We’ve got enough going on here.”

  “Am I hearing this right?”

  “They find Hart, I’ll interview him, you bet I will. But I’ve done my bit. Anyway, you need somebody on the ground in the perp’s turf. It’s local contacts that solve cases.”

  “You just wanted to say that. ‘On the ground.’ Okay, ship everything to the state boys. You’re sure about this?”

  “I am.”

  A deputy stuck his head into the lunchroom. “Hey, Brynn. Sorry to bother your lunch.”

  “Yeah?”

  “We just brought that guy in, the one hanging around the schools. You want to talk to him? You said you did.”

  “Sure. What’d you get him for?”

  “Fly was undone.”

  “He waive his rights?”

  “Yep. He has an explanation.”

  Dahl guffawed. “Sure he’s got an explanation—he’s a goddamn pervert.”

  Brynn told him, “I’ll be right there.”

  THE TALL MAN

  with broad shoulders and a crew cut was standing on the ladder leaning against the old but well-maintained colonial house in a pretty neighborhood south of Humboldt. It was a clear, cool Saturday morning and tasks like this were being replayed at thousands and thousands of homes around the country. The man was painting the shutters dark green. Funny, Brynn reflected, in her ten years of living here, she’d always thought that green would be a pleasant color for the trim, but never wondered why. Now she understood. The house was set against a verdant pine forest, a shining example of the word “evergreen.” She’d seen the trees every day but had never really been aware of them.

  Glancing over his shoulder as the Camry approached, he hesitated, caught in mid-brushstroke, then slowly climbed down off the ladder. He set the paint bucket on the worktable he had set up and wrapped the brush in plastic, so the latex enamel wouldn’t dry on the bristles. Keith Marshall was forever meticulous.

  Brynn braked to a stop in front of the garage. Joey climbed out and grabbed his suitcase from the backseat.

  “Hi, Dad!”

  Keith hugged his son, who tolerated the gesture and charged into the house. “Bye, Mom!”

  “I’ll pick you up after school on Monday!”

  “Don’t forget the cookies!”

  Her ex-husband started to say something but seemed to forget what it was as Brynn shut the engine off and climbed out. In the past two years she’d never spent more than sixty seconds here when dropping Joey off for a visit with his father.

  “Hello,” she said.

  Keith nodded. His hair was flecked with a bit of gray but he hadn’t gained a pound in the past ten years. What a metabolism that man had. Well, there were the sports too.

  He strode over to her, gave her a brief hug. Not too hard, not too soft. And she was reminded of his good side, of which there was much. He was a cowboy, of course, but in the classic sense of a movie hero, not like poor Eric Munce, whose idea of policing wasn’t confidenc
e and quiet, but hardware and drama.

  “So. How’ve you been?” she asked.

  “Not bad. Busy. Get you anything?”

  She shook her head. Looked up at the side of the house. “Good color.”

  “Had a sale at Home Depot.”

  “What’re you two up to this weekend?”

  “Fishing. Then we’re going over to the Bogles’ barbecue tonight. Joey likes Clay.”

  “He’s a good boy.”

  “Yeah, he is. His father’s got some lacrosse gear. We’re going to try it out.”

  “Is there a sport that boy doesn’t like?” Brynn smiled. “You playing too?”

  “Thought I might try it.”

  “I’m riding again.”

  “Are you?”

  “When I can. Once a week or so.”

  She and Keith had gone to a nearby stable a few times. He wasn’t, though, a natural equestrian.

  “I took Joey last time. He was good. Hates the helmet.”

  “That’s Joey. I’ll make sure he wears one—and the face guard—at lacrosse.” Keith then looked away. “We’re just going on our own, Us two boys.”

  After all these years, divorced and the past buried if not wholly dust, Keith still seemed guilty about dating. She found this amusing. And charming.

  “How’s the State Police?”

  “Same old same old. I heard they got that woman. The one you saved that night.”

  The one I saved…“That’s one way to put it. She took a plea.”

  “Was it as bad as the rumors?”

  As soon as he’d heard about the events at Lake Mondac, Keith had called to find out if Brynn was all right. Graham had answered while she was out, and though the men were always civil to each other, Keith had kept the conversation short, content to learn that she was safe. The rest of the information he would have gotten from the news or law-enforcement contacts.

  As they leaned against the front porch railing she now gave him the details. Some of them at least. He lifted an eyebrow. He was most interested, curiously, not in the gunplay, the bolos or the spear but in the compass. “You made that?”

  “Yep.”

  He gave one of his rare smiles and wanted to know the details.

  There was silence for a time, heavy and hot. When it was obvious she wasn’t getting into the car and leaving, as usual, Keith said, “I put a new deck on.”

  “Joey told me.”

  “Want to see it?”

  “Sure.”

  He led her around to the back of the house.

  THE LAST WEEKEND

  of May, Hart walked into a tavern in Old Town, in Chicago, near North Avenue, on Wells. The neighborhood was different from when he’d first moved here, in the seventies. Safer but a lot less atmospheric. Professionals had pushed out the old-time locals, the transient hotel dwellers, the folk singers and jazz musicians, drunks and prostitutes. Fancy wine and cheese shops and organic groceries had replaced the IGA and package stores. The Earl of Old Town, the great folk club, was gone, though the comedy venue Second City was still here, and probably would be forever. The bar Hart was now striding into was born after the folk era but was still antique, dating to the disco craze. The time was just past two-thirty, Saturday afternoon, and there were five people inside, three at the bar with one stool between them. Protocol among drinking strangers. The other two were at a table, a couple in their sixties. The wife wore a brimmed red hat and was missing a front tooth.

  Living underground for a month and a half, Hart had grown lonely for his neighborhood and his city. He also missed working. But now that Michelle Kepler was in jail and his contact told him she’d given up trying to have him killed, he was comfortable surfacing and getting back to his life. Apparently, to his shock, she hadn’t dimed him out during her interrogations.

  Hart dropped down heavily on a stool.

  “My God, Terry Hart!” The round bartender shook his hand. “Been a month of Sundays since you been in here.”

  “Away on some work.”

  “Whereabouts? What do you want?”

  “Smirnie and grapefruit. And a burger, medium. No fries.”

  “You got it. So where?”

  “New England. Then a while in Florida.”

  The bartender got the drink and carried the square of greasy green paper with Hart’s order to a window into the kitchen, hung it up and rang a bell. A dark brown hand appeared, grabbed the slip then vanished. The bartender returned.

  “Florida. Last time I was there, the wife and I went, we sat on the deck all day long. Didn’t go to the beach till the last day. I liked the deck better. We went out to eat a lot. Crab. Love those crabs. Where were you?”

  “Some place. You know, near Miami.”

  “Us too. Miami Beach. You didn’t get much of a tan, Terry.”

  “Never do that. Not good for you.” He drained the liquor.

  “Right you are.”

  “I’ll have another.” He pushed the glass toward the bartender. Looked around the place. He sipped the new drink. It was strong. Afternoon pours were big. A few minutes later the bell rang again and his burger appeared. He ate part of it slowly. “So, Ben, everything good around town?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Anybody come in here asking about me?”

  “Ha.”

  “What, ha?”

  “Like a line out of some movie. James Garner. Or some detective, you know. A PI.”

  Hart smiled, sipped his drink. Then ate more, with his left hand. He was using that arm, the shot one, for everything he could. The muscle had atrophied but was coming back. Just that day he’d finished with the triple-0 steel wool on the box he’d started up in Wisconsin, using his left hand for most of the work. It was really beautiful; he was proud of it.

  The bartender said, “Nobody while I was here. Expecting somebody?”

  “I never know what to expect.” A grin. “How’s that for a PI line?”

  “You got a haircut.”

  It was much shorter. A businessman’s trim.

  “Looks good.”

  Hart grunted.

  The man went off to refill somebody else’s drink. Hart was thinking: If people drink liquor during the day it’s usually vodka. And mixed with something else. Sweet or sour. Nobody drinks martinis in the afternoon. Why is that?

  He wondered if Brynn McKenzie was eating lunch at that moment. Did she generally? Or did she wait for dinner, a family dinner?

  Which put him in mind of her husband. Graham Boyd.

  Hart wondered if they’d talked about getting back together. He doubted it. Graham’s place, a nice townhouse about four miles from Brynn’s, didn’t look very temporary. Not like Hart’s apartment, when he’d broken up with his wife. He’d just crashed and hadn’t gotten around to fixing up the place for months. He thought back to being with Brynn in that van, next to the meth cooker’s camper. He’d never answered her question, the implicit one when she’d glanced at his hand: Are you married? Never answered it directly. Felt bad, in a funny way.

  No lies between us…

  The bartender’d said something.

  “What?”

  “That okay, Terry? Done right?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  ESPN was on the tube. Sports highlights. Hart finished his lunch.

  The bartender collected the plate and silverware. “So you seeing anybody, Terry?” he asked, making bartender conversation.

  Looking at the TV, Hart said, “Yeah, I have been.” Surprising himself.

  “No, shit. Who?”

  “This woman I met in April.” He didn’t know why he was saying this. He supposed because it made him feel good.

  “Bring her in here sometime.”

  “Ah, think we’re breaking up.”

  “How come?”

  “She doesn’t live around here.”

  The bartender grimaced. “Yeah, I hear that. Long distance. I had a stint in the reserves and Ellie an
d me were apart for six months. That was tough. We’d just started going out. And the fucking governor calls me up. When you’re married it’s one thing, you can be away. But just going out with somebody…it sucks to commute.”

  “Sure does.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Wisconsin.”

  The bartender paused, sensing a joke. “For real?”

  A nod.

  “I mean, it’s not like we’re talking L.A. or Samoa, Terry.”

  “There’re other problems.”

  “Man and woman, there’re always other problems.”

  Hart was thinking, Why do so many bartenders say things in a way that sounds like it’s the final word on a subject?

  “We’re like Romeo and Juliet.”

  The bartender lowered his voice. He understood. “She’s Jewish, huh?”

  Hart laughed. “No. Not religion. It’s her job more.”

  “Keeps her too busy, right? Never gets home? You ask me, that’s bullshit. Women oughta stay home. I’m not saying after the kids are grown, she can’t go back part-time. But it’s the way God meant it to be.”

  “Yeah,” Hart said, thinking how Brynn McKenzie would respond to that.

  “So that’s it between you guys?”

  His chest thudded. “Probably. Yeah.”

  The bartender looked away, as if he’d seen something troubling in Hart’s eyes—either scary or sad. Hart wondered which. “Well, you’ll meet somebody else, Terry.” The man lifted his soda, which had some rum “accidentally” spilled into it.

  Hart offered his own bartenderism, “One way or the other, life goes on, doesn’t it?”

  “I—”

  “There’s no answer, Ben. I’m just talking.” Hart gave a grin. “Gotta finish packing. What’s the damage here?”

  The bartender tallied it up. Hart paid. “Anybody comes around asking for me, let me know. Here’s a number.”

  He jotted down a prepaid mobile he used for voice mail only.

  Pocketing the twenty-dollar tip, Ben said, “PI’s, huh?”

  Hart smiled again. He looked around the place and then headed out.

  The door eased shut behind him as he stepped onto the sidewalk, the late May sky brilliant. The wind usually didn’t blow in from Lake Michigan but Hart thought he could smell the ripe scent of water on the cool breeze.