He pulled on sunglasses, thinking back to that night in April, thinking about the absence of light in Marquette State Park. There was no such thing as a single darkness, he’d learned there. There were hundreds of different shades—and textures and shapes too. Grays and blacks there weren’t even words to describe. Darkness as plentiful as types of woods, and with as many different grains. He supposed that if—
The first bullet struck him in his back, high and right. It exited, spattering his cheek with blood and tissue. He gasped, more startled than hurt, and looked down at the mess of the wound in his chest. The second entered the back of his head. The third sailed inches over him, as he dropped, and cracked obliquely into the window of the tavern. The glass began to cascade toward the ground.
Limp, Hart collided hard but silently with the sidewalk. Window shards flowed around him. One of the bigger sheets cut his ear nearly off. Another sliced through his neck and the blood began to flow in earnest.
“MORNING,” TOM DAHL SAID.
He was standing in Brynn’s cubicle, holding his coffee mug in one hand and two doughnuts in the other. Cheryl from reception had brought them. They rotated the duty. Every Monday, somebody brought pastry. To take the sting out of coming back to work maybe. Or maybe it was one of those traditions that had started for no reason and kept going because there was no reason to stop it.
She nodded.
“How was your weekend?” the sheriff asked.
“Good,” she said. “Joey was with his dad. Mom and I met Rita and Megan for brunch after church. We went to Brighton’s.”
“The buffet?”
“Yep.”
“They do a good spread there,” Dahl said reverently.
“Was nice.”
“So’s the one at the Marriott. They have an ice statue swan. Gotta get there early. It melts down to a duck by two.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Brynn said. “You guys do anything fun?”
“Not really. In-laws over. That father of hers…man is skinny as your pencil. Had three helpings of chicken and before we were done he was dunking his bread in the mushroom soup at the bottom of Carole’s green bean casserole. I mean, for pity’s sake.”
“That’s a good casserole,” said Brynn, who’d had it several times.
“God made serving spoons for a reason.” Dahl glanced down at the doughnut balancing on a paper plate atop his coffee mug. “Krispy Kreme today. I myself am partial to the ones you bring.”
“Dunkin’ Donuts.”
“Right. They don’t make ’em with that little knob anymore, do they?”
“I don’t know, Tom. I just ask for three dozen. They mix ’em up for me.”
She kept waiting.
He said, “So. You heard, didn’t you?”
“Heard?”
He frowned. “Milwaukee PD called. That detective working on the Lake Mondac case?”
“Nobody called me.” She lifted an eyebrow.
“Hart was killed.”
“What?”
“Looked gangland. Shot in the back of the head. North side of Chicago. That’s where he lived, it turned out.”
“Well. How ’bout that.” Brynn sat back, eyed her own coffee. She’d seen the doughnuts but hadn’t given in.
“You were right. Man had some enemy or another.”
“Any leads?”
“Not many.”
“They find out anything about him?”
Dahl told her what Chicago PD had relayed to Milwaukee: Terrance Hart was a security consultant, with an office in Chicago. He made $93,043 last year. He would provide risk assessments to warehouse and manufacturing companies and arrange for security guards. Never been arrested, never been the subject of any criminal investigation, paid his taxes on time.
“Man traveled a lot, though. A lot.” The sheriff said this as if that alone was a cause for suspicion.
Dahl added that he’d been married briefly, no kids.
Marriage doesn’t suit me. Does it suit you, Brynn?
His parents lived in Pennsylvania. He had one younger sibling, a brother who was now a doctor.
“A doctor?” Brynn frowned.
“Yeah. The family was pretty normal. Which you wouldn’t expect. But Hart himself was always living on the edge. In trouble at school a lot. But, like I said, no arrests. Kept up a good front. His company’s done okay. And, get this, he was a woodworker. I mean, high-class stuff. Furniture, not just the bookshelves I hammer together. Had this sign above his workbench, what a teacher of mine told me: ‘Measure twice, cut once.’ Not your typical hit man.”
“What was the story with the shooting?”
“Pretty simple. He’d moved back to his townhouse from Green Bay, where he’d been hiding out. But with Michelle away there was no reason not to go home. He went to one of his old hangouts for lunch on Saturday afternoon. Walked out and somebody got him from behind.”
“Any witnesses?”
“Not really. Everybody in the bar hit the deck as soon as the gunplay started. Chicago, after all. Nobody could tell the cops anything concrete. Street was deserted. A few cars took off fast. No tag or IDs.” He paused. “There’s a connection here.”
“Here?” Brynn asked, watching him take a bite of the fried dough, as crumbs parachuted to the faded carpet.
“Well, Wisconsin. The ballistics on the slugs match a weapon might’ve been used in a shooting in that gas station thing over in Smith about six months ago? Exxon. The clerk nearly got killed.”
“I don’t remember.”
“The State Police handled it. Nobody here was involved.”
“The same gun?”
“They think. But who knows? That ballistics’ stuff. Not as easy as CSI makes it look.”
Brynn said, “So the perp here ditched the gun and somebody found it and it got sold on the street.”
“Guess so.”
“Recycling at its worst.”
“Amen.”
Brynn sat back, made a bridge across the top of her coffee mug with a skinny wood stirrer. “What else, Tom? Looks like there’s more.”
Dahl hesitated. “Guess I should say. Hart had your name in a notebook in his pocket. And your address too. And in the apartment they found some other things. Pictures.”
“Pictures?”
“Digital ones he’d printed out. Of the outside of the house. Taken recent. You could see the spring buds. The pictures were in this wooden box—a fancy one. Looks like he made it himself.”
“Well.”
A long sigh. “And I have to say, there were some of Joey’s school too.”
“No. Of Joey?”
“Just the school. I was thinking he might’ve been staking it out to get a feel for your schedule…. In his apartment he had a suitcase being packed. Inside was a weapon and a sound suppressor. I’ve never see one of those. Except in the movies. I thought they were called silencers but the detective called them a suppressor.”
She was nodding slowly. Kept stirring coffee that didn’t need it.
“We’ll take your house off the special patrol route, if you’re comfortable with that.”
“Sure. Sounds like everything’s accounted for, Tom.”
“It is. Case closed. I don’t think I ever said that, not in fourteen years.” Clutching his breakfast he wandered back to his office.
CHESTNUT HAIR PINNED
up, a concession to a surprise Wisconsin heat wave, Kristen Brynn McKenzie was walking past a dozen pines, round and richly green. Sweat blossomed under the arms of her tan uniform blouse and trickled down her spine. She was looking at the plants, studying them closely. They weren’t much taller than she was. As she moved along she lowered her hand and let it drag across the three-inch needles. They yielded without prickling. She paused and looked at them.
Recalling, of course, April. She’d been thinking a lot about those twelve hours in Marquette State Park, remembering with odd clarity the sights and smells and feel of the trees and plants that h
ad saved her life. And that had nearly ended it.
Why, she wondered, gazing at the pines, would they have evolved this way, these shapes and shades, some the color of green Jell-O, some the shade of Home Depot shutters? Why were these needles long and soft, and why had barberry brambles, where Amy’s toy, Chester, was probably still entombed, developed those terrible thorns?
Thinking of the foliage, the trees, the leaves. Wood alive and wood dead and decaying.
Brynn continued on, found herself next to several huge camellias, the blossoms widely unfolded from their tight pods, cradled in waxy green leaves. The petals were red, the color of bright blood, and her heart tapped a bit at that. She kept walking. Now past azaleas and ligustrum and crepe myrtle, ferns, hibiscus, wisteria.
Then she turned the corner and a short, dark-complexioned man holding a hose blinked in surprise and said, “Buenos dias, Mrs. McKenzie.”
“Morning, Juan. Where is he? I saw his truck.”
“In the shed.”
She walked past several piles of mulch, fifteen feet high. A worker in a Bobcat was stirring it, to prevent spontaneous combustion. It could actually smolder up a storm of smoke if you didn’t. The rich smell surrounded her. She continued on to the shed, really a small barn, and walked through the open door.
“I’ll be with you in a second,” Graham Boyd said, looking up from a workbench. He was wearing safety goggles and, she realized, seeing only her silhouette. He’d be thinking she was a customer. He returned to his task. She noted that the carpentry was part of an expansion project and he seemed to be doing the work himself. That was Graham. Even after he’d moved the last of his things out of their house he’d returned to finish the kitchen tiling. And had done a damn good job of it.
Then he was looking up again. Realizing who she was. He set the board down and took the goggles off. “Hi.”
She nodded.
He frowned. “Everything okay with Joey?”
“Oh, sure, fine.”
He joined her. They didn’t embrace. He squinted, looking at her cheek.
“You had that surgery?”
“Vanity.”
“You can’t see a thing. How’s it feel?”
“Inside’s tender. Have to watch what I eat.” She looked around the building. “You’re expanding.”
“Just doing what should’ve been done a long time ago. Anna says she’s doing better. I called.”
“She said. More house-ridden than she needs to be. The doctors want her to walk more. I want her out more too.” She laughed.
“And Joey’s been off skateboards without a cop present, hmm? Grandma gave me a report.”
“That’s a capital crime in the house now. And I’ve got spies. They tell me he’s clean. He’s really into lacrosse now.”
“I saw that special. About Michelle Kepler and the murders.”
“On WKSP. That’s right.”
“There were some cops from Milwaukee. They said they‘d arrested her. You didn’t even get mentioned. Not by name.”
“I didn’t go along for the party. I was off that night.”
“You?”
She nodded.
“Didn’t they interview you, at least? The reporters?”
“What do I need publicity for?” Brynn was suddenly awkward; her face burned like that of a middle-school girl alone at a dance. She thought back to her very first traffic stop. She’d been so nervous she’d returned to her squad car without handing the driver his copy of the ticket. He’d politely called her back and asked for it.
Nervous now, nervous all last night—after her mother had said she’d “run into” Graham at the senior center, and Brynn had stopped her cold.
“So, come on, Mom. What is this, a campaign to get us back together?”
“Hell, yes, and it’s one I aim to win.”
“It’s not that easy, not that simple.”
“When’ve you ever wanted easy? Your brother and sister, yes. Not you.”
“Okay, I was thinking about going to see him.”
“Tomorrow.”
“I’m not ready.”
“Tomorrow.”
A worker stuck his head in and asked Graham a question. He answered in Spanish. All Brynn caught were the words for “in the middle.”
He turned back, said nothing.
Okay. Now.
“Just wondering,” she said. “I’m on break. You’ve been up since six, I’ll bet. And I’ve been up since six. Just wondered if you wanted to get coffee. Or something.”
And, she was thinking, to spend some time talking.
Telling him more about what happened that night in April.
And telling him a lot of other things too. Whatever he’d listen to, she’d tell him.
Just like a few weeks ago when she’d sat in the backyard with Keith and done the same. Part confession, part apology, part just plain talking. Her ex, though cautious at first, had been pleased to listen. She wondered if her present husband would. She surely hoped so.
Several heartbeats of pause. “Sure,” he said. “Let me finish this board.”
“Okay. I’ll be at the diner.”
Graham turned away. And then stopped. He looked back at her, shook his head, frowning.
Brynn McKenzie found herself nodding. She understood. Understood completely.
Graham Boyd had been flustered at first, seeing her just appear like this. He’d agreed impulsively, not knowing what to make of her invitation. Now, reality had returned. He was recalling his own anger and pain from that night in April. And from the months leading up to it.
He had no interest in whatever she was up to here.
Ah, well, she couldn’t blame him one bit. The moment for conversations of the sort she had planned had come and gone long ago.
Flawed jaw set and fixed cheek taut, Brynn gave a wan smile. But before she could say, “That’s okay,” Graham was explaining, “I’m not really into the diner much anymore. There’s a new place in the mall opened up. Coffee’s a lot better. Pretty good hot chocolate too.”
She blinked. “Where is it?”
“Downstairs, next to Sears. I’ll be ten minutes.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A former journalist, folksinger and attorney, Jeffery Deaver is an international number one best-selling author. His novels have appeared on a number of best-seller lists around the world, including The New York Times, The Times of London and the Los Angeles Times. His books are sold in 150 countries and translated into 25 languages. The author of twenty-three novels and two collections of short stories, he’s been awarded the Steel Dagger and Short Story Dagger from the British Crime Writers’ Association, is a three-time recipient of the Ellery Queen Reader’s Award for Best Short Story of the Year and is a winner of the British Thumping Good Read Award. His book The Cold Moon won a Grand Prix from the Japanese Adventure Fiction Association and was named Book of the Year by the Mystery Writers Association of Japan. He’s been nominated for six Edgar Awards from the Mystery Writers of America, an Anthony Award and a Gumshoe Award. His book A Maiden’s Grave was made into an HBO movie starring James Garner and Marlee Matlin, and his novel The Bone Collector was a feature release from Universal Pictures, starring Denzel Washington and Angelina Jolie. His most recent books are The Broken Window, The Sleeping Doll, The Cold Moon, The Twelfth Card and More Twisted: Collected Stories, Volume II. And, yes, the rumors are true, he did appear as a corrupt reporter on his favorite soap opera, As the World Turns.
Deaver is presently writing the second in the series featuring Kathryn Dance, who had her book-length debut in last year’s The Sleeping Doll, to be published in 2009, and the next Lincoln Rhyme novel for 2010.
Readers can visit his Web site at www.jefferydeaver.com.
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