The Bodies Left Behind

by Jeffery Deaver

  "Did you and your friends ever hike this way?"

  "I don't hike," Michelle said petulantly. "And I've only been to their place once or twice."

  Brynn looked around slowly.

  "I thought you knew where we were," Michelle muttered.

  "I thought so too," she said with more than a little exasperation.

  "Well, find some moss. It grows on the north side of trees. We learned that in grade school."

  "Not really," Brynn replied, looking around. "It grows where there's the most moisture, which is usually on the north side of trees and rocks. But only if there's enough sun to dry out the south side. In deep forest, it'll grow everywhere." Brynn pointed. "Let's try that way." Wondering if she was taking that route simply because it seemed less daunting, the vegetation less tangled. Michelle followed numbly, limping along with her polished rosewood crutch.

  A short time later Brynn stopped again. If it was possible, she was even more lost than ten minutes earlier.

  Can't keep going on like this.

  She had a thought, asked Michelle, "Do you have a needle?"

  "A what?"

  "A needle, or a pin, maybe a safety pin."

  "Why would I have a needle?"

  "Just, do you have one?"

  The woman patted her jacket. "No. What for?"

  Her badge! Brynn pulled it out of her pocket. Kennesha County Sheriff's Department. Chrome. Ridges radiating like sun rays out of the county seal.

  She turned it over and looked at the clasp pin on the back.

  Could this actually work?

  "Come on." She led Michelle to a nearby stream and dropped to her knees. She began to clear away a thick pelt of leaves, saying, "Find me some rocks. About the size of a grapefruit."

  "Rocks?"

  "Hurry."

  The young woman grimaced but began walking up and down the bank, picking over stones, while Brynn cleared a space on the bank. The ground was cold; she could feel the chill through her knees. They began to ache. From her pocket she took the clear bottle of rubbing alcohol, the Chicago Cutlery knife and the candle lighter. Set them on the ground in front of her, next to her badge.

  Michelle returned, limping along with five large rocks. Brynn needed only two. Forgot to mention that.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Making a compass." This had been in the survival manual issued by the State Police, though the team Brynn was on had not actually made one. But she'd read the material and thought she remembered enough to craft the instrument.

  "How can you do that?"

  "I'm not sure I can. But I know the theory."

  The idea was simple. You pounded a needle or pin with a hammer, which magnetized it. Then you rested it on a piece of cork floating in a dish of water. The needle aligned itself north and south. Simple. No hammer now. She'd have to use the back of the knife blade, the only metal object they had.

  On her knees, Brynn set a rock in front of her. She tried to break the pin off her badge by bending it. The metal would not fatigue, though. It was too thick.

  "Shit."

  "Try to cut through it with the knife," Michelle suggested. "Hit it with a rock."

  Brynn opened the pin as far as she could, laid it on the rock and set the blade against the base of the needle. Holding the Chicago Cutlery in her left hand, she tapped the back with another rock. It didn't even make a mark.

  "You'll have to hit it hard," Michelle said, now intrigued with the project.

  She slammed the rock into the pin once more. The blade made a slight scratch on the needle but danced along the chrome metal. She couldn't hold both blade and badge down on the rock in one hand.

  Handing the rock to Michelle, she said, "Here. You do it. Use both hands."

  The younger woman took the second rock, the "hammer," which weighed about fifteen pounds.

  In her left hand Brynn continued to hold the wooden knife handle. She cupped her palm around the badge and, with her fingers, gripped the end of the blade, near the point.

  Michelle looked at her. "I can't. Not with your hands there." Michelle had about an eight-inch target on the back edge of the knife. A miss could crush one of Brynn's hands. Or flip the blade sideways and slice the pads off her fingers.

  "We don't have any choice."

  "I could break your fingers."

  "Go ahead. Don't tap. Hit hard. Come on, do it!"

  The young woman took a deep breath. She lifted the rock. Then grimaced, exhaled and swung the stone in a blur.

  Whether it was headed for Brynn's fingers or for the knife was impossible to tell but Brynn didn't move a muscle.

  Snap.

  Michelle hit the blade clean, driving it through the metal and cutting off a two-inch bit of needle.

  Which spiraled through the air and disappeared in a shadowy sea of leaves near the stream.

  "No!" Michelle cried, starting forward.

  "Don't move," Brynn whispered. Presumably their prize had landed on top of the pile, though it wouldn't take more than a footstep to send it slipping into the leaves, lost forever. "It couldn't have gone very far."

  "It's too dark. I can't see anything. Damnit."

  "Shhhh," Brynn reminded. They had to assume that Hart and his friend were still after them.

  "We need the lighter."

  Brynn leaned toward the leaves. The young woman was right. In this dense grove, with the light of a half moon, sliced to pieces by a thousand branches and stubborn leaves still clinging to them, it was impossible to see the metal. But the candle lighter would shine like a warning beacon atop a skyscraper for Hart to see.

  Again, the bywords for the evening came to mind: no choice.

  "Here." Brynn gave her the lighter. "Go around there." She pointed to the far side of the pile. "Keep it low and wave it over the ground."

  Michelle hobbled off. "Ready?" she whispered.

  "Go."

  A click and the flame blossomed. It was far brighter than she'd expected. Anybody within a hundred yards could have seen.

  Brynn leaned forward and scanned the ground, crawling forward carefully.

  There! Something was shiny. Was that it? Brynn reached out carefully and picked up a tiny twig covered in bird shit.

  A second possibility turned out to be a streak of mica in a rock.

  But finally Brynn spotted a silver flare in the night, sitting on top of a curl of oak leaf. She picked up the needle carefully. "Shut it out," she said to Michelle, nodding at the candle lighter.

  The area went soot black--even darker now because the light had numbed their eyes. Brynn's sense of vulnerability soared. The two men could be walking directly toward them and she'd never see them. Only a cracking branch or crunch of leaves would give away their approach.

  Michelle crouched. "Can I help?"

  "Not yet."

  The young woman sat down, crossed her legs and fished the crackers out. She offered them to Brynn, who ate several. Then Brynn began tapping the needle with the back of the knife. Twice she struck a finger hard and winced. But she never let go and never paused in the pounding--like the flare of the lighter, the sound of the tink tink tink seemed to broadcast their position for miles.

  After an eternal five minutes she said, "Let's try it. I need some thread. Something thin." They unraveled a strand from Brynn's ski jacket and used it to tie the needle to a bit of twig.

  Brynn dumped out the alcohol from the bottle and refilled it halfway with water, slipped the twig and pin inside and set the bottle on its side. Brynn hit the candle lighter trigger. They stared at the bottle. The bit of wood slowly revolved to the left and stopped.

  "It works!" Michelle blurted, giving her first true smile of the night.

  Brynn glanced at her and smiled back. Damn, she thought, it does. It surely does.

  "But which end's north and which's south?"

  "Around here the high ground's generally west. That'd be to the left." They shut the lighter out and after their eyes were accustomed to the dark Br
ynn pointed out a distant hilltop. "That's north. Let's head for it."

  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."

&nbs
p; "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."