The Bodies Left Behind (14 page)
And some routes were so dim they avoided them completely for fear of missing a steep drop-off or deep bog.
And always, reminders that they weren’t really alone. Bats zipped by, owls hooted. Brynn gasped when she trod on the end of a deer rib rack, which swung up and clapped her in the knee. She danced away from the bleached, chewed bone. The scarred skull of the animal was nearby.
Michelle stared at the skeletal remains, eyes wide, without response.
“Let’s go. It’s just bones.”
They pushed through the tangled wilderness for another hundred yards. Suddenly Michelle stumbled, grabbed a branch to support herself and winced.
“What’s the matter?”
She ripped off her thin glove, staring at her hand. Two thorns from the branch had punctured her palm and broken off into her skin. Her eyes flushed with horror.
“No! no, it’s just blackberry. You’re fine. Here. Let me look.”
“No! Don’t touch it.”
But Brynn took the woman’s hand and flicked the candle lighter over
the skin, examining the tiny wounds. “We just want to get them out so it doesn’t get infected. In five minutes you won’t feel a thing.”
Brynn eased the thorns out of her skin and the woman winced, whimpering and staring at the growing dots of blood. Brynn pulled out the bottle of alcohol, dampened the edge of a sock with it and started to bathe the wounds. She couldn’t help notice the dark, artistic nails.
“Let me do it,” Michelle said and dabbed at the skin. She handed back the sock and found a tissue in her pocket, pressed it onto the wound. By the time she lifted it away the bleeding had almost stopped.
“How is it?”
“It’s okay,” Michelle said. “You’re right. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
They continued on their route, heading in the direction that Brynn pointed.
Sure, she thought, Hart would pursue them and they’d have to remain vigilant. But he’d have no idea where they were headed. The women could have gone in any direction except south to the county road—since they’d have to sneak around the killers to get there.
With every passing yard, Brynn grew more confident. At least she knew something about the forest and where the trail ahead of them lay. The men did not. And even if Hart and his partner happened to choose this direction, the men would surely find themselves lost in ten minutes.
BACK ON THE
“The Joliet Trail,” he announced.
“What’s that?”
“Where they’re headed.”
“Ah,” Lewis said. “You think?”
“Yep.” He held up the map. “We’re here.” He tapped a spot then moved his finger north. “That brown line’s the trail. It’ll take ’em right to that ranger station there.”
Lewis was distracted. He was looking over the lake. “That was smart, I gotta say. What they did.”
Hart didn’t disagree. Their short row into the lake had revealed that the women had propped up life vests to resemble bodies hunched down in the canoe and then shoved the boat into the water. The scream—at the sound of the shots—was ingenious. Had Brynn or Michelle uttered the sound? Brynn, he bet.
Hart wasn’t used to having to out-think his opponents. Part of him liked the challenge but a bigger part liked being in control. The contests he preferred were those in which he had a pretty good idea that the outcome would be in his favor. Like working with ebony: the wood was temperamental—hard and brittle—and could split easily, wasting hundreds of dollars. But if you took your time, you were careful, you foresaw any potential problems, the end result was beautiful.
What kind of challenge was Brynn McKenzie?
Smelling the ammonia.
Hearing the
crack, crack, crack
of her gun.
Ebony, of course.
His aching arm prodded him to think too: And what kind was Michelle?
That would remain to be seen.
“So you’re thinking of going after them?” Lewis asked. He opened his mouth and puffed out a bit of steam.
“Yep.”
“I gotta say, Hart. This isn’t what I planned on.”
Putting it mildly.
Lewis continued, “Everything’s changed. That bitch shooting you, trying to shoot me. The cop…You or me, in that bathroom, the ammonia trap. If it’d worked, one of us’d be blinded. And that shot in the house, the cop? Missed me by inches.”
I can dodge bullets…
Hart said nothing. He wasn’t riled up the way Lewis was. The women were just being true to their nature. Like that animal he’d seen. Of course they’d fight back.
“So that’s what I’m thinking,” Lewis said. “I just want to get the hell out of here. She’s a cop, Hart. Lives ’round here. She knows this place.
She’s halfway to that ranger station or something right now. They’ll have phones in the park…. So we’ve gotta get outa here now. Back to Milwaukee. Whoever that girl is, Michelle, she’s sure as hell not going to ID us. She’s not stupid.” He tapped his pocket, where her purse, containing her name and address, rested. “And the cop didn’t really get a good look at us. So, back to Plan A. Get to the highway, ’jack a car. Whatta you say?”
Hart grimaced. “Well, Lewis, I am tempted. Yes, I am. But we can’t.”
“Hmm. Well, I’m inclined to think otherwise.” Lewis was speaking softly now, more reasonable, less surly.
“We have to get them.”
“‘Have to’? Why? Where’s that written down? Look, you’re thinking I’m scared. Well, I’m not. Tonight, against two women? This’s nothing. Let me tell you a story. I did a bank job in Madison? Last year?”
“Banks? Never done a bank.”
“We got fifty thousand.”
“That’s pretty good.” The average bank robbery take nationwide was $3,800. Another stat Hart knew: 97 percent of the perps were arrested within one week.
“Yep, was. So. This guard wanted to be a hero. Had a backup gun on his ankle.”
“He’d been a cop.”
“What I figured. Exactly. Came out shooting. I covered the other guys. Right out in the open. Kept him down. I didn’t even crouch.” He laughed, shaking his head. “One of my crew, the driver, was so freaked he dropped the keys in the snow, took a couple minutes to find them. But I held that guard off. Even stayed upright while I reloaded, and we could hear sirens in the distance. But we got away.” He fell silent to let Hart digest this. Then: “I’m talking about what makes sense…. You stand your ground when you need to. You get the hell out when you need to. And then take care of ’em later.” Another tap of Michelle’s purse. “Nothing good’s going to come of this.” He repeated, “Everything’s changed.”
A mournful call filled the moist air, a bird of some sort, Hart guessed. Waterfowl or owl or hawk, he couldn’t tell them apart. He squatted down, pushed his hair off his forehead. “Lewis, I’m thinking that nothing
has
changed, not really.”
“Sure it has. The minute she tried to cap you, it all went to shit in there.” A nod back at the house and a skeptical glance.
“But it’s shit we could’ve foreseen. We
should’ve
foreseen. Look, when
you make a choice—signing on for this job, for instance—there’s a whole slew of consequences that can follow. Things could go left, they could go right. Or, what happened tonight, they could turn around and slug you in the gut….”
Or shoot you in the arm.
“Nobody forced me to live this kind of life. Or you either. But we chose it and that makes it our job to think everything through, figure out what could happen and plan for it. Every time I do a job I plan everything out, I mean
every
detail. I’m never surprised. Doing the job itself’s usually boring, I’ve been through it so often in my mind.”
Measure twice, cut once.
“Tonight? I figured out ninety-five percent of what could happen and planned for that. But what I didn’t bother to think about was the last five percent—that that Michelle was going to use me for target practice. But I should’ve.”
The slim man, rocking on his haunches, said, “The Trickster.”
“The what?” Hart asked.
“My grandmother said when something went wrong, something you didn’t think could happen, it was the Trickster’s fault. She got it out of a kid’s book or something. I don’t remember. The Trickster was always hanging around looking for ways to make things go wrong. Like Fate or God or whatever. Except Fate could do you good things too. Like give you a winning lotto ticket. Or could make you stop for a yellow light, even if you would’ve gone through, and save you from getting T-boned by a garbage truck. And God would do things that were right, so you’d get what you deserved. But the Trickster? He was just there to mess you up.” He nodded again at the house. “Trickster paid us a visit in there.”
“Trickster.” Hart liked that.
“But that’s life sometimes, ain’t it, Hart? You miss that five percent. But so what? Best thing still might be to get the hell out of here, put it all behind us.”
Hart rose. He winced as he accidentally reached his shot arm out to steady himself. He looked out at the lake. “Let me tell
you
a story, Lewis. My brother…younger’n me.”
“You have a brother?” Lewis’s attention had turned from the house. “I’ve got two.”
“Our parents both died about the same time. When I was twenty-five, my brother was twenty-two. I was kind of like a father figure. Well, even
back then we were into this kind of stuff, you know. And my brother got this job one time, easy, just numbers. He was a runner mostly. He had to pick up some money and deliver it. Typical job. I mean, thousands of people do that shit every day, right? All over the world.”
“They do.” Lewis was listening.
“So I didn’t have anything going on at the moment and was helping him out. We picked up the money—”
“This was Milwaukee?”
“No. We grew up in Boston. We pick up the money and’re about to deliver it. But turns out we were going to be set up. The guy ran the numbers operation was going to clip us and let the cops find the bodies and some of the books and some of the money. The detectives’d think they closed up the operation.”
“You two were fall guys.”
“Yep. I had this sense something was wrong and we went around back of the pickup location and saw the muscle there. My brother and me, we took off. A few days later I found the guys hired to do the clip and took care of them. But the main guy just vanished. Word was he’d moved to Mexico.”
Lewis grinned. “Scared of your bad ass.”
“After six months or so I stopped looking for him. But it turns out he never went to Mexico at all. He’d been tracking us the whole time. One day he walks up to my brother and blows his head off.”
“Oh, shit.”
Hart didn’t speak for a moment. “But see, Lewis, he didn’t kill my brother. I did. My
laziness
killed my brother.”
“Your laziness?”
“Yep. Because I stopped looking for that son of a bitch.”
“But six months, Hart. That’s a long time.”
“Didn’t matter if it was six years. Either you’re in all the way, a hundred and ten percent. Or don’t bother.” Hart shook his head. “Hell, Lewis, forget it. This’s my problem. I was the one hired on. It’s not your issue. Now, I’d consider it a privilege if you came with me. But if you want to head back to Milwaukee, you go right ahead. No hard feelings at all.”
Lewis rocked. Back and forth, back and forth. “Ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“What happened to the prick killed your brother?”
“He enjoyed life for three more days.”
Lewis debated a long time. Then he gave a what-the-fuck laugh. “Call me crazy, Hart. But I’m with you.”
“Yeah?”
“You bet I am.”
“Thanks, man. Means a lot to me.” They shook hands. Then Hart turned back to his BlackBerry, moved the bull’s-eye to the closest part of the Joliet Trail and hit the
START GUIDANCE
command. The instructions came up almost immediately.
“Let’s go hunting.”
A SLIGHT MAN
Jasons was always impressed by anybody with skill, whatever their profession.
A rumble filled the night. A horn blared and a Canadian Pacific freight train ambled past.
The door of the old brick building opened. A brawny man in wrinkled gray slacks, a sports coat, blue shirt, no tie, climbed down the stairs and crossed the parking lot. Jasons had learned that the head of the legal department of the company—Paul Morgan—regularly worked late.
Morgan continued through the lot to his Mercedes. Jasons got out of his car, which was parked two slots down. He approached the man, arms at his side.
“Mr. Morgan?”
The man turned and looked over Jasons, who was nearly a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter than the lawyer.
“Yeah?”
“We’ve never met, sir. I work with Stanley Mankewitz. My name’s James Jasons.” He offered a card, which Morgan glanced at and put into a pocket where it could be easily retrieved when Morgan found himself near a trash can. “I know it’s late. I’d just like a minute of your time.”
Morgan’s eyes swept around the parking lot. Meaning, Here, now? Friday night? He hit the key fob and with a click the Mercedes unlocked.
“Stanley Mankewitz didn’t have the balls to come himself? Doesn’t surprise me.” Morgan sat down in the front seat, the car sagging, but he left the door open. He looked Jasons up and down, from the delicate shoes to the size-36 suit to the rock-hard knot in the striped tie. “You’re a lawyer?”