The Bodies Left Behind (25 page)

“The fuck is she?” the woman muttered.

Gandy strode forward and pulled Brynn to her feet. He searched her and pulled the knife out of her pocket. He hit her in the face with a hard fist; the pellet wound opened. She cried out and shoved Gandy away hard, making a grab for the rifle in the heavy woman’s hand. But the man twisted the deputy around and got her in a neck lock. “Don’t fucking move.”

Brynn slumped, defeated. When he relaxed his grip she stomped on his foot, high and hard, and he let go a fast scream. “You fucking cunt.”

The woman aimed the rifle at her and growled, “That’s it, honey.”

Brynn looked at her pinprick eyes.

“You okay?” the woman asked Gandy.

“Do I look okay?” he spat out. He peered up the path. “Was another one. She got away.”

“Who is she? They with Fletcher?”

He grabbed Brynn by the collar and hair. “How’d you know? Goddamn it, how’d you know?”

She didn’t tell him that the distinctive smell of cooking methamphetamine—propane, chlorine and ammonia—had wafted to her on the damp night air.

The camper was a portable lab.

“Let’s get inside,” the woman said, looking around. “We’ve gotta tell Rudy. He’s not gonna be happy.”

Gandy dragged Brynn along the path. He snarled, “You scream, you say a word, you’re dead.”

“You’re the one screamed,” she couldn’t resist saying. And was rewarded with another fist in her face.

THE CAMPER WAS

And it was hot. A half dozen metal pots sat on two propane stoves. Canisters of anhydrous ammonia lined one wall; a workstation for cutting apart lithium batteries was in the corner. There were also huge piles of matches.

Gandy pushed Brynn inside and tossed her knife on a table.

“Who’s she?” said a scrawny, twitchy young man in an Aerosmith T-shirt and filthy jeans. He hadn’t shaved in some time or washed his hair. His fingernails were black crescents. A heavier man in overalls, with curly red hair, looked Brynn over.

The overweight woman who’d slugged her with the club said to a little girl, about nine or ten, in a shabby T-shirt and stained denim skirt, “Keep going. You’re not through yet.” The girl—Amy, the stepdaughter, Brynn assumed—blinked at the visitor and returned to filling larger plastic bags with smaller ones containing the finished product.

The skinny man said, “Lookit her face. It’s all swole up. What’s going—”

“Shhh,” the heavy one snapped. “What’s the story?”

Gandy grimaced. “She’s a deputy, Rudy.”

“Bullshit. Dressed like that? And she’s a fucking mess. Look at her…. She’s from Fletcher’s crew.”

“I saw her ID.”

Rudy was looking Brynn over carefully with a disgusted visage. “Well, fuck me. Police? I don’t want to burn this place too. Fuck, I don’t want to do that. After all this work.”

Brynn muttered, “There are troopers on the way—”

“Shut up,” Gandy said, though lethargically, as if it would take too much effort to hit her again.

The skinny one, obsessed with her face, picked at the speed bumps on his forearm. Gandy, the woman and Rudy didn’t seem to have been slam
ming their own product. Which didn’t put her at ease; it meant they’d make rational decisions about protecting their operation. And that meant killing her and finding Michelle and doing the same. She remembered how casually Gandy had offered his ID; because the man had known she’d be dead soon.

“Mommy…”

The woman slapped her own thigh twice. Apparently a command meaning: Be quiet. Amy instantly stopped speaking. This infuriated Brynn—and broke her heart.

The woman’s fingers were stained yellow. Though she probably wasn’t a tweaker herself, she clearly wanted a cigarette. But lighting up in a meth lab would be like using a match to find a gas pocket in a coal mine.

Rudy asked, “Was she alone?”

“No. Somebody was with her. She got away. They claim a couple of guys’re after them. I saw ’em. But I don’t know what’s going on. Something about a break-in in Lake Mondac. It’s about five miles—”

“I know where it is.” Rudy walked close. Examined Brynn’s wound. He announced, “’S’a setup. Fletcher called them, had that ho of his do it, I’ll bet. The skanky redhead. Said we were here. Didn’t have the balls to come up against us himself.”

Gandy said, “I don’t know. How the hell could he find us here? We covered all the tracks.”

Rudy’s eyes went mad for a moment and he leaned into Brynn’s face, raging, “Talk to me, bitch. Talk to me! What’s going on? Who the fuck are you?”

Brynn had dealt with the emotionally disturbed. Rudy was out of control, running on pure anger. Her heart beat fast, from both present fear and past memory of Keith’s fist strafing her jaw.

When she said nothing he screamed, “Who are you?” He pulled a pistol from his taut waistband and pushed it against her neck.

“No,” Brynn whispered and turned away, as if avoiding the challenging eyes of a mad dog. She managed to say evenly, “There’ll be state troopers and county deputies and tactical backup in the area anytime now.”

The woman dropped the club on the counter. “Oh, no…”

But Gandy was laughing. “No way. She had a fucking spear. She was on the run from some assholes broke into a house around here. What she told
me
’s the truth. No police, no troopers. Oh, and no choppers in the county. She told me they don’t use them around here for tactical work.
Only medical. That answers one of our questions.” He smiled at Brynn. “Thanks for the info, by the way.”

“That’s true,” she said, speaking evenly, though still struggling to breathe after the blow to her belly. The pain was making her jaw quiver. “We weren’t part of a drug operation. But the protocol is if a deputy doesn’t report in a certain amount of time they’ll send backup.” She glared at Gandy. “Tactical backup.”

Rudy considered this, chewing his wet bottom lip. He put the gun away.

She continued, “If they’re not on their way by now, they will be soon. Don’t make this worse on yourselves. I’m way overdue.”

“This is a state park,” the woman said. “They won’t search here.”

Rudy sneered. “Well, Susan, why
wouldn’t
they search? Can you give me a reason? Of course not. Jesus. Don’t be stupid…. We had a good deal going and now it’s fucked up. You understand that? You understand how fucked we are?”

“Sure, Rudy. I understand.” Susan looked away from him. And angrily gestured to the child to fill the bags faster.

Gandy said, “That leaves those other two. The men after them. At least one had a gun, I could see.
They
could be with Fletcher.”

Rudy asked Brynn, “These men…either of them Hispanic? One of ’em black?”

She didn’t answer. Rudy looked at Gandy, who said, “Was night. They were a couple hundred yards away. I couldn’t tell.”

Brynn said, “You’re in enough trouble. We can—”

“Shut up. Do you believe her, these guys just broke in?”

Gandy replied, “I don’t know. If she was lying she was really good at it.”

“You see anybody actually shooting at her?”

“No. She tried to shoot them, with the Savage….” Then Gandy frowned. “But she didn’t take the shot. She could’ve. That seemed off to me. Maybe she was trying to trick me. I don’t know.”

“You gave her your gun?”

“What was I going to do? Say no because my family’s back in the camper cooking crystal? I could’ve taken it away from her anytime I wanted.”

“But she didn’t shoot?”

“Nope. Balked.”

“Why?” Rudy asked, moving close to Brynn.

I don’t know, she thought, and stared into the fat man’s watery eyes.

In the corner, little blond Amy was sealing bags of meth. She was working real hard for a kid who was up at this hour.

Rudy grabbed the duct tape the little girl was using, taped Brynn’s wrists behind her back and shoved her toward Gandy. “I can’t worry about her now. We’ll bring her with us. Get her out of here.” He glanced at the kettles. “Cool it down. Everything. Pack it up to travel. Fuck, what a waste.”

The woman and the skinny young man were shutting down the cooker and filling bags with the finished product. “Amy,” the mother whined. “Faster. What’s your problem?”

“I’m sleepy.”

“You can sleep when we’re on the road. No excuses.”

“Where’s Chester?” the child asked.

“He’s
your
doll. You should take better care of him.”

Rudy took the deer rifle and handed it to the scabby young guy. “Henry, get outside, up the path. Don’t shoot unless you can take everybody out. We don’t want any calls for backup. If fact, don’t shoot at all unless you have to. You see anybody, get your ass back here.”

“Sure, Rudy. You’re not…you’re not going to leave with me out there, are you?”

Rudy gave a guttural sound, registering his disgust. “Move.”

Gandy roughly took Brynn’s arm. Limping, he pulled her outside and dragged her to the van, pushed her inside. It was filled with clothes, suitcases, junk, magazines, toys, bottles of chemicals. He looped a rope through her bound arms, knotted it to a tie-down.

Brynn said, “There’ll be roadblocks. And the State Police
does
have choppers. You’re not going to get through. And don’t think about using me as a hostage. That never works. They’ll shoot you before you shoot me, or after. They’d prefer the first but they’ll do the second. It’s the way we train.”

He laughed. “Even now you’re balls out.”

“But I will cut a deal with you. You personally. Call my office. We’ll get it worked out.”

“Me personally?”

“You.”

“Why me? Because I’m the one who washes his hands? Who doesn’t say ‘him and me are going to do this’? Because I have green bumper stick
ers on the camper so I may actually care about the environment? Which means I’ll be reasonable?”

Yep. Exactly.

“You’ve got that little girl in there. Do it for her, at least.”

“I just fuck her momma. The kid’s not mine.” He slid the door closed with a hollow bang.

JAMES JASONS WAS

Good for security but bad to find restaurants. Still, he’d spotted a golden arches and went for it. He did the drive-through, going for two plain hamburgers, sliced apples and a diet cola.

He was back on the road, driving fast but not too far over the limit. He looked to all appearances like a slim, agreeable businessman. But if you got stopped, even for nothing other than an unplanned DUI roadblock—at which they’d let nondrinkers like him go immediately—your name and tag might still go into the system.

But tonight he had to make good time and was pushing the limit. He was prepared for a speed stop, of course. Presently listening to jazz, he would flip the preset selector on the steering wheel if stopped by a trooper, and a Christian inspirational sermon would come on. He also would slip a sponge-backed Jesus effigy and pro-life sticker onto the dash.

Might not save him from a ticket but it would probably prevent a car search.

And James Jasons definitely didn’t want his car searched tonight.

Eating his food, he wondered how things were going at Great Lakes Intermodal Container Services.

In 99 percent of the cases, all you have to do is find a sensitive spot and you touch it. That’s all. You don’t need to hit, you don’t need to stab.

A touch.

Only instead of sending Paulie or Chris to extort me, Mankewitz picks a scrawny little asshole like you. That the plan? You whine at me until I cave?

Jasons chuckled. His satellite phone chirped. It was an Iridium model and customized; the signal was scrambled both through a camouflage system and a multiline shifting program, impervious to any snooping, probably even to the government’s infamous Echelon, because of the dual-mode scrambling.

He swallowed the burger he was fastidiously chewing. “Yes?”

The voice said, “Your meeting seemed to go well.” Mankewitz didn’t identify himself. The key word about Echelon was “probably.”

“Good.”

“There’ve already been certain overtures of cooperation.”

So Morgan had read the note and decided to be smart. Jasons wondered if the information he was going to deliver to Mankewitz would be helpful. There was always the chance it wouldn’t and the risk had been wasted. But isn’t that the truth about life?

The union boss said, “On that other matter, your personal trip now?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve heard from a relative.”

He’d mean the round, fuzzy-haired detective in the Milwaukee PD—whom Jasons thought was cute. The cop was more than on the take; he was basically on the payroll. “And?”

“It seems there’s going to be a party up there.”

This was troubling. “Really? Did he know who’d be attending?”

“No close relatives. Mostly local but I think some folks from the East Coast might be. They’re debating coming.”

Meaning no Milwaukee police, just local officers, probably county, though the FBI—the East Coast family—was a possibility. That was very troubling.

“So it could be pretty crowded?”

“Could be.”

“Anything more about what they’ll be celebrating?”

“Nope.”

Jasons wondered what the hell was going on up there. “Still think I should go?”

He said “think,” but the real verb was “want.”

“Sure, have some fun. You’ve had a busy day. A party’ll do you good.”

Meaning: Hell, yes. Get your ass up there.

And fix whatever’s broken, whatever it takes.

Without hesitating, Jasons said, “I think I’ll go then. Like to see who shows up. Besides, I’m not that far away.”

“Have fun,” Mankewitz said, the weight of the world on his shoulders.