The Bodies Left Behind (33 page)

Thank goodness, though, just at that moment Amy fell silent.

The men continued to look around them for a moment and then started walking again. They vanished behind a stone wall.

Brynn returned to Michelle and Amy. The little girl, though still unhappy, had stopped crying and was clutching her toy once more.

“How’d you do that?”

Michelle shrugged, grimacing. Whispered: “Wasn’t such a great idea. I told her we were on our way to see her mommy. Couldn’t think of what else to say.”

Well, it didn’t matter. The girl would learn the truth sooner or later but for now they sure couldn’t afford the screaming. Brynn whispered, “They’re back there.”

“What? Hart and his partner?”

A nod.

“How?”

Hart, of course. Brynn said, “
Reverse
-reverse psychology. Two hundred yards or so back. We’ve got to move.”

They headed toward the gorge, the ground being flatter, then north again toward the interstate. They knew the direction, because the river was on their right but, with the landscape more open as they rose higher, they were forced to zigzag—now seeking out brush and trees for cover. It was taking too long, Brynn reflected, feeling Hart’s presence growing closer.

She led Michelle and Amy back into the thicker woods and they continued north. Suddenly faint light streaked from left to right, a truck or car on the interstate. A half mile, maybe less. Brynn and Michelle shared a smile and started forward again.

Which is when they heard a snap of a footstep, to their left, somewhere in a thick pine forest. The sound was close. Brynn looked at the little girl, whose gaunt face warned of another outburst.

Another snap. Closer. Footsteps, definitely.

Hart and his partner must have moved faster than Brynn had expected, closing the two hundred yards in only fifteen minutes. They’d probably found a smooth trail the women had missed.

Brynn pointed to the ground. The three of them went prone behind a fallen tree. Amy started to cry again but Michelle pulled her close and worked her magic once more. Brynn picked up handfuls of leaves and, as quietly as she could, spread them on top of the other two. Then she also lay down and camouflaged herself.

The footsteps grew closer, then were lost in the rustling wind.

Then Brynn gasped. She believed she heard somebody whispering her name.

Her imagination, of course. It was just the breeze, which was blowing steadily, swirling leaves and hissing through branches.

But then she heard it again. Yes, definitely, “Brynn,” in a faint whisper.

Her jaw quivered in shock. Hart!

Eerie, as if he had a sixth sense she was nearby.

Again, though the name was indistinct, lost in the sounds of the forest.

In her exhaustion and pain she almost thought the voice sounded like Graham’s. But that was impossible, of course. Her husband was home, asleep now.

Or perhaps
not
home and asleep.

“Brynn…”

She touched her finger to her lips. Michelle nodded, reaching into her jacket for the knife.

The steps began again, very close, it seemed, and heading directly toward the fallen tree they hid beneath.

Times to fight and times to run.

Time to hide too.

Thinking of the men with their loud, loud guns, another memory came back to her again: her first husband, eyes wide in shock and agony, stumbling back under the nearly point-blank impact of the slug, as Brynn’s service weapon clattered to their kitchen floor after the discharge.

Was some sort of justice at work here, a divine or spiritual payback?

Would her fate now be similar to Keith’s?

The footsteps grew closer.

Silently Brynn sprinkled more leaves over the threesome. And closed her eyes, recalling that when he was younger Joey believed that doing this would make you disappear.

“BRYNN,” GRAHAM CALLED

Listening. Nothing.

As they’d approached this portion of the woods, the screaming had stopped. And they’d seen no one. But as they continued their trek, Graham was convinced he’d heard a woman’s voice, whispering, and some rustling of leaves very close by. He couldn’t tell where, though, and risked saying his wife’s name.

No response but he heard more rustling and they’d headed for the sound, Munce with his shotgun ready.

“Brynn?”

Now the men were next to the trunk of a large fallen oak, looking around in all directions. Graham frowned and touched his ear. Munce shook his head.

But then the deputy stiffened, pointing to a field of rocks and brush. Graham caught a glimpse of a figure about a hundred yards away, holding a rifle or shotgun, moving from right to left.

The killers. They
were
here!

Graham pointed down at the deputy’s radio, which was off. But Munce shook his head and pointed again to his own ear, meaning presumably that to turn it on would result in a telltale crackle.

Munce hurried along a path Graham hadn’t seen before. He realized the deputy was going to flank the man with the gun.

He thought: What the hell am I doing here?

And lost himself entirely in this mad pursuit.

THE FOOTSTEPS RECEDED

Finally Brynn lifted her head, gingerly, worried about the noise the leaves would make.

But when she peered over the tree trunk she saw the shadowy forms moving away into the early-morning murkiness.

The men had been just a few feet away from where they’d hidden. If Amy had made a single whimper all three of them would be dead now. Brynn’s hands were shivering.

The men vanished into a wall of trees.

“Come on,” she whispered. “They’re headed away from us. Looks like they’re going back down the hill. Let’s move fast. We’re not far from the highway.”

They rose, shedding leaves, and started uphill again.

“That was close,” Michelle said. “Why’d they go on past?”

“Maybe heard something. A deer.” Brynn wondered if their guardian angel, their wolf, had distracted the men. She looked at Amy. “I’m proud of you, honey. You stayed quiet real nice.”

The girl clutched Chester and said nothing, remaining sullen and red-eyed. Her expression echoed exactly how Brynn felt.

They wound their way up several long slopes. Michelle gave a smile and pointed to the horizon. Brynn saw another flash of headlights.

The glow of heaven.

She assessed the last obstacle: a tall rocky hill, to the right of which was a hundred-foot drop into the gorge. To the left was a dense thicket of brambles that extended some distance to more tall, rocky outcroppings.

They couldn’t climb the hill itself; the face was a sheer ascent that rose forty or fifty feet above their heads. But on the left side of the rise, above the brush, a narrow ledge ran upward and appeared to lead directly to a field and, beyond that, the interstate. The ledge was steep but could be hiked. It was apparently a popular starting point for rock climbers; the stone face above it, like the ones she’d seen earlier, was peppered with metal spikes.

Brynn was wary of the ledge for two reasons. It would completely expose them to the men for the five or so minutes it would take to traverse. Also, it was very narrow—they’d have to go single file—and a fall, though not far, would land them in a tangle of bushes that included barberries. She remembered these from Graham’s nursery. They were popular with customers, having striking berries and brilliant color in the autumn, but evolution had armed them with thin, brittle needles. After the winter’s dieback these beds were now barren of foliage and the needles, along the entire lengths of the branches, were vicious spikes.

But, she decided, they’d have to chance it. There wasn’t time to look for alternative routes.

Besides, she recalled, after coming so close to the oak tree where the women had been hiding, Hart and his partner had turned the other way, moving back down the hillside.

“Time to go home,” Brynn murmured and they began to climb.

GRAHAM AND MUNCE,

Munce motioned for them to stop. The deputy cocked his head and scanned the landscape, the muzzle of the scattergun following the course of his gaze.

Graham wished he’d insisted on a weapon. The Buck knife in his pocket seemed pointless. He thought about asking for the deputy’s pistol. But he didn’t dare make a sound now. Ahead, no more than thirty feet, came a rustle of branches and dry leaves as the invisible suspect pushed through brush.

A snap of a footstep. Another.

Graham’s heart pounded. He forced himself to breathe quietly. His jaw was trembling. Munce, on the other hand, looked completely in his element. Confident, making economical movements. Like he’d done this a thousand times. He crouched and pointed to the crook of a large rock, meaning, Graham understood, to wait. The landscaper nodded. The deputy touched his pistol once, as if to orient himself as to its exact location, and gripping the shotgun in both hands moved forward slowly, keeping his head up, looking around but sensing leaves and branches and avoiding them perfectly.

More footfalls on the other side of the bushes. Graham looked closely but could see no one. The sound was clear, though: the man was stalking through the woods, pausing occasionally.

Munce moved toward the killer in complete silence.

He paused, about twenty feet from the line of brush, cocked his head, listening.

They heard the footsteps again on the far side of the foliage, the men not trying to be silent; they were ignorant that they were no longer hunters but were themselves prey.

Munce stepped forward silently.

It was then that the man with the shotgun stepped out from behind a tree, no more than six feet behind Munce, and shot him in the back.

The deputy gave a cry as he was blown forward onto his belly, the weapon flying from his hand.

Graham, eyes wide in horror, gasped. Jesus, oh…Jesus.

The attacker hadn’t said a word. No warning, no instruction, no shout to give up.

He’d just appeared and pulled the trigger.

Eric Munce lay on his stomach, his lower back shredded and black with blood. His feet danced a bit, one arm moved. A hand clenched and unclenched.

“Hart, I got him,” the shooter called to someone else, whispering.

Another man came running up from behind the hedge, breathing hard, holding a pistol. He looked down at the deputy, who was barely conscious, rolled him over. Graham realized that this other one—Hart, apparently—had been in the bushes, making the noise of footsteps to distract Munce.

Horrified, Graham eased back into the crevice of basalt, as far as he could go. He was only twenty feet from them, hidden by saplings and a dozen brown husks of last year’s ferns. He looked out through the plants.

“Shit, Hart, it’s another cop.” Looking around. “There’s gotta be more of them.”

“You see anybody else?”

“No. But we can ask him. I aimed low. Coulda killed him. But I shot low to keep him alive.”

“That was good thinking, Comp.”

Hart knelt beside Munce. “Where are the others?”

Graham pressed against the rock, hard, as if it could swallow him up. His hands shaking, he could barely control his breathing. He thought he might be sick.

“Where are the others?…What?” He lowered his head. “I can’t hear you. Talk louder, tell me and we’ll get you help.”

“What’d he say, Hart?”

“He said there weren’t any. He came by here on his own to look for some women escaped from two burglars.”

“He telling the truth?”

“I don’t know. Wait…he’s saying something else.” Hart listened and stood. In an unemotional voice he said, “Just, we can go fuck ourselves.”

The one called Comp said to Munce, “Well, sir, you’re pretty much the one fucked here.”

Hart paused. He knelt again. Then stood. “He’s gone.”

Graham stared at the limp form of the deputy. He wanted to sob.

Then he saw, ten feet away, Munce’s shotgun, lying where it had landed when the deputy had flown to the ground. It was half covered with leaves.

Graham thought: Please, don’t look that way. Leave it. I want that gun. I want it so bad I can taste it. He realized how easily he could kill right now. Shoot them both in the back. Give them the same chance they’d given the deputy.

Please…

While the man who’d killed Munce stood guard, his gun ready, Hart searched him and pulled the radio off the deputy’s belt. He clicked it on. Graham heard staticky transmissions. Hart said to Comp, “There’s a search party but everybody’s over at Six Eighty-two and Lake Mondac itself…. I think maybe this boy was telling the truth. He must’ve come over here on a hunch.” Hart shone a flashlight on the front of the deputy’s uniform, read his nametag, then stood up and spoke into the radio. “This’s Eric. Over.”

A clattery response Graham couldn’t hear.

“Bad reception here. Over.”

More static.

“Real bad. I can’t find any trace of anybody over here. You copy? Over.”

“Say again, Eric. Where are you?” a voice asked, carrying through the air to Graham’s ears.

“Repeat, bad reception. Nobody’s here. Over.”

“Where are you?”

Hart shrugged. “I’m north. No sign of anybody. How’s it looking at the lake?”

“Nothing around the lake so far. We’re still looking. Divers haven’t found any bodies.”

“That’s good. I’ll let you know if I find anything. Out.”

“Out.”

Graham was staring at the shotgun, as if he could will it to become invisible.

Hart said, “Why isn’t anybody over here, except him, though? I don’t get it.”

“They’re not as smart as you, Hart. That’s why.”