The Bodies Left Behind (38 page)

Even for professional hit men that seemed excessive.

And why had Crime Scene found all that brass with the metal detector but not the missing pistol?

My Lord, what if the gun wasn’t Hart’s or Comp’s, but Michelle’s?

But why would she bring a gun with her?

One answer: because
she’d
been hired by Stanley Mankewitz to kill Emma Feldman and had brought along Hart and Comp, intending to kill them at the scene.

And leave their bodies behind, the fall guys.

Then Brynn recalled Michelle reaching into her jacket at the inter
state. She wasn’t reaching for the knife; she was going for the gun she’d been carrying with her all night.

Which meant she still had it.

On the first floor the pipes stopped squealing as Michelle shut off the water.

WITH A GRIMACE

“Mom, what’s wrong?” His eyes were wide.

“Listen to me, honey. We have a problem. You know how I tell you never to lock your door?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, today’s different. I want you to lock your door and not open it for any reason. Unless it’s me or your stepdad or Grams.”

“Mom, you look funny. I’m scared.”

“It’ll be okay. Just do what I tell you.”

“Sure. What—”

“Just do it.”

Brynn closed the door. She ran down the stairs as quietly as she could, intending to get to the only guns nearby: the ones in Graham’s truck, sealed in evidence bags.

On the second-to-the-bottom step Brynn stopped. The bathroom door was open. No sign of Michelle.

Go for the truck or not?

“Tea’ll be ready in just a moment,” Anna called.

Brynn stepped into the ground-floor hall.

Just as Michelle walked through an archway four feet away. In her hand was a small black automatic pistol. It was known as a baby Glock.

Their eyes met.

As the killer spun toward her, Brynn snagged a picture off the wall, a
large family photo, and flung it at her. It missed but as she dodged, Brynn launched herself forward. The women collided hard, both grunting. Brynn fiercely gripped Michelle’s right wrist, digging her short nails into the woman’s skin as hard as she could.

Michelle cried out, striking Brynn’s head with her free hand.

The gun discharged once, then, as Michelle lowered it toward the deputy’s body, it fired three times more. All the slugs missed.

Anna screamed and called for Graham.

Brynn slammed a fist into Michelle’s face. She blinked in pain and spit flew. Eyebrows narrowed, her mouth a taut grimace, Michelle kicked Brynn’s groin and elbowed her in the belly. But Brynn wasn’t letting go of the gun, nothing could make her do that. The anger of the terrible evening, fueled by this betrayal—and her own gullibility—burned within her. She flailed and kicked and growled the way she had when the wolf approached them in the woods.

The women grappled, knocking over furniture. Michelle fought furiously—no longer the helpless dilettante in the thousand-dollar boots. She was crazed, fighting for survival.

The gun fired again. Then several times more. Brynn was counting the rounds. Baby Glocks held ten bullets.

Another sharp crack—and the weapon was empty, the slide locking back automatically, awaiting a fresh clip of ammunition. The women went down on the floor, Brynn pounding the woman’s head, aiming for her throat. Michelle fought back just as fiercely, though—muscles toned at a health club, if that story was true, and backed by pure desperation.

Still, there was no doubt in Brynn’s mind that she was going to stop this woman, kill her if she had to, no doubt whatsoever. Using hands and teeth and feet
e…
she was pure rage, pure animal.

You should’ve killed me….

Well, this time I won’t make the same mistake.

Her fingers found Michelle’s throat.

“Jesus, Brynn—” A man ran through the door and for a tiny portion of a second Brynn thought it was Hart. But by the time she realized it was her husband the distraction had had its effect. Michelle broke free and slammed the gun into Brynn’s wounded cheek. The pain was so intense her vision clouded and she retched.

Michelle hit the lock on the gun and the receiver snapped shut.
Though the gun was empty it appeared loaded and ready to fire. She aimed at Graham. “Keys. To your truck.”

“What are you—? What?”

“Emmy, Emmy,” Brynn muttered, clutching her face, clawing futilely at Michelle.

“I’ll kill her.” Shoving the gun into Brynn’s neck. “The fucking keys!”

“No, no! Here, take them. Please! Just leave!”

“Emmy!”

Michelle grabbed the keys. And ran outside.

Graham dropped to his knees, pulling his cell phone out, and dialed 911. He cradled Brynn, who pulled away and climbed to her feet. She started to black out, swayed against the stair rail. “Emmy…”

“Who’s Emmy?”

She forced herself to speak clearly through the pain. “Empty. The gun was empty.”

“Shit.” Graham ran to the door as his truck skidded down the street and vanished.

Brynn rose, then heard a soft voice from nearby: “Could somebody—”

Both Brynn and Graham turned toward the kitchen door, where Anna stood, her hands covered with blood.

“Please, could somebody…Look. Look at this.”

And she spiraled to the floor.

ROWS OF ORANGE

Graham sat across from Brynn, knees close but not touching. Their eyes were focused mostly on the linoleum and they looked up only from time to time when the double doors swung open. But the doctors and employees pushing through them were dealing with matters unrelated to Anna McKenzie’s life.

Twining her fingers together, Brynn stared at her untouched coffee.

Sick with horror, sick with exhaustion.

Her phone quivered. She looked at the screen and muted the ringer, because she didn’t want to take the call, not because of the
No Cell Phone Use
sign nearby.

A patient walked from the admitting window into the waiting area, sat down. Squeezed his arm and winced. He glanced once at Brynn and returned to his waiting state of numb silence.

“Been an hour,” Graham said.

“Nearly.”

“Long time. But that’s not necessarily bad.”

“No.”

Silence again, broken by cryptic announcements over the hospital PA. Then Brynn’s phone was vibrating again. This call she took. “Tom.”

“Brynn, how’s your mother?”

“We don’t know yet. What do you have?”

“Okay. Michelle got through the roadblocks somehow. They haven’t found your husband’s truck.”

Brynn hunched forward and pressed her injured cheek, as if the pain were payment for her misjudgment.

Dahl continued, “You were right. We found that friend who drove up from Chicago this morning. She was the only one coming to visit. Michelle, we guess, is a hit man…. Well, hit
woman.
”

“Hired by Mankewitz or one of his people.”

“What they’re figuring,” Dahl said.

“So Hart and Comp were supposed to be the bodies left behind.”

“The what?”

“The bodies left behind…. She was going to make it look like they were the only killers and they got into a fight between themselves after the Feldmans were dead. So we wouldn’t bother to look further. But it went bad. Hart reacted too fast or her gun jammed, who knows? She had to run. Then I found her in the woods.” Brynn pinched the bridge of her nose. Her laugh was bitter. “And rescued her.”

Another doctor came out, through the double doors. Brynn stopped talking. The physician, wearing blue scrubs, kept going.

Brynn was reflecting on the look that passed between Hart and the young woman at the interstate.

You came close, Michelle. Real close….

Hart’s words to her by the highway had a whole different meaning, now that Brynn knew the truth.

And she recalled Michelle’s shocked reaction when Brynn told her about meeting Hart in the van beside the meth cookers’ camper. The woman would have been terrified that Hart had mentioned Michelle’s real identity.

“And somebody from Mankewitz’s crew was probably going to come pick her up when it was over. Hell, that’s who was taking shots at us when we were on that cliff.”

Brynn was aware that Graham was staring at her, taking in the conversation.

She continued to the sheriff, “She needed the evidence I’d brought with me—the guns and clips, the map, the boxes of ammunition. Her purse. That’s why she was so willing to come back with us to our house. Something probably had her prints on them. Or trace evidence that might lead us to her. She’d planned to collect it at Lake Mondac after she’d killed Hart and his friend…. Wait, Tom. What about her shoes? A pair of women’s shoes at the Feldmans’ house? In the yard. Any prints?”

“Recovered them. But no prints.”

“None?”

“Looks like they were wiped off, like the Ford. Wiped off with Windex.”

A faint laugh. “She did that when I went for the canoe…. Brother, did she have me fooled.” Brynn rubbed a knuckle against a faint bump on her rebuilt jaw, as she often did when thoughtful or upset. The betrayal stung her deeply. And she said in a soft voice, “I was supposed to be one too.”

“What?”

“A body left behind. She was using me as bait. She didn’t have a sprained ankle at all. She was moving slow to draw the men close. And she tried to keep them following in our direction all night. She broke the Mercedes window to set off the alarm—probably as the men were heading toward the highway. And complained about putting on those boots, made a big deal of it. She was stalling, trying to get them closer to us. And who knows what else? She had some crackers. I’ll bet she dropped those.” Brynn laughed sourly, shaking her head. “Once, she had this outburst, screamed like a banshee. It was to let them know where we were. She was waiting for them to catch up. Then she’d shoot them in the woods. Me too.”

“Well, Brynn, why didn’t she, you know, just shoot you right up front?” Dahl asked.

“She needed me for insurance maybe, or to help her get out of the area. Most likely use me to help her kill them.”

Aware that Graham had fallen silent, his jaw set, large hands clasped together.

Brynn told Tom she’d better go and asked him to call her if they found anything at all.

They disconnected and she turned to her husband to give him a summary of what had happened. He closed his eyes and rocked back. “That’s okay,” he said, cutting her off. “I got enough.”

She touched his leg. He didn’t respond. After a few minutes, she lifted her fingers away and called the neighbor where Joey was staying. She talked to her son for some moments, telling him the truth—that they didn’t know anything yet about his grandmother. She let him ramble on about a video game he’d been playing. Brynn told him she loved him and hung up.

Husband and wife sat in silence. Brynn looked at her husband once then shifted her gaze down at the floor. Finally, after an eternity, he rested his hand on her knee. They remained that way, motionless, for some minutes—until a doctor came out of the double door. He looked at the man with the hurt arm and then walked directly toward Brynn and Graham.

HART GOT RID

He did this as efficiently as he knew how: He parked it in the Avenues West area of Milwaukee with the doors locked but the keys in the ignition. Some kids wouldn’t notice and some would notice but think it was a sting and some—in the quickly redeveloping area—would notice but would do the right thing and pass the car by.

The car, however, would still be gone within one hour. And harvested for parts in twelve.

Head down, exhausted and in agony from the gunshot and the other trauma of the night, Hart walked quickly away from the vehicle. It was a cool morning, the sky clear. The smell of fires from construction site scrap teased his nose. His instincts were still running the show and were directing him underground as fast as possible.

Walking along the sparsely populated streets he found the Brewline Hotel, though it was nowhere near the Brewline. It was the sort of place that thrived on business by the hour or by the week but rarely by the day. He paid for one week in advance with a bonus for a private bath, and was given a remote control and a set of sheets. The overweight woman clerk took no notice of his physical condition or absence of luggage. He trooped up the two flights of stairs and into room 238. He locked the door, stripped and dumped his fetid clothes into a pile that reminded him very much of Brynn McKenzie’s soaked uniform at the second house on Lake View Drive.

He pictured her stripping.

The image aroused him for a few minutes until the throbbing in his arm tipped him out of the mood.

He examined the wound closely. Hart had taken paramedic training courses—because his job often involved physical injuries. He now assessed the wound and concluded that he didn’t need a doctor. He knew several medicos who’d lost their tickets and would stitch him up, no questions asked or gunshots reported, for a thousand bucks. But the bleeding had stopped, the bone was intact and, though his bruise was impressive, the infection was minor. He’d start on antibiotics later today.

Hart showered under a stuttering stream of water, doing his best to keep his arm dry.

He returned to the bed, naked, and lay down. He wanted to consider the night, to try to make sense of it. He thought back several weeks—to a Starbucks in Kenosha, where he was meeting with a guy he’d worked with a few times in Wisconsin. Gordon Potts was a big, hulking man, not brilliant but decent and someone you could trust. And he could hook you up with dependable labor when you needed it. Potts had said he’d been approached by a woman in Milwaukee who was smart, tough and pretty. He vouched for her. (Hart now realized that Michelle had bought the credentials with a blow job or two.)