The Bodies Left Behind (40 page)

Graham was tense, shoulders forward.

More was coming.

But, fair enough. She’d asked for this.

“And the fight, Brynn. Last year? You told me it was a pushing match. Mr. Raditzky told me what really happened.”

“He was a bully. He—”

“—was just taunting Joey. Talking to him is all. But Joey hurt him bad. We almost got sued. You never told me that.”

She fell silent. Then said, “I didn’t want word to get around. I pulled some strings. It wasn’t all on the up-and-up. But I had to do it. I wanted to protect him.”

“He’s not going to break, Brynn. You spoil him. His bedroom looks like a Best Buy.”

“I pay for everything I bought him myself.” She instantly regretted the barbed words, seeing the grimace on Graham’s face. This had nothing to do with money, of course.

“I don’t think it’s good for him, all that indulgence. You don’t have to be mean. But have to say no sometimes. And punish him if he doesn’t listen to you.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t. It’s like you owe him, like you’re guilty about something and paying back this debt. What’s it all about, Brynn?”

“You’re making it into something more than it is. Way more.” She gave a faint laugh, though she felt her heart chill—the way her skin had when the cold, black water rushed into her car at Lake Mondac. “His fight at school…it was just something between Joey and me.”

“Oh, Brynn, that’s the problem. See? That’s what this is all about. It’s
never
been ‘us.’ It’s always you and Joey. I’m along for the ride.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? What’s this all about?” He waved his hand around the house. “Is it about us, the three of us, a family? Or is it about you? You and your son?”

“It’s about us, Graham, really.” She tried holding his eye but couldn’t.

No lies between us, Brynn…

But that was Hart. And it was Keith…. Graham was different. This is so wrong, she thought, being honest with bad men, while the good ones get lied to and neglected.

He stretched. She noticed that both their beers were exactly three-quarters full. He said, “Forget it. Let’s go to bed. We need sleep.”

She asked, “When?”

“When what?”

“Are you leaving?”

“Brynn. This is enough for tonight.” A laugh. “We
never
talk, not about anything serious. And now we can’t stop. Tonight of all nights. We’re exhausted. Let’s just get some rest.”

“When?” she repeated.

He rubbed his eyes, first one, then both. He lowered his hands, looked at a deep scratch inflicted at some point last night in the woods. A tear in the skin from a thorn or rock. He seemed surprised. He said, “I don’t know. A month. A week. I don’t know.”

She sighed. “I’ve seen it coming.”

He looked perplexed. “Seen it coming? How?
I
didn’t know it till last night.”

What did he mean by that? She asked, “Who is she?”

“‘She’?”

“You know who. That woman you’re seeing.”

“I’m not seeing anybody.” He sounded put out, as if she’d delivered a cheap insult.

She debated but kept to the course. She said harshly, “JJ’s poker games. Sometimes you go. Sometimes you don’t.”

“You’ve been spying on me.”

“You lied to me. I could tell. I do this for a living, remember?”

He’s no good at deception.

Unlike me.

Anger now. But more troubling, he sounded disgusted. “What’d you do? Put a bug in the car? Have somebody from the department tail me?”

“I saw you once. By coincidence. Outside the motel on Albemarle. And, yeah, I followed you later. You said you were going to the game. But you went there again…” She snapped, “Why are you laughing? It broke my heart, Graham!”

“To break somebody’s heart, you need to own a bit of it. And I don’t. I don’t have an ounce of yours. I don’t think I ever did.”

“That’s not true! There’s no excuse for cheating.”

He was nodding slowly. “Cheating, ah…Did you ask me about it? Did you sit down and say, ‘Honey, we have a problem, I’m concerned, let’s talk about it? Get it worked out’?”

“I—”

“You know your mother told me about what Keith did. To your face. You know my first reaction? Oh, my God, that explains so much. How could I be mad at you? But then I realized that, hell, yes, I could be mad. I
should
be mad. And you should have told me. I deserved to be told.”

Brynn had considered telling him a hundred times. Yet she’d made up a bullshit story about a car crash. She thought now: But how could I tell him? That somebody flew into a rage and hit me. That I cried off and on for months afterward. That I cringed at the sound of his voice. That I broke into a hundred pieces like a child. I was ashamed that I didn’t leave him, just bundle Joey up and walk out the door.

That I was afraid. That I was weak.

And that my delaying would have even more horrific consequences.

Keith…

But even now she couldn’t tell him exactly what had happened.

And here, she understood, was a clue to the crime she’d committed against Graham, against the two of them: her silence, this inability to talk. Yet she felt that whatever the clue led to, even if she managed to figure it out, the solution would come too late. It was like finding conclusive evidence as to a killer’s identity, only to discover that the perp had already died of natural causes.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But you still…” Her voice faded as she watched him pulling his wallet from his slacks, fishing in it. She watched, obsessively touching the bandage on her cheek.

Jesus. Was it his lover’s picture? she wondered.

He handed her a small white card.

Brynn squinted; the cheek wound made reading difficult out of her right, her stronger, eye.

She stared at the raised type:
Sandra Weinstein, M.D., LLC. 2942 Albemarle Avenue, Ste. 302, Humboldt, Wisconsin.
Handwritten at the bottom was:
Friday 7:30, April 17.
Brynn began, “She’s a—”

“Therapist. Psychiatrist…Shrink.”

“You—”

“You saw us
near
the motel, Brynn, but not
at
the motel. She’s in the professional building next door. I’m usually her last patient at night. Sometimes we leave the office at the same time. That’s probably when you saw us.”

Brynn flicked the card.

“Call her. Go see her. I’ll give her permission to tell you all about it. Please, go talk to her. Help me figure out why you love the job more than me. Why you’d rather be in your squad car than at home. Help me figure out how to be a father to a son you won’t let me near. Why you got married to me in the first place. Maybe you two can figure it out. I sure can’t.”

Brynn offered lamely, “But why didn’t you tell me? Ask me to go with you to counseling? I would have!” She meant this.

He lowered his head. And she realized she’d touched a painful spot—like her tongue probing the gum where her tooth had once been.

“I should have. Sandra keeps suggesting it. I almost asked you a dozen times. I couldn’t.”

“But why?”

“Afraid of what you’d do. Give up on us, think I was being too demanding, walk out the door. Or take control and I’d get lost in the shuffle…Make it seem like there was no problem at all.” He shrugged. “I should have asked you. I couldn’t. But look, Brynn, the time for that has passed. You’re you, I’m me. Apples and oranges. We’re so different. It’s best for both of us.”

“But it’s not too late. Don’t judge by last night. This was…this was a nightmare.”

Then, astonishing her, he snapped. He shoved the chair back and leapt to his feet. The beer bottle fell, spewing foam over the plates. The easygoing man was now enraged. Brynn froze inside, replaying those nights with Keith. Her hand rose to her jaw. She knew that Graham wouldn’t hurt her. Still, she couldn’t help the defensive gesture. She blinked up at him and saw the wolf hovering nearby in the state park.

Yet, she realized the rage wasn’t at her. It was, she believed, directed purely at himself. “But I
have
to judge by last night. That’s what did it, Brynn. Last night…”

What he’d said before. He wasn’t planning on leaving until then. What did he mean? “I don’t understand.”

He inhaled deeply. “Eric.”

“Eric Munce?”

“He’s dead because of me.”

“You? No, no, we all knew he was reckless. Whatever happened didn’t have anything to do with you.”

“Yes, it did! It had everything to do with me.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I used him!” His own jaw, square and perfect, was trembling. “I know you all thought he was a cowboy. Last night nobody was going to look for you at the interstate. But I knew you’d go that way. So I told Eric if he wanted to see some action he ought to come with me. That’s where the killers were headed.” Graham shook his head. “I threw that out like it was a hunting dog’s favorite treat…. And he’s dead because of me. Because I went someplace I had no business going. And I have to live with that forever.”

She leaned forward. He recoiled from her hand. She sat back and asked, “Why, Graham? Why did you come, then?”

He gave a cold laugh. “Oh, Brynn. I plant trees and flowers for a living. You carry a gun and do high-speed chases. I want to watch TV at night; you want to study the latest drug-testing kits. I can’t compete with your life. I sure can’t in Joey’s eyes…Last night, I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. Maybe that there was some gunfighter deep inside me. I could prove myself. But that was a joke. All I did was get another human being killed…. No goddamn business going out there. And I have no business here. You don’t want me, Brynn. You sure don’t need me.”

“No, honey, no…”

“Yes,” he whispered. Then held up a hand. The gesture meant: enough, no more.

He gripped her arm and squeezed softly. “Let’s get some sleep.”

As Graham went upstairs Brynn absently daubed at the spilled beer until the paper napkins disintegrated. She got a dish towel and finished the job. With another she tried to stanch the tears.

She heard his footsteps coming downstairs again. He was carrying a pillow and blanket. Without a glance her way, he walked to the green couch, made up a bed and closed the family room door.

“ALL DONE, MA’AM.”

Brynn peered over at the painter, who was gesturing toward the living room and its repaired ceiling and walls.

“What do I owe you?” She peered around as if a checkbook floated nearby.

“Sam’ll send you a bill. You’re good for it. We trust you.” He gestured at her uniform. Smiled then stopped. “The funeral’s tomorrow? Deputy Munce?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m sorry about what happened. My son painted his garage. The deputy was very civil to him. Some people aren’t. They gave him an iced tea…. I’m sorry.”

A nod.

After the painter left she continued to stare at the blank walls. No trace of the 9mm holes remained. She thought she should put up the pictures once more. But she didn’t have the energy. The house was completely silent.

She looked over a list of things she had to do—calls to return, evidence to follow up on, interviews to conduct. Someone named Andrew Sheridan had called twice—he had some business connection with Emma Feldman and was asking about the files recovered from the house in Lake Mondac. She wondered what that was about. And somebody from the state’s attorney’s office had heard from the couple injured when their SUV overturned on the interstate. They were suing. The owner of the house at 2 Lake View had made a claim too. The ammonia had ruined the floor. Bullet holes too, of course. She needed to file a report. She’d delay that as long as she could.

She heard footsteps on the front porch.

Graham’s?

A knock on the wooden frame. She rose.

“The bell’s out, I think,” Tom Dahl said.

“Hey. Come on in.”

The sheriff walked inside. He noticed the smooth walls. Didn’t comment on them. “How’s your mother doing?”

“She’ll be okay. Feisty, you know.” She tilted her head toward the closed family room door. “We made her up a bedroom downstairs. She’s sleeping now.”

“Oh, I’ll keep my voice down.”

“With the meds she’s on, she’d sleep through a party.”

The sheriff sat and massaged his leg. “I liked the way you phrased it. About those two killers: the bodies left behind. Described it pretty good.”

“Anything at all, Tom?”

“I’ll tell you up front there’s not much. That fellow got himself shot was Compton Lewis. Lived in Milwaukee.”

“Compton was his first name?”

“Ask his mother or father. Fellow was just a punk, a wannabe. Did construction around the lakefront and ran some petty scams, smash-and-grab at gas stations and convenience stores. Biggest thing was he and some folks tried to rob a guard refilling an ATM outside of Madison last year. They think Lewis was supposedly the getaway driver but he dropped his keys in the snow. His buddies ran off and he got busted. Did six months.” Dahl shook his head. “Only kin I could track down was Lewis’s older brother. The only one still in the state. The man took the news hard, I’ll tell you. Started crying like a baby. Had to hang up and called me back a half hour later…Didn’t have much to say, but here’s his number if you want to talk to him.” He handed her a Post-it note.

“How about Hart?” She’d checked every criminal database in five states, all the nicknames, all the mug shots for everybody named Hart, Heart, Harte, Hartman, Harting…nothing.

“No leads at all. That man…he’s good. Look at the fingerprints. Didn’t leave a one anywhere. And digging the bullet with his DNA out of the woodwork? He knows what he’s doing.”

“And Michelle? She would’ve given Hart and Lewis a fake name but I’d guess Michelle is real; Hart and Lewis found her purse and probably looked through it. And she’d’ve told the truth to me—because I’d be dead by morning.”

Dahl said, “They’re more concerned about
her
’cause the FBI’s sure
it’s Mankewitz who hired her, and they want to
prove
him or one of his people hired her. But so far the snitches haven’t come up with anything concrete.”