Jeffery Deaver - The Bodies Left Behind

“But weren’t there some houses on the highway? We’ll go there. Call nine-one-one.”

“We can’t go to any of them,” Brynn said. “I won’t lead those men to somebody else’s place. I don’t want anybody else hurt.”

Michelle was silent, staring at the Feldmans’ house. “That’s crazy. We have to get out of here.”

“We’re going to get out. Just not the way we came in.”

“Well, why aren’t there more police here?” she snapped. “Why’d you just come here by yourself? The police wouldn’t do it that way in Chicago.” The young woman’s voice was positively surly. Brynn tamped down her irritation. She squinted as she looked past her and pointed.

In the house at 2 Lake View, she could make out two flashlight beams, one upstairs, one on the ground floor. Scanning eerily. The men were both in the house, searching for them.

“Keep an eye on the flashlights. I’m going to look inside. Did Steven have a gun?”

“I have no idea,” Michelle scoffed. “They really weren’t the gun type.”

“Where’s your cell phone?” Brynn asked.

“In my purse, in the kitchen.”

As Brynn sprinted for the porch she glanced back and could see the young woman’s eyes, just visible in the moonlight. Yes, there was a measure of sorrow-that her friends had died. But it was the put-upon expression Brynn sometimes recognized in her son during one of his irritated moments. The expression that asked, Why me? Life just isn’t fair.

“NOTHING.”

Spoken in a whisper.

In the basement of the house at 2 Lake View Drive, Hart nodded, acknowledging the comment by Lewis, who was sweeping his flashlight around a dark storage area, which would have been perfect for hiding in.

And had been pretty much their last hope of finding the women in the house.

Hart was feeling more confident. It was likely that the women were no longer armed, a conclusion he’d come to by default: otherwise they would have lain in wait and shot the men. Still, he’d insisted they use flashlights and not put on the overhead lights.

Once, Hart had seen a movement, spun around and fired. But the target turned out to be just a fleeing rat, its shadow magnified a dozen times. The creature scurried away. Hart was angry with himself for the panicked shot. He’d hurt his injured arm in the maneuver and they’d been temporarily deafened again. Angry too for the loss of control. Sure, it was logical. The sudden motion, jumping toward him, it seemed… Naturally he’d fired.

But excuses always tasted bad in Hart’s mouth. You had nobody to blame but yourself if you cut the plank wrong or planed a bow into a chair leg meant to be straight, or split a dovetail joint.

“Measure twice, cut once,” his father used to say.

They trooped upstairs into the dark kitchen. Hart was looking out the back windows and into the forest, wondering if he was staring right at the women. “Wasted some good minutes searching. That’s why they set up that little scene in the bedroom. Buy time.”

And to blind us. He could smell the ammonia all the way down here, even with the upstairs bedroom door closed.

Then Hart mused, “But where are they? Where would I go, if I was them?”

“The woods? Snuck past us and’re making for the highway?”

Hart agreed. “Yep. That’s what I’d guess. There’s no other way out. They’ll be thinking they can hail a car but there won’t be much traffic this time of night. Hell, there wasn’t much on the way up here. And they’ll have to stick close to the shoulder, out in the open. And that blood on Brynn’s uniform? She’s hurt. Be moving slowly. We’ll spot ’em easy.”

BRYNN MCKENZIE WAS making a fast sweep through the Feldmans’ house. She left the lights out, of course, and searched by feel for weapons and cell phones. She found none.

Michelle’s purse was gone, which meant the killers had it-and that they’d now know her name and where she lived.

Brynn walked into the kitchen, where the bodies lay in their death poses, the blood making a paisley pattern next to the husband and a near-perfect circle around the wife. Brynn hesitated briefly and then knelt and searched their pockets for cell phones. None. She tried the jackets. Similarly empty. She then stood and looked down at them. Wished there were time to say some words, though she had no idea what.

Did the couple have laptop computers? She looked at the briefcase on the floor-it was the woman’s-and at the pile of file folders all stamped with the word CONFIDENTIAL. But no electronics. The husband apparently used a backpack for his briefcase but that had contained only a few magazines, a paperback novel and a bottle of wine.

Brynn’s feet were beginning to sting again from chafing; the lake water had soaked through the dry socks. She looked in the laundry room and found two pairs of hiking boots. She pulled on dry socks and the larger of the boots. She took the second pair for Michelle. She also found a candle lighter and slipped that in her pocket.

Was there anything-?

She gasped in shock. Outside, the croak of frogs and the whisper of wind vanished in the insistent blare of a car alarm.

Then Michelle’s desperate voice calling, “Brynn! Come here! Help me!”

Brynn ran outside, gripping her makeshift spear, blade forward.

Michelle was standing beside the Mercedes, the window shattered. The young woman was frantic, wide-eyed. And paralyzed.

Brynn ran to the car, glancing at the house at Number 2. The flashlights went out.

They’re on their way. Great.

“I’m sorry!” Michelle cried. “I didn’t think, I didn’t think…”

Brynn ripped the passenger door open, popped the hood and ran to the front of the car. She’d made a point to learn all she could about cars and trucks-vehicles make up the majority of police work in a county like Kennesha-and her studies included mechanics as well as driving. Brynn struggled to work the cable off the positive terminal of the battery with the Chicago Cutlery knife. The piercing sound stopped.

“What happened?”

“I just…” Michelle moaned angrily. “It’s not my fault!”

No? Whose was it?

She continued, “I have low blood sugar. I was feeling funny. I brought some crackers with me.” She pointed to a bag of Whole Foods-brand snacks in the backseat. She said defensively, “If I don’t get food, sometimes I faint.”

“Okay,” said Brynn, who’d avoided breaking into and searching the Mercedes specifically because she’d known it would be alarmed. She now climbed in fast, grabbed the crackers and handed them to Michelle, then rifled through the glove compartment. “Nothing helpful,” she muttered.

“You’re mad,” she said, her voice an irritating whine. “I’m sorry. I said I was sorry.”

“It’s okay. But we have to move. Fast. They’re on their way.” She handed Michelle the boots she’d found inside, the smaller pair, which should fit fine. Michelle’s own boots were chic and stylish, with spiky three-inch heels-just the sort for a young professional. But useless footgear for fleeing from killers.

Michelle stared at the fleece boots. She didn’t move.

“Hurry.”

“Mine are fine.”

“No, they’re not. You can’t wear those.” A nod at the designer footwear.

Michelle said, “I don’t like to wear other people’s clothes. It’s…gross.” Her voice was a hollow whisper.

Maybe she meant dead people’s clothes.

A glance toward Number 2. No sign of the men. Not yet.

“I’m sorry, Michelle. I know it’s upsetting. But you have to. And now.”

“I’m fine with these.”

“No. You can’t. Especially with a hurt ankle.”

Another hesitation. It was as if the woman were a pouty eight-year-old. Brynn took her firmly by the shoulders. “Michelle. They could be here any minute. We don’t have any choice.” Her voice was harsh. “Put the goddamn boots on. Now!”