Jeffery Deaver - The Bodies Left Behind

When he looked out the rearview mirror, there was no sign of Morgan’s Mercedes.

The slip of paper was gone too.

The first of this evening’s tasks was finished. Now for the second. His stomach rumbled again but he decided he’d better get on the road right away. The directions told him it would take more than two hours to get to Lake Mondac.

THE GROUND AROUND Brynn and Michelle was swampy and they had to be careful not to step on what seemed to be solid leaves but which was only a thin facade covering a deep bog. The frogs’ calls were insistent, piercing and they irritated Brynn because the creek-crack could obscure the sound of anyone approaching.

They walked for twenty minutes in tense silence-following the least choked route they could, sucked farther into the forest’s discouraging labyrinth. Brynn and Michelle descended into a gully that was matted with blackberry, trillium, wood leek and a dozen plants Brynn didn’t recognize. With considerable effort they climbed to the top of the other side.

Where Brynn realized suddenly that she was lost. Completely lost.

On higher ground they’d had more of a sense of the correct direction-due north to the Joliet Trail. Brynn had used certain landmarks to guide them: peaks, a stream, unusual patterns of tall oak trees. But they’d been forced farther and farther downward into the low ground by rocky cliffs and the compacted mass of brush and thorny bushes. All of her navigation beacons had vanished. She recalled the instructor at the State Police tactical procedures course saying that if you put somebody in unfamiliar territory without recognizable landmarks, they’d be completely disoriented within thirty-five minutes. Brynn had certainly believed him but hadn’t realized that too many landmarks could be as much of a problem as too few.

“Did you and your friends ever hike this way?”

“I don’t hike,” Michelle said petulantly. “And I’ve only been to their place once or twice.”

Brynn looked around slowly.

“I thought you knew where we were,” Michelle muttered.

“I thought so too,” she said with more than a little exasperation.

“Well, find some moss. It grows on the north side of trees. We learned that in grade school.”

“Not really,” Brynn replied, looking around. “It grows where there’s the most moisture, which is usually on the north side of trees and rocks. But only if there’s enough sun to dry out the south side. In deep forest, it’ll grow everywhere.” Brynn pointed. “Let’s try that way.” Wondering if she was taking that route simply because it seemed less daunting, the vegetation less tangled. Michelle followed numbly, limping along with her polished rosewood crutch.

A short time later Brynn stopped again. If it was possible, she was even more lost than ten minutes earlier.

Can’t keep going on like this.

She had a thought, asked Michelle, “Do you have a needle?”

“A what?”

“A needle, or a pin, maybe a safety pin.”

“Why would I have a needle?”

“Just, do you have one?”

The woman patted her jacket. “No. What for?”

Her badge! Brynn pulled it out of her pocket. Kennesha County Sheriff’s Department. Chrome. Ridges radiating like sun rays out of the county seal.

She turned it over and looked at the clasp pin on the back.

Could this actually work?

“Come on.” She led Michelle to a nearby stream and dropped to her knees. She began to clear away a thick pelt of leaves, saying, “Find me some rocks. About the size of a grapefruit.”

“Rocks?”

“Hurry.”

The young woman grimaced but began walking up and down the bank, picking over stones, while Brynn cleared a space on the bank. The ground was cold; she could feel the chill through her knees. They began to ache. From her pocket she took the clear bottle of rubbing alcohol, the Chicago Cutlery knife and the candle lighter. Set them on the ground in front of her, next to her badge.

Michelle returned, limping along with five large rocks. Brynn needed only two. Forgot to mention that.

“What are you doing?”

“Making a compass.” This had been in the survival manual issued by the State Police, though the team Brynn was on had not actually made one. But she’d read the material and thought she remembered enough to craft the instrument.

“How can you do that?”

“I’m not sure I can. But I know the theory.”

The idea was simple. You pounded a needle or pin with a hammer, which magnetized it. Then you rested it on a piece of cork floating in a dish of water. The needle aligned itself north and south. Simple. No hammer now. She’d have to use the back of the knife blade, the only metal object they had.

On her knees, Brynn set a rock in front of her. She tried to break the pin off her badge by bending it. The metal would not fatigue, though. It was too thick.

“Shit.”

“Try to cut through it with the knife,” Michelle suggested. “Hit it with a rock.”

Brynn opened the pin as far as she could, laid it on the rock and set the blade against the base of the needle. Holding the Chicago Cutlery in her left hand, she tapped the back with another rock. It didn’t even make a mark.

“You’ll have to hit it hard,” Michelle said, now intrigued with the project.

She slammed the rock into the pin once more. The blade made a slight scratch on the needle but danced along the chrome metal. She couldn’t hold both blade and badge down on the rock in one hand.

Handing the rock to Michelle, she said, “Here. You do it. Use both hands.”

The younger woman took the second rock, the “hammer,” which weighed about fifteen pounds.

In her left hand Brynn continued to hold the wooden knife handle. She cupped her palm around the badge and, with her fingers, gripped the end of the blade, near the point.

Michelle looked at her. “I can’t. Not with your hands there.” Michelle had about an eight-inch target on the back edge of the knife. A miss could crush one of Brynn’s hands. Or flip the blade sideways and slice the pads off her fingers.

“We don’t have any choice.”

“I could break your fingers.”

“Go ahead. Don’t tap. Hit hard. Come on, do it!”

The young woman took a deep breath. She lifted the rock. Then grimaced, exhaled and swung the stone in a blur.

Whether it was headed for Brynn’s fingers or for the knife was impossible to tell but Brynn didn’t move a muscle.

Snap.

Michelle hit the blade clean, driving it through the metal and cutting off a two-inch bit of needle.

Which spiraled through the air and disappeared in a shadowy sea of leaves near the stream.

“No!” Michelle cried, starting forward.

“Don’t move,” Brynn whispered. Presumably their prize had landed on top of the pile, though it wouldn’t take more than a footstep to send it slipping into the leaves, lost forever. “It couldn’t have gone very far.”

“It’s too dark. I can’t see anything. Damnit.”

“Shhhh,” Brynn reminded. They had to assume that Hart and his friend were still after them.

“We need the lighter.”

Brynn leaned toward the leaves. The young woman was right. In this dense grove, with the light of a half moon, sliced to pieces by a thousand branches and stubborn leaves still clinging to them, it was impossible to see the metal. But the candle lighter would shine like a warning beacon atop a skyscraper for Hart to see.

Again, the bywords for the evening came to mind: no choice.

“Here.” Brynn gave her the lighter. “Go around there.” She pointed to the far side of the pile. “Keep it low and wave it over the ground.”

Michelle hobbled off. “Ready?” she whispered.