Jeffery Deaver - The Bodies Left Behind

“My job. That’s what she is.”

“How important can a job be?”

Brynn, wrinkling her brow cynically-and with pain. “You know the answer to that.”

He began to speak then stopped. Tilted his head in concession.

“You might’ve talked to my husband but you don’t know him. He’ll’ve put things in motion by now. He’s not falling asleep after the ten o’clock news.”

Again, disappointment in his face. “That’s a lie, Brynn.”

She inhaled slowly. “Maybe it is,” she found herself saying. “So. Okay. No more lies, Hart. Graham might’ve gone to sleep. But he’ll wake up about four A.M. for the bathroom. Which he does like clockwork. And when I’m not there he’ll call my boss, and his first call’ll be to mobilize the State Police. You have some time but not a lot. And not nearly enough for you to get me to tell you where she is. And that’s not a lie.”

“Okay, what we could do is…” His voice faded.

Brynn laughed. “You were going to lie to me, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, I was.” He grinned.

“Going to give me some hope, right?”

“Yep. But it felt wrong.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a map. Opened it and spread it between them. He located the faint road where they were. Flicked on the overhead light. “Where is she, Brynn?”

She noted the tiny blue dot that was the lake where Michelle waited. She said, “I’m not telling you.”

He shook his head. “Well, I won’t hurt you. That’s not dignified. And your family’s safe.”

“I know that.”

He drew his gun. Glanced at it. “But…you understand.”

He’s reluctant to shoot, she thought, surprised. But shoot he would. In a curious way, though, she felt that she’d won this part of the game. And she felt too, with a deep pang, that she’d also lost. Not because of her death. But for a dozen reasons that hovered far outside this van, this forest, this park.

The silence was awkward, like that surrounding a couple near the end of their first date.

“Hart, this is your last chance.”

He laughed.

“Call nine-one-one. I meant what I said. I’ll ask the DA to be lenient. No more lies between us, Hart. I mean it.”

His head was down, he was caressing the black gun absently.

“You going to surrender?” she persisted.

“You know I can’t.”

They exchanged rueful smiles.

Then a faint frown crossed Hart’s face as he glanced out the window. “What-?”

The van was moving, easing downhill and picking up speed.

In the moments just before he’d climbed inside she’d shifted the transmission into neutral with her bound hands, disengaged the emergency foot brake and then sat back. As they’d been talking she’d kept her foot on the main brake pedal. Finally when it was clear she couldn’t talk him into giving up she’d lifted her foot. The van, pointed downhill, surged forward. It now bounded over a railroad tie parking barrier in the lot and began careening down the steep hillside filled with brush and saplings.

“Christ,” Hart muttered. He grabbed for the wheel and transmission lever but Brynn slammed herself sideways, colliding with his bad arm. He shouted in pain.

The vehicle sped up, crashing into rocks, which made it veer to the left, then, going a good twenty miles an hour, rolled on its side, the passenger window exploding inward.

As Brynn pitched hard into Hart’s chest, the van began to tumble madly down the endless hillside.

BY THE TIME Tom Dahl drove Graham Boyd back to the Feldmans’ house, two State Police cars, lights flashing, were bounding up rough Lake View Drive. They made the turn fast, churning up dust, and hurried along the driveway. The six troopers climbed out.

Graham shook Dahl’s hand solemnly and wandered off to his truck, pulling his phone from his pocket. Dahl joined the WSP’s night watch commander, Arlen Tanner, a big man with a mustache. He and the sheriff had worked together for years. Dahl briefed him and the other men.

Tanner said, “Crime Scene’ll be here in a half hour. So it’s a search and rescue?”

“That’s right, Arlen. We’ve got teams from Humboldt and a half dozen troopers from Gardener coming. Barlow County’ll send some too.”

“Woke up our two divers. They’re on the way.”

“I’m not sure we’ll need ’em. It’s likely our officer got out of the car and hooked up with a friend of the victims. They’re in the woods around here someplace. But we’re pretty sure the two shooters’re after them.”

Dahl had a phone call. The area code told him it was coming in from the Kenosha area. He frowned. Take it or not?

Hell. Better.

“Sheriff Dahl here.”

A somber voice on the other end of the line said, “Sheriff, this’s Andrew Sheridan…” He said this as if Dahl ought to know.

Uncertainly the sheriff said, “Yessir?”

“I worked with Emma Feldman. I just heard.”

Oh. That was it. After discovering the bodies, Dahl had called the law firm assistant and gotten the name of several partners Emma Feldman regularly worked with. He’d taken a deep breath and delivered the news. Word would travel fast, of course, in those circles.

“I’m sorry, sir. Sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

They talked for a moment or two, Dahl giving away what he could, which wasn’t much. Sheridan finally got down to business. “Sheriff, this is a hard time for everybody. But I have to ask you something. About Emma’s files. She had some with her, didn’t she?”

“Yessir, she did.”

“Are you going to want them for evidence?”

“Yes, they’ll have to be processed. It looks like somebody went through them.”

“What? Who?”

Dahl lifted eyebrows apologetically to Arlen Tanner. “Just be a minute,” he whispered. Then into the phone: “We aren’t sure, sir.”

“So we can’t have them back?”

“Not yet. No.”

“Do you know when we can?”

“I can’t say at this time.”

“Then can I ask that you secure them somehow?”

“As evidence, they’ll be locked up, sir.”

A hesitation. “It’s nothing critical, but we worry about trade secrets and issues like that. You understand.”

No, he didn’t. But he said, “We’ll make sure they’ll be safe.”

“Well, thank you, Sheriff. If there’s anything I can do, anything at all, just let me know.”

Yep, let me do my job.

They disconnected. Dahl was irritated but couldn’t really blame the man. The practicality of his call didn’t mean he wasn’t mourning. Like Dahl, Sheridan had a job to do.

The sheriff’s radio crackled again. Then he heard: “More company’s coming, Sheriff.”

“Rescue team, tow truck?”

“No, private car.”

“Get the tag?”

“Wisconsin. All I saw.”

“Okay.”

The sedan slowed and turned toward 3 Lake View, the house lit up like the Titanic in her last hours, Dahl decided, having just seen the movie with his wife. He waved the car to a stop with his flashlight and asked the driver to get out. The businessman, in his midthirties or so, stared at the tableau, his face etched with concern. He climbed out. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

Tanner deferred to Dahl, who said, “Could I see some ID, sir? What’s your name?”

“Ari Paskell.” He offered his driver’s license to the State Police commander, who handed it to one of his troopers to check out.

“Please, what’s going on?”

“What’s your business here?”

“Business? I was coming to spend the weekend with Emma and Steve! What’s going on? I’ve been calling them all night and can’t get through.”

“How do you know them?”