Jeffery Deaver - The Bodies Left Behind

“Steve and I are friends. We used to work together. He invited me to spend the weekend. Are they all right?”

Dahl glanced at Graham, who was staring into the woods. How I hate this, the sheriff thought. He then noticed the trooper in the front seat of his squad car. He nodded, meaning that the man’s license and tag checked out. Dahl lowered his voice, “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, sir. But there’s been a crime. The Feldmans were, well, they were the victims of a homicide tonight.”

“My God, no! But, no, you can’t be right… I just talked to Steve this afternoon.”

“I’m afraid there’s no doubt.”

“No,” he gasped. “But…no. You’re wrong!” His face went even paler than it had been.

Dahl wondered if he was going to slip into hysteria. It happened pretty frequently at times like this, even with the toughest folks, which this fellow didn’t seem to be.

“I’m sorry.”

“But it can’t be.” The man’s eyes were wide, hands shaking. “I brought them their favorite beer. And I got fresh bratwurst. I mean, the kind we always have.” His voice cracked. “I got them a few hours ago. I stopped in…” He lowered his head. In a defeated voice he said, “Are you sure about this?”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Paskell leaned against his car, saying nothing, just staring at the house. He’d be reliving memories, pleasant ones, of events that there’d be no repeat of.

Munce joined them.

“What happened?” Paskell whispered. “Who did it?”

“We don’t know. Now, Mr. Paskell-”

“But they’re not rich. Who’d rob them?”

“Mr. Paskell, do you know who the other houseguest is? All we know is she’s a woman from Chicago used to work with Emma.”

He shook his head. “No, they said somebody else’d be visiting. I don’t know who.”

“I think you should head back home, sir. Or get a motel if you’re too tired or upset to drive. There’re some past Clausen on Six Eighty-two. There’s nothing you can do here now.”

He didn’t seem to hear. He was frowning.

Dahl paid a bit more attention and, like he always did with witnesses, gave him time to play the thought to the surface.

“This is probably crazy…” He cocked his head. “Just a thought.”

Usually civilians’ suggestions were crazy. But sometimes they led to the killer’s front door. Dahl said, “Go on.”

“Steven was talking to me, this was last fall?”

“Yessir?”

“And he said he’d had a run-in with a man up here. At one of the stores. A big guy. A local, Steve said. Some stupid thing, about nearly bumping cars in the lot. The guy went crazy. Followed him home, threatened him.”

“He give you any details?”

“No. Just he lived around here and he was pretty big. Three hundred pounds.”

Munce looked at Dahl, shaking his head. “Doesn’t seem like the perp. It was two of them, and nobody was that big, to judge from the footprints. Did he give you a name or description?”

“No, it was just one of those stories: this scary thing happened to me, you know. But he was shook up. No question. I mean, the man came right to the house. If there were more than one maybe the big man brought his friends and they…well, they hurt Steve and Emma. While he waited in the car.”

If Dahl had a dollar for every conflict in a parking lot that could have turned violent but didn’t, he’d be rich. He asked, “Could you give me your number, Mr. Paskell? We may want to ask you a few questions.”

Paskell was looking at the car, where the groceries bought specially for his friends sat, soon to be discarded. Would he throw them out in anger or despair? Despite his benign appearance, the man was, Dahl figured, a rager. “Mr. Paskell?”

He still wasn’t listening. Then the sheriff asked again and the friend blinked. “My number. Yeah, sure.” He recited it for Dahl.

Brawny Tanner stroked his mustache and looked at the sheriff, his expression saying, It never gets any easier, does it?

“Are you all right to drive?” Dahl asked.

“A few minutes.” He was gazing at the house. “Just a few minutes.”

“Sure. You take your time.”

The businessman, his face a mask, pulled out his phone. He rubbed it between thumb and finger, delaying making calls to friends. Dahl left him to the agonizing task.

Prescott and Gibbs were putting up crime scene tape. Munce reported that the three deputies had gotten a “ways” into the woods and had lost all trace of the women’s trail.

“Whatta you think about that big local?” Tanner asked Dahl.

“Doesn’t set off fireworks for me. But we’ll keep it in mind. Get me a map. Anybody got a map? And spotlights?”

Maps yes, spots no, so they walked up the steps to the front porch, whose overhead light was blazing and attracting the first few bugs of the season. One deputy produced the large map of the area and set it on a wooden café table on the porch, moved the chairs back. The houses here weren’t depicted but Lake View Drive was, a narrow yellow line. Lake Mondac was on one side and on the other was a vast mass of green, Marquette State Park. Elevations and trails were shown, ranger stations, parking lots and a few of the scenic highlights: Natural Bridge, Devil’s Deep, the Snake River Gorge.

Tens of thousands of acres.

Dahl looked at his battered Timex. “Give them five, six hours since the murder. How far could Brynn and the girl get? In that brush, at night, not very.” His leg hurt like the dickens.

Prescott ambled up. “Found something by the garage, Sheriff.”

The troopers eyed the deputy’s bulk. He nodded at them, as confident as any twenty-seven-year-old could be.

“What’s that?”

“Found a tarp, the sort you’d cover a canoe with. And drag marks leading to that stream. It runs into the lake.”

“Footprints?”

“Couldn’t tell. It’s grass and gravel. But the skids could be fresh. And I looked in the garage. There’s only one life vest. No paddles. I’ll bet they took the boat.”

Dahl looked over the map. “No streams or rivers flowing out of the lake. They could get as far as the opposite shore but then they’d have to hoof it.”

“They have the boots for it,” Munce pointed out. “Swapping footgear.”

Dahl noticed that Graham still hadn’t left yet, but was hanging back, eyes on the dark woods.

“Graham, you help us out here?”

He joined them and accepted various measures of sympathy from the other law enforcers after introductions were made and they learned it was his wife who was missing.

Dahl explained about the canoe.

Graham shook his head. “I don’t think it was Brynn who took it.”

“Why not?”

“She hated boats. Hated water.”

“Well,” Commander Arlen Tanner pointed out, “was a pretty extreme situation. She might’ve made an exception.”

“Only if there was no other way to go.”

Dahl asked, “Did Brynn know the state park good?”

“Some. And I saw her in the car before she left, looking over her map. She always does that. Prepares, you know. She and her ex came here a few times. She and I’ve never been.”

Munce said, “Brynn and me were on a search and recovery here a while ago.” He was frowning and tense, as if there was something he’d been meaning to bring up. “Gotta say, Tom. Don’t know why you didn’t have me come up here. I wasn’t but twenty minutes away.”

“Thought you were busy. On that grand theft case.”

“No, no. Didn’t you hear? That was a mistake. I would’ve come.”

Dahl continued to examine the map. “We know she got dry clothes and she hooked up with that friend of the Feldmans. They came back to the house here, got boots and then took off. But which way?”