Jeffery Deaver - The Bodies Left Behind

Tanner liked the canoe idea, despite what Graham’d said. “Could’ve paddled across the lake and are hiding there. Or if they didn’t take the boat they could be up there.” He gestured at the steep hill behind the house; it was covered with vegetation.

Another trooper shrugged. “I’d vote for Six Eighty-two. They’d plan on flagging down a car or truck or getting to one of the houses along there. It’d take ’em a few hours but they could do it.”

Dahl felt the same.

Graham was shaking his head.

“What?” Dahl asked.

“I don’t think she’d go that way, Tom. Not if those men were still around.”

“The highway’s the closest to safety for them,” Dahl said. He was inclined to believe the men were in the area here and moving slowly toward the highway.

“Brynn wouldn’t lead them to anybody’s house. Not out here. She wouldn’t endanger anybody innocent. She’d keep running. And she wouldn’t hide either.”

“Why not?” Tanner asked.

“Because she wouldn’t.”

“I don’t know, Graham,” Dahl said. “Okay, she might not go to a house but she could flag down a car.”

“And how many did you see on the road when you drove up? I saw a hundred deer and one Chevrolet. She knows how deserted it is round here.”

“Well, whatta you think she did, Graham?” Munce asked.

“Headed into the park itself. Straight into the middle.”

“But she’d know none of the ranger stations’re open this time of year.”

“But they have phones, don’t they?”

“They’re not working if they’re closed for the season.”

“Well, pay phones.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

Tapping the map. “I’m not even sure she’d go for a ranger station. I think maybe she’d make for the interstate.” His finger tapped the Snake River Gorge Bridge.

Arlen Tanner was looking over the map. “All respect, Mr. Boyd, that’s a lotta ground to cover. How’d they find their way? We’ve had people lost in this place for nearly a week. It’s thousands and thousands of acres. And it’s pretty rough, a lot of it. Caves, drop-offs, swamps.”

“That’s exactly what she’d want.” Graham countered. “The harder, the better. If those men are after them. Put her more in control.”

One of the troopers, looking like a big, buff soldier, offered, “That’s, what? Seven, eight miles from here. It’s mostly off-trail. And the gorge is one of the most dangerous places in the park.”

“All respect,” Tanner announced, “the odds are they’re going to be hiding around here somewhere. Or hiking back to the highway. That’s the logical approach.”

Dahl said, “I agree with Arlen, Graham. I know her too but nobody’d strike out in that direction. She’d never find her way, even with GPS and a map and in daylight. I think for now we’ve got to concentrate around here. And Six Eighty-two.”

“At least send a few people into the park at the Snake River Gorge, Tom,” Graham insisted.

“We just don’t have the manpower, Graham. I can’t send volunteers, not with those men out there. Has to be armed troopers or deputies. Now go on home, Graham. Joey’s going to be worried. He’s got to know you’re there for him. I’m talking as a father now. Not a cop… I promise, your number’s the first one I call, we find anything.”

Eric Munce walked Graham back to his truck.

Dahl stood on the porch and looked out over the chaos of the front yard: the lights, the law enforcers, the police cars, an ambulance useful only as a taxi ride for two dead bodies. The victims’ friend, Paskell, had joined Graham and Munce. They shook hands and seemed to be sharing mutual sympathy.

As he turned back to the map to organize the search parties, Dahl thought a short prayer that ended with: And bring Brynn home to us, if you please.

STEAM OR SMOKE or both rose from the van. But even if it was burning it wouldn’t blow up.

They never did.

Brynn McKenzie lay on her back, breathing hard, locating pain and thinking: In the movies every car that crashes blows up. In real life they never do. She’d run probably a hundred highway accidents. Including four fires that wholly immolated the vehicles. The cars or trucks burned furiously but none of them had ever actually exploded.

Which hadn’t stopped her escaping as fast as she could through the gap where the windshield had been-moving like a caterpillar with her hands taped, scrunching along painfully over glass and rocks-and putting as much distance between herself and the shattered van as possible. She’d paused only to turn her back to Hart’s map and grab it, then crumple it into a ball.

She was now about twenty feet from the vehicle, which lay on its side at the foot of the steep hill they’d tumbled down sideways-that orientation had probably saved her life. Had they kept going forward, over the drop, the airbags would have come and gone with first impact and the final drop would have fired them out through the windshield and underneath the tumbling vehicle.

As it was, Hart ironically might have saved her life. She recalled how he’d broken her fall as she’d slammed into him, smelling of aftershave, smoke and bleach.

She was hurting in various places but she tested the important appendages. They all seemed to work. It was odd not having the use of her hands, still taped behind her, to evaluate injuries. The wound in her cheek, and the gum where the tooth had been, still won the pain award. The throbbing had claimed everything north of her shoulders.

Where was Hart? She couldn’t see him.

She looked to the top of the hill-it seemed very far away-where there was a faint light from the camper. She could hear Hart’s partner calling him. He’d undoubtedly heard the crash but couldn’t see the van, which had rolled through tall stands of brush.

They hadn’t fallen all the way to the bottom of the ravine. The van was resting on a flat area about twenty feet wide, at the edge of which was another drop-about thirty feet down, she estimated-to a fast-moving stream.

She told herself: Your legs’re working fine. Get up.

Only she couldn’t. Not with her hands taped. She couldn’t find any leverage.

“Fuck.” A word she’d said perhaps only a dozen times in her life.

Finally she tucked her knees up and managed to roll onto them, facedown, and then rose, staggering upright. She slipped the map into the back waistband of her sweats and looked around quickly for Hart.

And there he was. He’d been thrown free-which is usually the way she described the demise of a crash victim who wasn’t wearing his seat belt and had rag-dolled against a tree or signpost. He lay on his back on the other side of the van. His eyes were closed but his leg was moving, his head lolling slightly.

His black Glock lay about fifteen feet from him.

She decided she could kick the weapon forward like one of Joey’s soccer balls until she was safely away then drop to her knees and pick it up, then crawl upright again.

But starting for the weapon, Brynn had heard a whimper. She spun around and saw Amy-the little blond girl, in her dirty white T-shirt and denim skirt, clutching her toy. She was running down the hill in a panic. Maybe Hart’s partner had scared her and she’d fled from the camper.

Brynn was between her and Hart, who was coming to consciousness. His eyes were closed. But his fingers were clenching and unclenching. He moaned.

The girl was nearly at the foot of the hill, running blindly, crying. In ten seconds she’d be over the edge of the ravine.

“Amy! Stop!”

She didn’t hear or if she did she paid no attention.

A glance back toward Hart. He was trying to sit up, looking around, though he hadn’t seen her yet.