Jeffery Deaver - The Bodies Left Behind

But he kept Munce’s pistol. He looked at it closely. There are no safeties as such on Glocks. You just point and shoot. Graham knew this; Brynn had instructed him and Joey about how to load and fire hers. Just in case. He fired a shot into the ground, presumably to make sure it was loaded and cocked.

“Graham!”

He ignored his wife. In a low, threatening tone he asked Hart, “Who’d I talk to when I called? The dead one or you?”

“It was me,” Hart said.

Graham turned the square automatic on Hart, who gazed past the muzzle, his gray eyes calm.

“Graham,” she whispered. “Everything’s going to be fine now. Help me, honey. I need some plastic hand restraints. Look in the glove compartment.”

Her husband continued to stare into Hart’s eyes. The gun pointed unwaveringly at his head. The trigger poundage was very light. A twitch was enough to release a round.

“Graham? Honey?…Please.” There was desperation in her voice. If he fired it would be murder. “Please.”

The big man took a deep breath. He lowered the gun. Finally he said, “Where? The restraints?”

“Graham, please, give me the gun.”

“Where are they?” he snapped angrily. He kept the pistol. Brynn noticed Hart smiling at her.

She ignored it and answered her husband, “The glove compartment.”

He stepped to the car. “I don’t see any.”

“Try the trunk. They’ll be in a plastic bag. Maybe a box. But first, call it in. The radio’s on the dash. Just push the button, say who you are, say ten-thirteen and then give the location. The engine doesn’t have to be on.”

Staring at Hart, Graham picked up the microphone and made the call. Frantic responses came from a half dozen deputies and troopers but, bless him, he said only what was necessary: location and the situation. He dropped the mike on the seat and popped the trunk.

Hart kept his eyes on Michelle, who stared back with pure hatred. He smiled. “You came close, Michelle. Real close.”

She said nothing. Then he turned to Brynn and, in a voice that only she could hear, asked, “At the camper back there, after you crashed the van?” He nodded at the vastness they’d just come through. “When I was out of it, just lying there. You saw me, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“My piece was nearby. Did you see that too?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you go for it?”

“The little girl was going to fall. I went after her instead.”

“One of those hard choices.” He nodded “They do present themselves at the worst possible times, don’t they?”

“If they didn’t, then they wouldn’t be hard choices, would they?”

He gave a faint laugh at this. “Well, say the girl hadn’t been there. Would you have taken my piece and killed me? Shot me while I was out?” He cocked his head and said softly, “Tell the truth…no lies between us, Brynn. No lies. Would you have killed me?”

She hesitated.

“You thought about it, didn’t you?” He smiled.

“I thought about it.”

“You should have. You should’ve killed me. I would’ve, it’d been you. And you and me…we’re peas in a pod.”

Brynn glanced at Graham, who couldn’t hear the exchange.

“There have to be a few differences between us, Hart.”

“But that’s not one of ’em… You’re saying you would just’ve arrested me?”

“You forget. I already had.”

Another smile, both his mouth and his gray eyes.

A truck roared past. An occasional car.

Then Graham called, “I’ve got them.”

Which was all Hart needed. As Brynn glanced up he sprang to his feet. He wasn’t close enough to get to her-Brynn had made sure of that. But that wasn’t his intent. He jumped over the body of his partner and sprinted the twenty feet to the highway. Brynn’s shot missed him by an inch. She couldn’t fire again because of the oncoming cars. Not even looking, Hart sprinted into traffic, an act of pure faith. He could have been killed instantly.

He made it to the center lane, froze, then leapt aside as the driver of a Toyota SUV swerved in panic. The vehicle rolled onto its left side and, in a shower of sparks and a hideous screech, skidded along the shoulder and right lane, missing the women and the child by feet. They dove to the ground, pure instinct.

The SUV jettisoned plastic and glass and metal bits and finally came to a rest, the horn wailing and airbag dust rising from the empty window frames.

A dozen other cars and trucks skidded to a stop. And before Brynn could draw another target on Hart, he’d run into the far lane, leapt over the hood of a stopped sedan, dragged out the driver-a man in a suit-and climbed in. He sped onto the median and accelerated past the stopped cars then into the lane again. Brynn aimed Munce’s revolver but had only a brief clear target-between two good Samaritans climbing out of their vehicles-and she wouldn’t risk injuring them.

She lowered the gun and ran to the Highlander to help the occupants.

A WITNESS TO the carnage, James Jasons crouched in fragrant bushes a hundred yards down the highway from where the SUV lay on its side.

Sirens sounded in the distance.

He believed he saw Graham Boyd helping some of the injured. The absence of the uniformed deputy, Munce, might explain the gunshot he’d heard earlier from deep within the forest.

The sirens grew closer as he dismantled his gun and put it in the canvas bag. The traffic on this side of the highway was at a standstill. On the other side the cars and trucks were still moving but slowly, as voyeurs strained to see what had happened.

As if there was an explanation for these bizarre events.

One of the killers apparently lay dead-his body now covered by a tarp-and the other had escaped, but there seemed to be no other serious injuries.

Jasons had been partially successful. There was nothing to do but leave.

With his cap low over his eyes he walked through the stopped line of traffic and onto the median. It took a bit more dancing but the gawkers let him through three lanes without his even having to run. Though once on the other side he moved quickly into the woods to make sure none of the law enforcers noticed him. He sprinted to his Lexus.

Jasons started it up and eased out onto the shoulder then accelerated to the speed of traffic-it was only about thirty miles an hour-and merged. He pulled the satellite phone from the bag, which was now on the seat next to him, and scrolled through speed dial. He went past his partner’s name, and then his mother’s and pushed the third button on the list.

Even though it was very early in the morning, Stanley Mankewitz answered on the second ring.

“NO ID.”

Brynn glanced up from the back step of the ambulance, where she sat next to Graham.

Tom Dahl was referring to Comp, the man shot and killed by Hart. His partner. Of all the horrors that night perhaps the worst was the look of betrayal in the young man’s face just before Hart pulled the trigger.

“We got money, a couple boxes of ammo, cigarettes, gloves, Seiko watch. That’s it.” They’d recovered Michelle’s purse too, which might contain the men’s fingerprints. Dahl would send officers to find Comp’s shotgun in the brambles and Eric Munce’s, which Graham explained was in the river.

Brynn’s husband had told the story of how he’d tried to retrieve it but had fallen in the process. He’d landed on a shelf of rock, bruised and scraped but otherwise unhurt. He’d then climbed up the cliff face and was walking back past Eric Munce’s body when he recalled that the man was wearing an ankle holster with a backup revolver in it. He’d taken the gun and hurried toward where he’d heard the gunshot.

“What was his name?” the sheriff asked, looking at the man’s body, covered by a green tarp and lying nearby.