Jeffery Deaver - The Bodies Left Behind

He was nodding slowly. “Cheating, ah…Did you ask me about it? Did you sit down and say, ‘Honey, we have a problem, I’m concerned, let’s talk about it? Get it worked out’?”

“I-”

“You know your mother told me about what Keith did. To your face. You know my first reaction? Oh, my God, that explains so much. How could I be mad at you? But then I realized that, hell, yes, I could be mad. I should be mad. And you should have told me. I deserved to be told.”

Brynn had considered telling him a hundred times. Yet she’d made up a bullshit story about a car crash. She thought now: But how could I tell him? That somebody flew into a rage and hit me. That I cried off and on for months afterward. That I cringed at the sound of his voice. That I broke into a hundred pieces like a child. I was ashamed that I didn’t leave him, just bundle Joey up and walk out the door.

That I was afraid. That I was weak.

And that my delaying would have even more horrific consequences.

Keith…

But even now she couldn’t tell him exactly what had happened.

And here, she understood, was a clue to the crime she’d committed against Graham, against the two of them: her silence, this inability to talk. Yet she felt that whatever the clue led to, even if she managed to figure it out, the solution would come too late. It was like finding conclusive evidence as to a killer’s identity, only to discover that the perp had already died of natural causes.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But you still…” Her voice faded as she watched him pulling his wallet from his slacks, fishing in it. She watched, obsessively touching the bandage on her cheek.

Jesus. Was it his lover’s picture? she wondered.

He handed her a small white card.

Brynn squinted; the cheek wound made reading difficult out of her right, her stronger, eye.

She stared at the raised type: Sandra Weinstein, M.D., LLC. 2942 Albemarle Avenue, Ste. 302, Humboldt, Wisconsin. Handwritten at the bottom was: Friday 7:30, April 17. Brynn began, “She’s a-”

“Therapist. Psychiatrist…Shrink.”

“You-”

“You saw us near the motel, Brynn, but not at the motel. She’s in the professional building next door. I’m usually her last patient at night. Sometimes we leave the office at the same time. That’s probably when you saw us.”

Brynn flicked the card.

“Call her. Go see her. I’ll give her permission to tell you all about it. Please, go talk to her. Help me figure out why you love the job more than me. Why you’d rather be in your squad car than at home. Help me figure out how to be a father to a son you won’t let me near. Why you got married to me in the first place. Maybe you two can figure it out. I sure can’t.”

Brynn offered lamely, “But why didn’t you tell me? Ask me to go with you to counseling? I would have!” She meant this.

He lowered his head. And she realized she’d touched a painful spot-like her tongue probing the gum where her tooth had once been.

“I should have. Sandra keeps suggesting it. I almost asked you a dozen times. I couldn’t.”

“But why?”

“Afraid of what you’d do. Give up on us, think I was being too demanding, walk out the door. Or take control and I’d get lost in the shuffle…Make it seem like there was no problem at all.” He shrugged. “I should have asked you. I couldn’t. But look, Brynn, the time for that has passed. You’re you, I’m me. Apples and oranges. We’re so different. It’s best for both of us.”

“But it’s not too late. Don’t judge by last night. This was…this was a nightmare.”

Then, astonishing her, he snapped. He shoved the chair back and leapt to his feet. The beer bottle fell, spewing foam over the plates. The easygoing man was now enraged. Brynn froze inside, replaying those nights with Keith. Her hand rose to her jaw. She knew that Graham wouldn’t hurt her. Still, she couldn’t help the defensive gesture. She blinked up at him and saw the wolf hovering nearby in the state park.

Yet, she realized the rage wasn’t at her. It was, she believed, directed purely at himself. “But I have to judge by last night. That’s what did it, Brynn. Last night…”

What he’d said before. He wasn’t planning on leaving until then. What did he mean? “I don’t understand.”

He inhaled deeply. “Eric.”

“Eric Munce?”

“He’s dead because of me.”

“You? No, no, we all knew he was reckless. Whatever happened didn’t have anything to do with you.”

“Yes, it did! It had everything to do with me.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I used him!” His own jaw, square and perfect, was trembling. “I know you all thought he was a cowboy. Last night nobody was going to look for you at the interstate. But I knew you’d go that way. So I told Eric if he wanted to see some action he ought to come with me. That’s where the killers were headed.” Graham shook his head. “I threw that out like it was a hunting dog’s favorite treat… And he’s dead because of me. Because I went someplace I had no business going. And I have to live with that forever.”

She leaned forward. He recoiled from her hand. She sat back and asked, “Why, Graham? Why did you come, then?”

He gave a cold laugh. “Oh, Brynn. I plant trees and flowers for a living. You carry a gun and do high-speed chases. I want to watch TV at night; you want to study the latest drug-testing kits. I can’t compete with your life. I sure can’t in Joey’s eyes…Last night, I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. Maybe that there was some gunfighter deep inside me. I could prove myself. But that was a joke. All I did was get another human being killed… No goddamn business going out there. And I have no business here. You don’t want me, Brynn. You sure don’t need me.”

“No, honey, no…”

“Yes,” he whispered. Then held up a hand. The gesture meant: enough, no more.

He gripped her arm and squeezed softly. “Let’s get some sleep.”

As Graham went upstairs Brynn absently daubed at the spilled beer until the paper napkins disintegrated. She got a dish towel and finished the job. With another she tried to stanch the tears.

She heard his footsteps coming downstairs again. He was carrying a pillow and blanket. Without a glance her way, he walked to the green couch, made up a bed and closed the family room door.

“ALL DONE, MA’AM.”

Brynn peered over at the painter, who was gesturing toward the living room and its repaired ceiling and walls.

“What do I owe you?” She peered around as if a checkbook floated nearby.

“Sam’ll send you a bill. You’re good for it. We trust you.” He gestured at her uniform. Smiled then stopped. “The funeral’s tomorrow? Deputy Munce?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m sorry about what happened. My son painted his garage. The deputy was very civil to him. Some people aren’t. They gave him an iced tea… I’m sorry.”

A nod.

After the painter left she continued to stare at the blank walls. No trace of the 9mm holes remained. She thought she should put up the pictures once more. But she didn’t have the energy. The house was completely silent.

She looked over a list of things she had to do-calls to return, evidence to follow up on, interviews to conduct. Someone named Andrew Sheridan had called twice-he had some business connection with Emma Feldman and was asking about the files recovered from the house in Lake Mondac. She wondered what that was about. And somebody from the state’s attorney’s office had heard from the couple injured when their SUV overturned on the interstate. They were suing. The owner of the house at 2 Lake View had made a claim too. The ammonia had ruined the floor. Bullet holes too, of course. She needed to file a report. She’d delay that as long as she could.