A smile. "Thanks, Mom." Brynn watched her go and then called into the kitchen, "Where's Graham?"
"Was here. I don't know. Out back, I guess."
Water began to flow in the front bathroom. The pipes squealed.
Brynn went upstairs to get some clothes for Michelle. In the bedroom she looked at her matted hair, the cuts and bruises, the white bandage with its aureole of yellow and purple.
She replayed Comp's horrific death: the look on his face as he gazed at Hart, revealing pure betrayal.
Then the image of Hart's face looking back at her as he sped away in the stolen sedan, the image frozen over the bead sight of the pistol she held firmly.
You should've killed me....
She wanted a shower badly but she'd get clothes for Michelle first. She'd interview the young woman, then call Tom Dahl and the State Police and FBI with any new information about Emma Feldman or Hart or his partner that Michelle could recall--something that might lead to Mankewitz. Then she'd speed up to Gardener and bully the evidence through the crime lab.
Brynn found a T-shirt, sweats, the jeans, socks and a pair of running shoes. She'd get a garbage bag for Michelle to put her dirty clothes in. She supposed the designer items would have to be dry cleaned. She whiffed, smelled her own sweat, powerful. Smelled rusty blood too, mixed with the perfume of antiseptic.
In the kitchen the tea kettle started whistling, then stopped.
Listening to the whining pipes in the first-floor bathroom, Brynn rested her forehead against the cool glass of the window, looking out at Graham's truck. She was thinking of the evidence in the glove compartment, wondering how long it would take to get answers from the State Police lab in Gardener. Fingerprints could be done quickly now, thanks to the FBI's integrated identification system. Ballistics would take longer but Wisconsin had a good database that might be able to trace one of the slugs in Hart's or Comp's pistols to prior crimes. Which might in turn lead to a full identification...or at least to somebody who could be pressured to dime Hart out.
Not a single print on the brass...She sighed, shaking her head.
A thought occurred to her. Brynn sat down on the edge of the bed, absently poked her tummy, as she often did, and called Tom Dahl.
"How you doing?" he asked. "Exhausted, betcha."
"Not yet. Waiting for it to hit. Got a question."
"Sure thing."
"About the scene at Lake Mondac."
"Go ahead."
"You said Arlen's Crime Scene folks searched the house with a metal detector and all they recovered was brass, right?"
"Yep. Fancy thing. Not like what the tourists use looking for arrowheads."
"And no firearms?"
"Just brass and spent shells."
"You said they searched the streams?"
"Yep. Found some brass there too. It was everywhere. Place was a turkey shoot."
As I well know. "Now, Michelle said she picked up one of their guns. She shot Hart with it. And then the tires. She used up all the ammo and threw it in the stream."
"Wonder why nobody found it. Maybe it was one of those other creeks."
"I'd love to get my hands on it.... And I don't like the idea of unaccounted-for firearms. Anybody over at the house still?"
"Pete Gibbs's there. And Arlen has a couple of his boys. Might be somebody from Crime Scene too."
"Thanks, Tom."
"Wish you'd get some rest."
"All in good time."
She hung up and pulled on sweats, then called Gibbs at the Feldman house.
"Pete. It's me."
"Oh, hey, Brynn. How you doing?"
"Ugh."
"I hear that."
She asked if any Crime Scene people were still there.
"Yep. A couple of 'em."
"Do me a favor. See if anybody's recovered any pistols."
"Sure, hold on."
After a moment he came back on the line and reported that all they'd found were a few more shell casings that'd been missed last night. No weapons.
She sighed again. "Thanks. How you doing?" He sounded shaken. She assumed it was Munce's death, but there was another source.
"Kind of an unpleasant thing happened," he said ruefully. "I had to break the news to one of the Feldmans' friends. She hadn't heard. Man, I hate doing that. She broke down. Went totally bonkers."
"A friend?"
"Yeah. Took her nearly a hour to calm down. Though she was one lucky lady, I'll tell you. She was supposed to come up last night but something happened at work. She couldn't get on the road till this morning. Imagine if that hadn't happened."
"Where'd she drive up from?"
"Chicago."
"You get her number?"
"No. Didn't think to. Should I have?"
"I'll call you back."
Brynn sat back on the bed, considering this.
A second houseguest was coming to visit last night? Another woman, and also from Chicago?
Wasn't impossible. But wouldn't Michelle have mentioned her? And why wouldn't the two women drive up here together?
An absurd thought began unraveling...
Embarrassingly absurd.
Yet Brynn couldn't quite dismiss it. All right, she'd been assuming all night that Michelle was the Feldmans' houseguest. But when she considered the question now, she realized that she had no evidence that she actually was.
In fact, Brynn thought, what if she was a stranger who wanted to pretend she knew them? I gave her all the information she'd need to play the role. "Are you their friend from Chicago?" I asked her. "What's your name?" Which told her I didn't know anything about her. "Did you practice law with Emma?"
I'm an actress....
But, no, this was crazy. What would her motive be for lying?
Brynn gasped as another thought occurred to her, answering that question with horrifying clarity. On the interstate--at the Snake River Bridge--she'd recovered handguns from the men: Hart's Glock and Comp's SIG-Sauer. With the weapon that Michelle claimed to have found that meant the two men had brought three semiauto pistols and a shotgun.
Even for professional hit men that seemed excessive.
And why had Crime Scene found all that brass with the metal detector but not the missing pistol?
My Lord, what if the gun wasn't Hart's or Comp's, but Michelle's?
But why would she bring a gun with her?
One answer: because she'd been hired by Stanley Mankewitz to kill Emma Feldman and had brought along Hart and Comp, intending to kill them at the scene.
And leave their bodies behind, the fall guys.
Then Brynn recalled Michelle reaching into her jacket at the interstate. She wasn't reaching for the knife; she was going for the gun she'd been carrying with her all night.
Which meant she still had it.
On the first floor the pipes stopped squealing as Michelle shut off the water.
WITH A GRIMACE
toward the empty gun lockbox, Brynn ran into the hallway and stepped into Joey's room and took him by the shoulders. "Mom, what's wrong?" His eyes were wide.
"Listen to me, honey. We have a problem. You know how I tell you never to lock your door?"
"Uh-huh."
"Well, today's different. I want you to lock your door and not open it for any reason. Unless it's me or your stepdad or Grams."
"Mom, you look funny. I'm scared."
"It'll be okay. Just do what I tell you."
"Sure. What--"
"Just do it."
Brynn closed the door. She ran down the stairs as quietly as she could, intending to get to the only guns nearby: the ones in Graham's truck, sealed in evidence bags.
On the second-to-the-bottom step Brynn stopped. The bathroom door was open. No sign of Michelle.
Go for the truck or not?
"Tea'll be ready in just a moment," Anna called.
Brynn stepped into the ground-floor hall.
Just as Michelle walked through an archway four feet away.
In her hand was a small black automatic pistol. It was known as a baby Glock.
Their eyes met.
As the killer spun toward her, Brynn snagged a picture off the wall, a large family photo, and flung it at her. It missed but as she dodged, Brynn launched herself forward. The women collided hard, both grunting. Brynn fiercely gripped Michelle's right wrist, digging her short nails into the woman's skin as hard as she could.
Michelle cried out, striking Brynn's head with her free hand.
The gun discharged once, then, as Michelle lowered it toward the deputy's body, it fired three times more. All the slugs missed.
Anna screamed and called for Graham.
Brynn slammed a fist into Michelle's face. She blinked in pain and spit flew. Eyebrows narrowed, her mouth a taut grimace, Michelle kicked Brynn's groin and elbowed her in the belly. But Brynn wasn't letting go of the gun, nothing could make her do that. The anger of the terrible evening, fueled by this betrayal--and her own gullibility--burned within her. She flailed and kicked and growled the way she had when the wolf approached them in the woods.
The women grappled, knocking over furniture. Michelle fought furiously--no longer the helpless dilettante in the thousand-dollar boots. She was crazed, fighting for survival.
The gun fired again. Then several times more. Brynn was counting the rounds. Baby Glocks held ten bullets.
Another sharp crack--and the weapon was empty, the slide locking back automatically, awaiting a fresh clip of ammunition. The women went down on the floor, Brynn pounding the woman's head, aiming for her throat. Michelle fought back just as fiercely, though--muscles toned at a health club, if that story was true, and backed by pure desperation.
Still, there was no doubt in Brynn's mind that she was going to stop this woman, kill her if she had to, no doubt whatsoever. Using hands and teeth and feete... she was pure rage, pure animal.
You should've killed me....
Well, this time I won't make the same mistake.
Her fingers found Michelle's throat.
"Jesus, Brynn--" A man ran through the door and for a tiny portion of a second Brynn thought it was Hart. But by the time she realized it was her husband the distraction had had its effect. Michelle broke free and slammed the gun into Brynn's wounded cheek. The pain was so intense her vision clouded and she retched.
Michelle hit the lock on the gun and the receiver snapped shut. Though the gun was empty it appeared loaded and ready to fire. She aimed at Graham. "Keys. To your truck."
"What are you--? What?"
"Emmy, Emmy," Brynn muttered, clutching her face, clawing futilely at Michelle.
"I'll kill her." Shoving the gun into Brynn's neck. "The fucking keys!"
"No, no! Here, take them. Please! Just leave!"
"Emmy!"
Michelle grabbed the keys. And ran outside.
Graham dropped to his knees, pulling his cell phone out, and dialed 911. He cradled Brynn, who pulled away and climbed to her feet. She started to black out, swayed against the stair rail. "Emmy..."
"Who's Emmy?"
She forced herself to speak clearly through the pain. "Empty. The gun was empty."
"Shit." Graham ran to the door as his truck skidded down the street and vanished.
Brynn rose, then heard a soft voice from nearby: "Could somebody--"
Both Brynn and Graham turned toward the kitchen door, where Anna stood, her hands covered with blood.
"Please, could somebody...Look. Look at this."
And she spiraled to the floor.
ROWS OF ORANGE
plastic chairs in the corner of the brightly lit room. Walls and tiles scuffed. Graham sat across from Brynn, knees close but not touching. Their eyes were focused mostly on the linoleum and they looked up only from time to time when the double doors swung open. But the doctors and employees pushing through them were dealing with matters unrelated to Anna McKenzie's life.
Twining her fingers together, Brynn stared at her untouched coffee.
Sick with horror, sick with exhaustion.
Her phone quivered. She looked at the screen and muted the ringer, because she didn't want to take the call, not because of the No Cell Phone Use sign nearby.
A patient walked from the admitting window into the waiting area, sat down. Squeezed his arm and winced. He glanced once at Brynn and returned to his waiting state of numb silence.
"Been an hour," Graham said.
"Nearly."
"Long time. But that's not necessarily bad."
"No."
Silence again, broken by cryptic announcements over the hospital PA. Then Brynn's phone was vibrating again. This call she took. "Tom."
"Brynn, how's your mother?"
"We don't know yet. What do you have?"
"Okay. Michelle got through the roadblocks somehow. They haven't found your husband's truck."
Brynn hunched forward and pressed her injured cheek, as if the pain were payment for her misjudgment.
Dahl continued, "You were right. We found that friend who drove up from Chicago this morning. She was the only one coming to visit. Michelle, we guess, is a hit man.... Well, hit woman."
"Hired by Mankewitz or one of his people."
"What they're figuring," Dahl said.
"So Hart and Comp were supposed to be the bodies left behind."
"The what?"
"The bodies left behind.... She was going to make it look like they were the only killers and they got into a fight between themselves after the Feldmans were dead. So we wouldn't bother to look further. But it went bad. Hart reacted too fast or her gun jammed, who knows? She had to run. Then I found her in the woods." Brynn pinched the bridge of her nose. Her laugh was bitter. "And rescued her."
Another doctor came out, through the double doors. Brynn stopped talking. The physician, wearing blue scrubs, kept going.
Brynn was reflecting on the look that passed between Hart and the young woman at the interstate.
You came close, Michelle. Real close....
Hart's words to her by the highway had a whole different meaning, now that Brynn knew the truth.
And she recalled Michelle's shocked reaction when Brynn told her about meeting Hart in the van beside the meth cookers' camper. The woman would have been terrified that Hart had mentioned Michelle's real identity.
"And somebody from Mankewitz's crew was probably going to come pick her up when it was over. Hell, that's who was taking shots at us when we were on that cliff."
Brynn was aware that Graham was staring at her, taking in the conversation.
She continued to the sheriff, "She needed the evidence I'd brought with me--the guns and clips, the map, the boxes of ammunition. Her purse. That's why she was so willing to come back with us to our house. Something probably had her prints on them. Or trace evidence that might lead us to her. She'd planned to collect it at Lake Mondac after she'd killed Hart and his friend.... Wait, Tom. What about her shoes? A pair of women's shoes at the Feldmans' house? In the yard. Any prints?"
"Recovered them. But no prints."
"None?"
"Looks like they were wiped off, like the Ford. Wiped off with Windex."
A faint laugh. "She did that when I went for the canoe.... Brother, did she have me fooled." Brynn rubbed a knuckle against a faint bump on her rebuilt jaw, as she often did when thoughtful or upset. The betrayal stung her deeply. And she said in a soft voice, "I was supposed to be one too."
"What?"
"A body left behind. She was using me as bait. She didn't have a sprained ankle at all. She was moving slow to draw the men close. And she tried to keep them following in our direction all night. She broke the Mercedes window to set off the alarm--probably as the men were heading toward the highway. And complained about putting on those boots, made a big deal of it. She was stalling, trying to get them closer to us. And who knows what else? She had some crackers. I'll bet she dropped those." Brynn laughed sourly, shaking her head. "Once, she had this outburst, screamed li
ke a banshee. It was to let them know where we were. She was waiting for them to catch up. Then she'd shoot them in the woods. Me too."
"Well, Brynn, why didn't she, you know, just shoot you right up front?" Dahl asked.
"She needed me for insurance maybe, or to help her get out of the area. Most likely use me to help her kill them."
Aware that Graham had fallen silent, his jaw set, large hands clasped together.
Brynn told Tom she'd better go and asked him to call her if they found anything at all.
They disconnected and she turned to her husband to give him a summary of what had happened. He closed his eyes and rocked back. "That's okay," he said, cutting her off. "I got enough."
She touched his leg. He didn't respond. After a few minutes, she lifted her fingers away and called the neighbor where Joey was staying. She talked to her son for some moments, telling him the truth--that they didn't know anything yet about his grandmother. She let him ramble on about a video game he'd been playing. Brynn told him she loved him and hung up.
Husband and wife sat in silence. Brynn looked at her husband once then shifted her gaze down at the floor. Finally, after an eternity, he rested his hand on her knee. They remained that way, motionless, for some minutes--until a doctor came out of the double door. He looked at the man with the hurt arm and then walked directly toward Brynn and Graham.
HART GOT RID
of the car he'd hijacked on the interstate. He did this as efficiently as he knew how: He parked it in the Avenues West area of Milwaukee with the doors locked but the keys in the ignition. Some kids wouldn't notice and some would notice but think it was a sting and some--in the quickly redeveloping area--would notice but would do the right thing and pass the car by.
The car, however, would still be gone within one hour. And harvested for parts in twelve.
Head down, exhausted and in agony from the gunshot and the other trauma of the night, Hart walked quickly away from the vehicle. It was a cool morning, the sky clear. The smell of fires from construction site scrap teased his nose. His instincts were still running the show and were directing him underground as fast as possible.
Walking along the sparsely populated streets he found the Brewline Hotel, though it was nowhere near the Brewline. It was the sort of place that thrived on business by the hour or by the week but rarely by the day. He paid for one week in advance with a bonus for a private bath, and was given a remote control and a set of sheets. The overweight woman clerk took no notice of his physical condition or absence of luggage. He trooped up the two flights of stairs and into room 238. He locked the door, stripped and dumped his fetid clothes into a pile that reminded him very much of Brynn McKenzie's soaked uniform at the second house on Lake View Drive.