The Jeffery Deaver Suspense Collection
The woods around Lake Mondac were as quiet as could be, a world of difference from the churning, chaotic city where the couple spent their weekdays.
Silence, broken only by an occasional a-hoo-ah of a distant bird, the hollow siren of a frog.
And now: another sound. A shuffle of leaves, two impatient snaps of branch or twig. Footsteps? No, that couldn't be. The other vacation houses beside the lake were deserted on this cool Friday afternoon in April.
Emma Feldman, in her early thirties, set down her martini on the kitchen table, where she sat across from her husband. She tucked a strand of curly black hair behind her ear and walked to one of the grimy kitchen windows. She saw nothing but dense clusters of cedar, juniper and black spruce rising up a steep hill, whose rocks resembled cracked yellow bone.
Her husband lifted an eyebrow. "What was it?"
She shrugged and returned to her chair. "I don't know. Didn't see anything."
Outside, silence again.
Emma, lean as any stark, white birch outside one of the many windows of the vacation house, shook off her blue jacket. She was wearing the matching skirt and a white blouse.
Lawyer clothes. Hair in a bun. Lawyer hair. Stockings but shoeless.
Steven, turning his attention to the bar, had abandoned his jacket as well, and a wrinkled striped tie. The thirty-six-year-old, with a full head of unruly hair, was in a blue shirt and his belly protruded inexorably over the belt of his navy slacks. Emma didn't care; she thought he was cute and always would.
"And look what I got," he said, nodding toward the upstairs guest room and unbagging a large bottle of pulpy organic vegetable juice. Their friend, visiting from Chicago this weekend, had been flirting with liquid diets lately, drinking the most disgusting things.
Emma read the ingredients and wrinkled her nose. "It's all hers. I'll stick with vodka."
"Why I love you."
The house creaked, as it often did. The place was seventy-six years old. It featured an abundance of wood and a scarcity of steel and stone. The kitchen, where they stood, was angular and paneled in glowing yellow pine. The floor was lumpy. The colonial structure was one of three houses on this private road, each squatting on ten acres. It could be called lakefront property but only because the lake lapped at a rocky shore two hundred yards from the front door.
The house was plopped down in a small clearing on the east side of a substantial elevation. Midwest reserve kept people from labeling these hills "mountains" here in Wisconsin, though it rose easily seven or eight hundred feet into the air. At the moment the big house was bathed in blue late-afternoon shadows.
Emma gazed out at rippling Lake Mondac, far enough from the hill to catch some descending sun. Now, in early spring, the surrounding area was scruffy, reminding of wet hackles rising from a guard dog's back. The house was much nicer than they could otherwise afford -- they'd bought it through foreclosure-and she knew from the moment she'd seen it that this was the perfect vacation house.
Silence...
The colonial also had a pretty colorful history.
The owner of a big meatpacking company in Chicago had built the place before World War II. It was discovered years later that much of his fortune had come from selling black-market meat, circumventing the rationing system that limited foods here at home to make sure the troops were nourished. In 1956 the man's body was found floating in the lake; he was possibly the victim of veterans who had learned of his scheme and killed him, then searched the house, looking for the illicit cash he'd hidden here.
No ghosts figured in any version of the death, though Emma and Steven couldn't keep from embellishing. When guests were staying here they'd gleefully take note of who kept the bathroom lights on and who braved the dark after hearing the tales.
Two more snaps outside. Then a third.
Rudy was looking Brynn over carefully with a disgusted visage. "Well, fuck me. Police?
I don't want to burn this place too. Fuck, I don't want to do that. After all this work."
Brynn muttered, "There are troopers on the way --"
"Shut up," Gandy said, though lethargically, as if it would take too much effort to hit her again.
The skinny one, obsessed with her face, picked at the speed bumps on his forearm.
Gandy, the woman and Rudy didn't seem to have been slamming their own product.
Which didn't put her at ease; it meant they'd make rational decisions about protecting their operation. And that meant killing her and finding Michelle and doing the same. She remembered how casually Gandy had offered his ID; because the man had known she'd be dead soon.
"Mommy..."
The woman slapped her own thigh twice. Apparently a command meaning: Be quiet.
Amy instantly stopped speaking. This infuriated Brynn -- and broke her heart.
The woman's fingers were stained yellow. Though she probably wasn't a tweaker herself, she clearly wanted a cigarette. But lighting up in a meth lab would be like using a match to find a gas pocket in a coal mine.
Rudy asked, "Was she alone?"
"No. Somebody was with her. She got away. They claim a couple of guys're after them. I saw 'em. But I don't know what's going on. Something about a break-in in Lake Mondac.
It's about five miles --"
"I know where it is." Rudy walked close. Examined Brynn's wound. He announced, "'S'a setup. Fletcher called them, had that ho of his do it, I'll bet. The skanky redhead. Said we were here. Didn't have the balls to come up against us himself."
Gandy said, "I don't know. How the hell could he find us here? We covered all the tracks."
Rudy's eyes went mad for a moment and he leaned into Brynn's face, raging, "Talk to me, bitch. Talk to me! What's going on? Who the fuck are you?"
Brynn had dealt with the emotionally disturbed. Rudy was out of control, running on pure anger. Her heart beat fast, from both present fear and past memory of Keith's fist strafing her jaw.
When she said nothing he screamed, "Who are you?" He pulled a pistol from his taut waistband and pushed it against her neck.
"No," Brynn whispered and turned away, as if avoiding the challenging eyes of a mad dog. She managed to say evenly, "There'll be state troopers and county deputies and tactical backup in the area anytime now."
The woman dropped the club on the counter. "Oh, no..."
But Gandy was laughing. "No way. She had a fucking spear. She was on the run from some assholes broke into a house around here. What she told me's the truth. No police, no troopers. Oh, and no choppers in the county. She told me they don't use them around here for tactical work. Only medical. That answers one of our questions." He smiled at Brynn. "Thanks for the info, by the way."
"That's true," she said, speaking evenly, though still struggling to breathe after the blow to her belly. The pain was making her jaw quiver. "We weren't part of a drug operation.
But the protocol is if a deputy doesn't report in a certain amount of time they'll send backup." She glared at Gandy. "Tactical backup."
Rudy considered this, chewing his wet bottom lip. He put the gun away.
She continued, "If they're not on their way by now, they will be soon. Don't make this worse on yourselves. I'm way overdue."
"This is a state park," the woman said. "They won't search here."
Rudy sneered. "Well, Susan, why wouldn't they search? Can you give me a reason? Of course not. Jesus. Don't be stupid.... We had a good deal going and now it's fucked up.
You understand that? You understand how fucked we are?"
"Sure, Rudy. I understand." Susan looked away from him. And angrily gestured to the child to fill the bags faster.
"And Joey's been off skateboards without a cop present, hmm? Grandma gave me a report."
"That's a capital crime in the house now. And I've got spies. They tell me he's clean. He's really into lacrosse now."
"I saw that special. About Michelle Kepler and the murders."
"On WKSP. That's right."
"There were some cops from Milwaukee. They said they'd arrested her. You didn't even get mentioned. Not by name."
"I didn't go along for the party. I was off that night."
"You?"
She nodded.
"Didn't they interview you, at least? The reporters?"
"What do I need publicity for?" Brynn was suddenly awkward; her face burned like that of a middle-school girl alone at a dance. She thought back to her very first traffic stop.
She'd been so nervous she'd returned to her squad car without handing the driver his copy of the ticket. He'd politely called her back and asked for it.
Nervous now, nervous all last night-after her mother had said she'd "run into" Graham at the senior center, and Brynn had stopped her cold.
"So, come on, Mom. What is this, a campaign to get us back together?"
"Hell, yes, and it's one I aim to win."
"It's not that easy, not that simple."
"When've you ever wanted easy? Your brother and sister, yes. Not you."
"Okay, I was thinking about going to see him."
"Tomorrow."
"I'm not ready."
"Tomorrow."
A worker stuck his head in and asked Graham a question. He answered in Spanish. All Brynn caught were the words for "in the middle."
He turned back, said nothing.
Okay. Now.
"Just wondering," she said. "I'm on break. You've been up since six, I'll bet. And I've been up since six. Just wondered if you wanted to get coffee. Or something."
And, she was thinking, to spend some time talking.
Telling him more about what happened that night in April.
And telling him a lot of other things too. Whatever he'd listen to, she'd tell him.
Just like a few weeks ago when she'd sat in the backyard with Keith and done the same.
Part confession, part apology, part just plain talking. Her ex, though cautious at first, had been pleased to listen. She wondered if her present husband would. She surely hoped so.
Several heartbeats of pause. "Sure," he said. "Let me finish this board."
"Okay. I'll be at the diner."
Graham turned away. And then stopped. He looked back at her, shook his head, frowning.
Brynn McKenzie found herself nodding. She understood. Understood completely.
Graham Boyd had been flustered at first, seeing her just appear like this. He'd agreed impulsively, not knowing what to make of her invitation. Now, reality had returned. He was recalling his own anger and pain from that night in April. And from the months leading up to it.
He had no interest in whatever she was up to here.
Ah, well, she couldn't blame him one bit. The moment for conversations of the sort she had planned had come and gone long ago.
Flawed jaw set and fixed cheek taut, Brynn gave a wan smile. But before she could say, "That's okay," Graham was explaining, "I'm not really into the diner much anymore.
There's a new place in the mall opened up. Coffee's a lot better. Pretty good hot chocolate too."
She blinked. "Where is it?"
"Downstairs, next to Sears. I'll be ten minutes."
West of Embassy Row, all was silent again inside the walled garden with its twelfth-century roses and Shadow House gazebo. On the other side of an entry road, the young man was helping his hunched superior walk across an expansive lawn.
He's letting me guide him?
Normally, the blind old man refused help, preferring to navigate by memory alone while on the grounds of his sanctuary. Tonight, however, he was apparently in a hurry to get inside and return Warren Bellamy's phone call.
"Thank you," the old man said as they entered the building that held his private study. "I can find my way from here."