The deputy came back on. "All right, Graham. Story is the guy who made that nine-one-one call called back and said it was a mistake. Brynn was going to turn around. That was close to seven, seven-thirty."
"I know. But this deputy said it wasn't a mistake. It was some domestic dispute, and they wanted Brynn to handle it. Could she have run into some State Police up there, town cops?"
"Could happen but that's not the sort of thing the troopers'd handle."
Graham's skin chilled at this. "Eric, something's wrong."
"Let me call the sheriff. He'll get back to you."
Graham hung up. He paced the kitchen. Surveyed the new tiles on the floor. Organized a stack of bills. Drew a line in the dust on top of the small, rabbit-ear TV. Listened to the computer game upstairs.
Goddamnit. Why wasn't the boy listening to him? He decided to ban Joey from skateboards for the rest of the school year.
Anger or instinct?
The phone rang.
"'Lo?"
"Graham, it's Tom Dahl. Eric just called. We checked with the State Police. Nobody got any calls up at Lake Mondac. Clausen, Point of Rocks, even as far as Henderson."
Graham explained what he'd told Eric Munce, irritated that the man hadn't filled the sheriff in. "The deputy was named Billings."
Silence for a moment. "Billings's the name of a road between Clausen and the state park."
So it might've been fresh in the mind of somebody trying to make up a name. Graham's hands were sweating.
"Her phone keeps going to voice mail again, Tom. I'm plenty worried."
"What's wrong?" a voice called. Joey's.
Graham looked up. The boy was standing halfway down the stairs. He'd been listening. "What's wrong with Mom?"
"Nothing. Go back to bed. Everything'll be fine."
"No. Something's wrong."
"Joey," Graham snapped. "Now."
Joey held his eye for a moment, the chill look sending a shiver through Graham's back, then turned and stomped up the stairs.
Anna appeared in the door, glanced at Graham's grimacing face. "What?" she whispered.
He shook his head, said, "I'm talking to the sheriff." Then: "Tom, whatta we do?"
"I'll send some people up there. Look, relax. Her car probably broke down and she hasn't got cell phone reception."
"Then who was Billings?"
Another pause. "We'll get up there right away, Graham."
GASPING, FACE DOTTED
with cold sweat, Michelle crouched, leaning against her pool cue cane, Brynn beside her. They were still on the Joliet Trail, hiding in a tangle of juniper and boxwood, which smelled to Brynn of urine. They'd come a half mile from the cliff top intersection with the Danger sign and shelter, running as best they could the entire distance.
They now watched the beam from a flashlight, pointed downward, slowly sweeping the ledge and cliff face as Hart and his partner climbed down. They continued walking along the trail, moving quickly.
The men had bought the sham Brynn had orchestrated: the shouting, the broken branch, the blood--her own--spattered on the ledge. The men would continue to the bottom now, either on the cliff or the path around Apex Lake, and make for the ranger station. Which would give Brynn and Michelle an extra hour to get to safety before Hart and his partner realized that they'd been tricked.
In the end it hadn't been Michelle's fear of heights--or Brynn's--that decided the matter. Brynn had concluded that even climbing down the cliff and hiking through the tangled brush in the ravine would take too much time. The men would have caught up with them before they were halfway to the ranger station. But the cliff was a good chance to mislead their pursuers. Brynn had broken the branch to make it look like an accident, then carefully climbed down the cliff to the ledge. There she'd taken a deep breath, and cut her scalp with the kitchen knife. As a deputy she knew a lot about head injuries, and that lacerations on the head didn't hurt badly but bled copiously. (She knew this from Joey as much as from auto accident calls.) After smearing the blood on the stone, she'd climbed back up to the cliff top and they'd fled down the Joliet Trail.
She now looked back. The sweeping flashlight beam was still visible through the bones of trees. Then the path turned and the women lost sight of the killers.
"How does it feel?" Michelle nodded at Brynn's head. She apparently thought Brynn had made her decision not to climb down the cliff face because of the young woman's fear of heights. She glowed with gratitude. Brynn said it was fine.
Michelle began rambling, telling a story about how she'd been hit on the head by a schoolgirl on the playground, and had bled all over a new dress, which had upset her more than the fight. "Girls're worse than boys."
Brynn didn't disagree. She did antigang campaigns at the high schools. Gangs...even in modest Humboldt.
An image of Joey, panting and bloody, after one of his fights at school also came to mind. She pushed it away.
Michelle kept up the manic banter and Brynn tuned her out. She paused and looked around. "I think we should go off the trail now, find the river."
"We have to? We're making good time."
But the trail, Brynn told her, didn't lead them anywhere except deeper into the woods. The closest town that way was fifteen miles.
"I need to use the compass." She knelt to the side of the trail and set the alcohol bottle on the ground. With some prodding the needle finally swung north. "We go that way. It's not far. A couple of miles, I'd guess. Probably less." She put the bottle in her pocket.
They were on higher ground here and, looking back, they could still see a flashlight slowly probing for the pathway down the cliff face that would lead the killers into the valley and to the ranger station. They'd eventually learn that the women weren't going that way but every minute they delayed on the cliff was a minute more Brynn and Michelle had to escape.
Brynn found a section of the woods that was less ensnarled than others and she stepped off the trail. Michelle, somber again, gazed at the rocky, boggy ground and started forward with a look of distaste, like a girl reluctantly climbing into her date's filthy car.
THEY WERE DOING
eighty, without the light bar going or the throaty siren. Didn't need them. There was hardly any traffic out here, this time of night. And none of the retrofit accessories in the Dodge would have any inhibiting effect on suicidal wildlife. Sheriff Tom Dahl's feeling was that deer were born without brains. He was sitting in the passenger seat and a young deputy, Peter Gibbs, was driving. Behind them was another car, Eric Munce at the wheel and, beside him, Howie Prescott, a massive, shaved-headed deputy who got good respect during traffic stops.
Dahl had called his deputies and found no shortage of volunteers to help find out what had happened to their colleague Brynn McKenzie. They all stood ready to go, but four, he figured, was plenty.
The sheriff was on the phone with an FBI agent in Milwaukee. His name was Brindle, which Dahl thought was a coloring of a horse or dog. The agent had been getting ready for bed but didn't hesitate to help out. He sounded genuinely concerned.
The subject of the conversation was the woman lawyer, Emma Feldman.
"Well, Sheriff, started out as a little thing. She's handling this corporate deal. She's doing her homework and finds out that a lot of the companies on the lakefront have more than their fair share of documented aliens. Next thing a CI...that's a--"
"Confidential informant?" Dahl asked, but Brindle missed the irony.
"Right. He says that Stanley Mankewitz, head of some local union, is selling forged green cards to illegals."
"How much could he make doing that?"
"No, that's not what it's about. He doesn't even charge 'em. What he does is gets them to guarantee that they'll get jobs in open shops then unionize the workers. The union gets bigger, Mankewitz gets richer."
Hmm, Dahl thought. Clever idea.
"That's what we're investigating right now."
"And this Mankewitz? He done it?"
"Up in the air
so far. He's smart, he's old school and he only hires people who keep their mouths shut. He's a prick too, pardon my French, so, yeah, he did it. But the case's weak. It takes just one witness having an accident or getting killed in a, quote, random house invasion and the whole case could fall apart."
"And here she is, out in the wilderness, this lawyer. A lot of accidents could happen there."
"Exactly. Milwaukee PD should've had somebody on her. They dropped the ball there."
This was offered a little too fast, Dahl thought. The finger-pointing'd already started up, it seemed. Policing wasn't much different in Milwaukee, Washington, D.C., or Kennesha County.
Dahl said, "Go faster."
"What?" the FBI agent asked.
"I'm talking to the driver.... When my deputy's husband called her phone, some man answered, claiming to be a deputy. Near as we can tell, there're no troopers or neighboring law out there. None at all."
"I see why you're worried. Where is this happening?"
"Lake Mondac."
"I don't know it."
"Next to Marquette State Park."
"I'll give my man a call who runs CI's, see if there's any word about somebody talking to a pro--hired killer."
So that's what he means by pro. Dahl was getting irritated. "That'd be much appreciated, Agent Brindle."
"You want one of our people there, on the ground?"
"Not yet, I don't think. Let's see what's going on first."
"Okay. Well, call if you need to. We'll be totally on board, Sheriff. This Mankewitz, he's fucking around with illegals and Homeland Security and terrorist issues."
Not to mention putting a poor family at risk, Dahl thought. Something else he refrained from saying. He thanked the agent and they hung up.
"How soon?" he muttered to the young deputy beside him.
"Half hour..."
"Well," Dahl began impatiently, rubbing his scarred leg.
"I know, Sheriff," Gibbs said. "But we're doing eighty. Any faster and all it takes is one deer. And if it doesn't kill us coming through the windshield, Eric'll get us from behind. That boy really oughta back off a bit."
THEY'D LEFT THE
Joliet Trail twenty minutes before, with Brynn deviating only when necessary--around thickets and brambles and beds of leaves that might cover trip holes and bogs. They headed up into the hills, steep ones, and already the incline was dramatic in some places. A slip could turn into a tumble down a hillside for many yards, over sharp rocks and through thornbushes. The men would be at the bottom of the cliff by now. She hoped that, finding no bodies, they'd continue through the ravine to the ranger station. It could be forty minutes, an hour before they realized they'd been tricked and returned to the Joliet Trail to resume the hunt.
A brief pause for another compass reading. They'd remained largely on course, due north.
For the first time tonight Brynn was beginning to feel that she and Michelle might survive.
They'd be at the river soon. And then either a trek south along the bank to Point of Rocks or the shorter but arduous--and dangerous--climb up the gorge. She couldn't get that image out of her head: the hiker who'd fallen and been impaled on the tree limb.
The recovery team had needed a chain saw to cut the body free. They'd had to stand around waiting for an hour for an officer to arrive with the tool.
Brynn squinted at a silver flash in the distance ahead of them. Was that the river?
No, just a narrow band of grass shining in the moonlight. Otherworldly. She wondered what kind it was. Graham could have told her in a heartbeat.
But she didn't want to think about Graham.
Then she shivered at the sound of a howl behind them. A creature baying. Was it the wolf that seemed to be following them as persistently as the men?
Michelle looked back at the sound. She froze. And then she screamed.
"Michelle, no!" Brynn whispered harshly. "It's just the--"
"Them, it's them!" The young woman was pointing into the darkness.
What? What did she see? All Brynn was looking at were layers of shadow, some moving, some still. Smooth or textured.
"Where?"
"There! Him!"
Finally Brynn could see: a hundred feet away a man stood behind a bush.
No! They hadn't believed the trick at the junction. Brynn gripped her spear. "Get down!"
But whatever'd been building within the young woman now exploded in rage and madness. "You fuckers!" she screamed. "I hate you!"
"No, Michelle. Please, be quiet. We have to run. Now!"
But the younger woman seemed transfixed, as if Brynn weren't even present. She flung aside the pool cue steadying her and pulled out a pool ball bolo.
Brynn stepped forward, gripping Michelle's leather jacket. But, her face a mask of fury, the woman shoved Brynn away, sending her slipping down an incline of slick leaves.
The bolo in one hand, the knife in the other, Michelle charged the man, moving fast despite her limp. "I hate you, I hate you!" she screamed.
"No, Michelle, no! They have guns!"
But she seemed deaf to the pleas. When she was thirty feet away from the man she flung the bolo, which flew in a fierce arc and nearly struck his head. He stood his ground--just as Brynn herself had back in the Feldmans' driveway.
Undaunted, Michelle continued her charge.
Brynn debated. Should she follow? It'd be suicide....
Then decided: Oh, hell. She grimaced, rose to her feet and charged after the woman, trying to keep low. "Michelle, stop!" Any minute, the man would fire. It must've been Hart; he remained motionless, waiting for the perfect shot.
Michelle sprinted directly toward him.
The man couldn't miss.
But no shots came.
Slowing to a stop, Brynn could see why. It wasn't a person at all. What the crazed young woman had been attacking was just a weird configuration of tree trunk, broken about six feet up, the branches and leaves giving the impression of a human. It was like a scarecrow.
"I hate you!" the young woman's shrill voice echoed.
"Michelle!"
Then, when she was ten feet away, Michelle apparently realized her mistake. She stopped, gasping for breath, staring at the trunk. She dropped to her knees, lowering her head, hands over her face, sobbing. An eerie keening came from her throat, both mournful and hopeless.
The horror of the evening finally poured out; the tears up until now had been tears of confusion and pain. This was a rupture of pure sorrow.
Brynn approached and then stopped. "Michelle, it's okay. Let's--"
Michelle's voice rose to another wail. "Leave me alone!"
"Please. Shhhh, Michelle. Please be quiet.... It's okay."
"No, it's not okay! It's not okay at all."
"Let's keep at it. We don't have much farther to go."
"I don't care. You go on...."
A faint smile. "I'm not leaving you here."
Michelle hugged herself, rocking back and forth.
Brynn crouched next to her. She understood that something else was going on within the young woman. "What is it?"
Michelle looked absently at the knife, slipped it back in the sock scabbard. "There's something I have to tell you."
"What?" Brynn persisted.
"It's my fault they're dead," she whispered, her face miserable. "Steve and Emma. It's my fault!"
"You, why?"
She snapped, "Because I'm a spoiled little brat. Oh, God..."
Brynn looked behind them. A few minutes. This was important, she sensed. They could afford a few minutes. The men were miles away. "Tell me."
"My husband..." She cleared her throat. "My husband's seeing somebody else."
"What?"
A faint, pained smile and she managed to say, "He's cheating on me. I said he's on a business trip. He is, but he's not going alone."
"I'm sorry."
"A girlfriend of mine works for the travel agency his company uses. I made her tell me. He's go
ing with somebody else."
"Maybe it's just somebody he works with."
"No, it's not. And they got one hotel room."
Oh.
"I was so mad and so hurt. I couldn't be alone this weekend! I just couldn't be. I talked Emma and Steve into coming up here and bringing me along. I wanted to cry on their shoulders. I wanted them to tell me it's not my fault. That he's a bastard, that they would be my friends after the divorce and dump him.... And now they're dead because I couldn't act like a grown-up."
"That's hardly your fault." Brynn looked back and saw no pursuers. Nor any sign of their mascot, the wolf. She put her arm around the young woman and helped her to her feet. "Let's walk. Tell me while we walk."
Michelle complied. They collected her pool cue and continued toward the river.
"How long've you been married?"
"Six years." Her voice caught. "Michael was like my best friend. Everything seemed so fine. He was so laid-back, generous. He took really good care of me.... And you know what's so messed up? That's why I lost him--being a spoiled little girl." She gave a sour laugh. "He's a banker. He makes all this money. When we got married I quit my job. It's not like he wanted me to or anything. It was my idea. It was, like, my chance to go to acting school."
Michelle winced, stepping hard and apparently jarring her ankle. She continued, "I told you I was an actress.... Bullshit. I'm a twenty-nine-year-old acting student. And not a very good one. I was an extra in two local commercials. And Second City told me no. My life is lunch with my girlfriends, tennis, my health club, my spa. The only thing I'm good at is spending money, shopping and keeping myself in shape."
To the tune of a svelte size 4, Brynn couldn't help but observe.
"And I became...a nobody. Michael'd come home and I couldn't even talk about the housework--because the maids had done it all. I got boring. He fell out of love with me."
Part of a law enforcer's job is to recognize the psychological issues at work within the people she meets professionally--the bystanders, witnesses and victims, in addition to the criminals. Brynn didn't know that she had any particular insights but she told Michelle her honest assessment: "It's not all your fault. It never is."
"I'm such a loser...."
"No, you're not."
Brynn believed this. A little spoiled, true, a little too pampered, a little too much in love with money and the good life. In a curious way maybe this night was teaching her there was more within her than a rich-girl dilettante.