The Bodies Left Behind

too. And with the woods thinning that means more sun and more blackberry—you know, brambles—and wild roses. Blackberry thorns’ll break off in your skin. And you don’t get ’em out right away they’ll get infected. In a big way.”
    “Damn land mines,” Munce muttered. Then he froze. And, forgoing the cryptic hand signals, he whispered, “Way down there. A flash. You see anything?”
    Graham nodded—a faint dot of bluish light. Maybe a flashlight or a reflection of the moonlight on metal or glass. It was about three-quarters of a mile away.
    Munce undid the thong that covered his black pistol and gestured to Graham to follow him.

    HART WAS LOOKING down at the GPS, which had survived the van crash in better condition than he had. Nothing broken, just sore—but everyplace was sore and the bullet wound in his arm had started to bleed again.
    Thank you, Michelle.
    Thank you, Brynn.
    A wave of anger seared him and for a moment he didn’t give a damn about craftsmanship; he wanted to get even. He wanted to pay them both back in a big way. Sweet, bloody revenge . . .
    Maybe Compton Lewis was onto something.
    They were standing on the banks of the Snake River, which ambled out of the flatter forests, east, on their right, and flowed into the compressed gorge west.
    He’d lost the map in the crash but they’d gotten here by using the GPS, which wasn’t as detailed but was good enough. “Way I figure it . . .” His voice faded as he glanced at Lewis. “You okay?”
    “Yeah.”
    The other man was standing with his hands at hissides, holding the shotgun. Apart from his natural slump, he looked like a soldier on guard duty.
    “Bothered you, killing that woman, right?”
    “Didn’t think it would. But . . . seeing her eyes, you know.”
    “That’s hard,” Hart said. He was thinking, Maybe the first one. Then you don’t even notice it.
    He was replaying the scene at the camper. Lewis starting the fire beneath the Winnebago, then returning to the other side. Two men had rushed out the front door, a fat one and a thinner one, with a beard, carrying a fire extinguisher. A woman hurried out the back door, looking frantically around, screaming. Hart had shot the men quickly, before the fat one could even reach for his gun. Lewis, in the rear, had the shotgun trained on the woman. But he’d done nothing at first.
    Hart was going to do Lewis a favor and shoot her too but he heard the bang as the shotgun went off, as if by itself. Lewis seemed surprised. As the heavy woman flew backward her chest and neck rippled, then started to bleed. She dropped to her knees and began to crawl toward Lewis. The second time, he actually aimed and fired. She fell backward, kicked some, then died.
    “That was unpleasant,” Hart said.
    Lewis nodded.
    “I was telling you, they were tweakers. Probably slamming their own stuff. Nobody cooks meth without using it. Maybe not at first but they get addicted. It eats their souls.”
    “Yeah,” Lewis said softly. Then he came back to earth, Hart could see in his eyes.
    Hart continued, “Way I figure it is this.” He showed him the GPS on the BlackBerry. “It’s nearly six miles to Point of Rocks, going that way, upstream.” He pointed right. Then he indicated the gorge, to their left. “But that way, up that hill, they’ll be at the interstate in forty minutes, an hour. And that’s where they’re going.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Pretty sure. She told me she was. When we were in the van. But she’s the Trickster, remember? She knew there was a chance I’d survive the crash. Which meant that she had to give me information that’d lead me in a different direction. She’d said the interstate, thinking I’d believe it was really Point of Rocks.”
    “You think she was playing that game?”
    Hart put away the BlackBerry and strode up and down the riverbank. “Hey, Lewis, what’s that look like to you?” He shone the flashlight on the ground.
    “Like, I don’t know. Somebody was sweeping, covering up footprints.”
    “Yeah. It does.” He walked to the base of the steep hill. “Okay. Here we go.” He found a broken branch. “Here’s her broom. They did come this way. And look at that. . . .” He pointed out a tiny set of shoe prints. “That little girl. In the camper. She must’ve got out.”
    Lewis had gone quiet again, and he rubbed his tattoo—the cross on his neck—compulsively.
    Hart said, “I’m not inclined to kill children. We’ll