The Bodies Left Behind

landscaper nodded. The deputy touched his pistol once, as if to orient himself as to its exact location, and gripping the shotgun in both hands moved forward slowly, keeping his head up, looking around but sensing leaves and branches and avoiding them perfectly.
    More footfalls on the other side of the bushes. Graham looked closely but could see no one. The sound was clear, though: the man was stalking through the woods, pausing occasionally.
    Munce moved toward the killer in complete silence.
    He paused, about twenty feet from the line of brush, cocked his head, listening.
    They heard the footsteps again on the far side of the foliage, the men not trying to be silent; they were ignorant that they were no longer hunters but were themselves prey.
    Munce stepped forward silently.
    It was then that the man with the shotgun stepped out from behind a tree, no more than six feet behind Munce, and shot him in the back.
    The deputy gave a cry as he was blown forward onto his belly, the weapon flying from his hand.
    Graham, eyes wide in horror, gasped. Jesus, oh . . . Jesus.
    The attacker hadn’t said a word. No warning, no instruction, no shout to give up.
    He’d just appeared and pulled the trigger.
    Eric Munce lay on his stomach, his lower back shredded and black with blood. His feet danced a bit, one arm moved. A hand clenched and unclenched.
    “Hart, I got him,” the shooter called to someone else, whispering.
    Another man came running up from behind the hedge, breathing hard, holding a pistol. He looked down at the deputy, who was barely conscious, rolled him over. Graham realized that this other one—Hart, apparently—had been in the bushes, making the noise of footsteps to distract Munce.
    Horrified, Graham eased back into the crevice of basalt, as far as he could go. He was only twenty feet from them, hidden by saplings and a dozen brown husks of last year’s ferns. He looked out through the plants.
    “Shit, Hart, it’s another cop.” Looking around. “There’s gotta be more of them.”
    “You see anybody else?”
    “No. But we can ask him. I aimed low. Coulda killed him. But I shot low to keep him alive.”
    “That was good thinking, Comp.”
    Hart knelt beside Munce. “Where are the others?”
    Graham pressed against the rock, hard, as if it could swallow him up. His hands shaking, he could barely control his breathing. He thought he might be sick.
    “Where are the others? . . . What?” He lowered his head. “I can’t hear you. Talk louder, tell me and we’ll get you help.”
    “What’d he say, Hart?”
    “He said there weren’t any. He came by here on hisown to look for some women escaped from two burglars.”
    “He telling the truth?”
    “I don’t know. Wait . . . he’s saying something else.” Hart listened and stood. In an unemotional voice he said, “Just, we can go fuck ourselves.”
    The one called Comp said to Munce, “Well, sir, you’re pretty much the one fucked here.”
    Hart paused. He knelt again. Then stood. “He’s gone.”
    Graham stared at the limp form of the deputy. He wanted to sob.
    Then he saw, ten feet away, Munce’s shotgun, lying where it had landed when the deputy had flown to the ground. It was half covered with leaves.
    Graham thought: Please, don’t look that way. Leave it. I want that gun. I want it so bad I can taste it. He realized how easily he could kill right now. Shoot them both in the back. Give them the same chance they’d given the deputy.
    Please . . .
    While the man who’d killed Munce stood guard, his gun ready, Hart searched him and pulled the radio off the deputy’s belt. He clicked it on. Graham heard staticky transmissions. Hart said to Comp, “There’s a search party but everybody’s over at Six Eighty-two and Lake Mondac itself. . . . I think maybe this boy was telling the truth. He must’ve come over here on a hunch.” Hart shone a flashlight on the front of the deputy’s uniform, read his nametag, then stood up and spoke into the radio. “This’s Eric. Over.”
    A clattery response Graham couldn’t hear.
    “Bad reception here. Over.”
    More static.
    “Real bad. I can’t find any trace of anybody over here. You copy? Over.”
    “Say again, Eric. Where are you?” a voice asked, carrying through the air to Graham’s ears.
    “Repeat, bad reception. Nobody’s here. Over.”
    “Where are you?”
    Hart shrugged. “I’m north. No sign of anybody. How’s it looking at the lake?”
    “Nothing