The Bodies Left Behind

Clausen, which amounted to a few gas stations, two of the three unbranded, a few stores—convenience, package and auto parts—and a junkyard. A sign pointed to a Subway but it was 3.2 miles away. She noted another sign, for hot sausages in the window of Quik Mart. She was tempted, but it was closed. Across the highway was a Tudor-style building with all the windows broken out and roof collapsed.It bore a prize that had surely tempted many a local teenager but the All Girl Staff sign was just too high or too well bolted to the wall to steal.
    Then this sneeze of civilization was gone and Brynn began a long sweep through tree and rock-filled wilderness, broken only by scruffy clearings. The few residences were set well off the road, trailers or bungalows, from which gray smoke eased skyward. The windows, glowing dimly, were like sleepy eyes. The land was too harsh for farms and the sparse populace would drive their rusted pickups or Datsun-era imports to work elsewhere. If they went to work at all.
    For miles the only oncoming traffic: three cars, one truck. Nobody in her lane, ahead or behind.
    At 6:40 she passed a sign saying that Marquette State Park campground was ten miles up the road. Open May 20. Which meant that Lake Mondac had to be nearby. Then she saw:
    LAKE VIEW DRIVE
    PRIVATE ROAD
    NO TRESPASSING
    NO PUBLIC LAKE ACCESS
    VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED
    And howdy-do to you too. . . .
    She turned, slowing as the Honda bumbled over the gravel and dirt, thinking she should’ve taken Graham’s pickup. According to the directions that Todd Jackson had given her, the distance was 1.2 miles from the county route to 3 Lake View, the Feldmans’ vacationhouse. Their driveway, he’d added, was “a couple football fields long. Or that’s what it looked like on Yahoo.”
    Making slow progress, Brynn drove through a tunnel of trees and bushes and blankets of leaf refuse. Mostly the landscape was needles and naked branch and bark.
    Then the road widened slightly and the willow, jack pine and hemlock on her right grew sparse; she could see the lake clearly. She’d never spent much time on bodies of water, didn’t care for them. She felt more in control on dry land, for some reason. She and Keith had had a tradition of going to the Gulf Coast in Mississippi, his choice pretty much. Brynn had divided her time there between reading and taking Joey to amusement parks and the beach. Keith spent most of the time in the casino. It wasn’t her favorite locale but at least the beige water lapping at the shoreline was as easygoing and warm as the locals. Lakes around here seemed bottomless and chill and the abrupt meeting of rocky shore and black water made you feel helpless, easy prey for snakes and leeches.
    She reflected on another course she’d taken through the State Police: a water safety rescue seminar. It had been held at a lake just like this and though she’d done the exercise—swimming underwater to rescue a “drowning” dummy in a sunken boat—she’d hated the experience.
    She now scanned the surroundings, looking for boaters in trouble, car accidents, fires.
    For intruders too.
    There was still enough light to navigate by and sheshut the lights out so as not to announce her presence. And drove even more slowly to keep the crunch of the tires to a minimum.
    She passed the first two houses on the private road. They were dark and set at the end of long driveways winding through the woods. Large structures—four, five bedrooms—they were old, impressive, somber. There was a bleakness about the properties. Like sets in the opening scene of a family drama: the homestead boarded up, the story to be told in flashbacks to happier days.
    Brynn’s own bungalow, which she’d bought after Keith bought her share of their marital house, would have fit inside either of these and still have left it half empty.
    As the Honda crawled along, she passed a small bald patch between copses of fir, spruce and more hemlock, giving her a partial view of the house at number 3—the Feldmans’—ahead and to her left. It was grander than the others, though of the same style. Smoke trailed from the chimney. The windows were mostly dark, though she could see a glow behind shades or curtains in the back and on the second floor.
    She drove on toward the house and it was lost to sight behind a large copse of pine. Her hand reached down and for reassurance tapped the grip of her Glock, not a superstitious gesture, but one she’d