The Bodies Left Behind

at thousands and thousands of homes around the country.
    The man was painting the shutters dark green. Funny, Brynn reflected, in her ten years of living here, she’d always thought that green would be a pleasant color for the trim, but never wondered why. Now she understood. The house was set against a verdant pineforest, a shining example of the word “evergreen.” She’d seen the trees every day but had never really been aware of them.
    Glancing over his shoulder as the Camry approached, he hesitated, caught in mid-brushstroke, then slowly climbed down off the ladder. He set the paint bucket on the worktable he had set up and wrapped the brush in plastic, so the latex enamel wouldn’t dry on the bristles. Keith Marshall was forever meticulous.
    Brynn braked to a stop in front of the garage. Joey climbed out and grabbed his suitcase from the backseat.
    “Hi, Dad!”
    Keith hugged his son, who tolerated the gesture and charged into the house. “Bye, Mom!”
    “I’ll pick you up after school on Monday!”
    “Don’t forget the cookies!”
    Her ex-husband started to say something but seemed to forget what it was as Brynn shut the engine off and climbed out. In the past two years she’d never spent more than sixty seconds here when dropping Joey off for a visit with his father.
    “Hello,” she said.
    Keith nodded. His hair was flecked with a bit of gray but he hadn’t gained a pound in the past ten years. What a metabolism that man had. Well, there were the sports too.
    He strode over to her, gave her a brief hug. Not too hard, not too soft. And she was reminded of his good side, of which there was much. He was a cowboy, of course, but in the classic sense of a movie hero, not likepoor Eric Munce, whose idea of policing wasn’t confidence and quiet, but hardware and drama.
    “So. How’ve you been?” she asked.
    “Not bad. Busy. Get you anything?”
    She shook her head. Looked up at the side of the house. “Good color.”
    “Had a sale at Home Depot.”
    “What’re you two up to this weekend?”
    “Fishing. Then we’re going over to the Bogles’ barbecue tonight. Joey likes Clay.”
    “He’s a good boy.”
    “Yeah, he is. His father’s got some lacrosse gear. We’re going to try it out.”
    “Is there a sport that boy doesn’t like?” Brynn smiled. “You playing too?”
    “Thought I might try it.”
    “I’m riding again.”
    “Are you?”
    “When I can. Once a week or so.”
    She and Keith had gone to a nearby stable a few times. He wasn’t, though, a natural equestrian.
    “I took Joey last time. He was good. Hates the helmet.”
    “That’s Joey. I’ll make sure he wears one—and the face guard—at lacrosse.” Keith then looked away. “We’re just going on our own, us two boys.”
    After all these years, divorced and the past buried if not wholly dust, Keith still seemed guilty about dating. She found this amusing. And charming.
    “How’s the State Police?”
    “Same old same old. I heard they got that woman. The one you saved that night.”
    The one I saved . . . “That’s one way to put it. She took a plea.”
    “Was it as bad as the rumors?”
    As soon as he’d heard about the events at Lake Mondac, Keith had called to find out if Brynn was all right. Graham had answered while she was out, and though the men were always civil to each other, Keith had kept the conversation short, content to learn that she was safe. The rest of the information he would have gotten from the news or law-enforcement contacts.
    As they leaned against the front porch railing she now gave him the details. Some of them at least. He lifted an eyebrow. He was most interested, curiously, not in the gunplay, the bolos or the spear but in the compass. “You made that?”
    “Yep.”
    He gave one of his rare smiles and wanted to know the details.
    There was silence for a time, heavy and hot. When it was obvious she wasn’t getting into the car and leaving, as usual, Keith said, “I put a new deck on.”
    “Joey told me.”
    “Want to see it?”
    “Sure.”
    He led her around to the back of the house.

    THE LAST WEEKEND of May, Hart walked into a tavern in Old Town, in Chicago, near North Avenue, on Wells. The neighborhood was different from when he’d first moved here, in the seventies. Safer but a lot less atmospheric. Professionals had pushed out the old-time locals, the transient hotel dwellers, the folk singers and jazz musicians, drunks and prostitutes. Fancy wine and cheese