The Bodies Left Behind

paused and studied the house for a long moment. There was no motion from inside. Hart thought he heard someone talking but decided it was the wind, which brushed over leaves and made the sound of a mournful human voice.
    No light, no movement inside.
    Had he been wrong in his guess that the cop had come here?
    Then he squinted and tapped Lewis on the arm. A thin trail rose from the heating system exhaust duct next to the chimney. Lewis smiled. They eased closer to the house, under cover of thorny berry bushes that stretched from the woods nearly to the back porch. Hart carried his pistol with his trigger finger pointed forward, outside the guard. He held the gun casually, at his side. Lewis’s grip on the shotgun was tense.
    At the back door, they stopped, noting the broken glass in the window. Hart pointed to the porch, at their feet. Two fragments of differing footprints, both women’s sizes.
    Lewis gave a thumbs-up. He hooked the gun through his left arm and reached in through the broken pane, unlatched the lock. He swung the door open.
    Hart held up a hand, whispered as low as he could, “Assume one of ’em has a weapon. And they’re waiting for us.”
    Lewis gave another of his patented sneers, evidencing his low opinion of their enemy. But Hart lifted an impatient eyebrow and the man mouthed “Okay.”
    “And no flashlights.”
    Another nod.
    Then, their gun muzzles pointed forward, they moved into the house.
    Moonlight slanted through the large windows and gave some illumination throughout the first floor. They searched quickly. In the kitchen, Hart pointed to the drawers. A half dozen were open. He tapped the knife block. Several slots were empty.
    Hart heard something. He held up a hand, frowning. Tilted his head.
    Yes, it was voices. Women’s voices, very faint.
    Hart pointed up the stairs, noting that his pulse, which had been a little elevated by the trek through the forest, was now back to normal.

    STANLEY MANKEWITZ WAS eating dinner with his wife in an Italian restaurant in Milwaukee, a place that claimed to serve the best veal in the city. That was a meat that troubled both Mankewitz and his wife but they were guests of the businessman making up the threesome and so they’d agreed to come here.
    The waiter recommended the veal saltimbocca,the veal Marsala and the fettuccine with veal Bolognese.
    Mankewitz ordered a steak. His wife picked the salmon. Their host had the chopped-up calf.
    As they waited for their appetizers they toasted with glasses poured from a bottle of Barbaresco, a spicy wine from the Piedmont region of Italy. The bruschetta and salads came. The host tucked his napkin into his collar, which seemed tacky but was efficient, and Mankewitz never put down whatever was efficient.
    Mankewitz was hungry, but he was tired too. He was head of a local union—maybe the most important on the western shore of Lake Michigan. It was made up of tough, demanding workers, employed at companies owned by men who were also tough and demanding.
    Which words also described Mankewitz’s life pretty well.
    Their host, one of the heads of the national union, had flown in from New Jersey to talk to Mankewitz. He’d offered Mankewitz a cigar as they sat in a conference room in the union headquarters—where no-smoking ordinances weren’t taken seriously—and proceeded to tell him that the joint federal and state investigation had better be concluded, favorably, pretty soon.
    “It will be,” Mankewitz had assured. “Guaranteed.”
    “Guaranteed,” the man from New Jersey had said, in the same abrupt way he’d bitten the tip off his cigar.
    Hiding his fury that this prick had flown from Newark to deliver his warning like a prissy schoolteacher, Mankewitz had smiled, conveying a confidence he absolutely didn’t feel.
    He began spearing his romaine lettuce from the Caesar salad, dressing on the side but anchovies present and accounted for.
    The dinner was purely social and the conversation meandered as they ate. The men talked about the Packers and the Bears and the Giants but delivered mere sound bites, aware that a lady was at the table, and everyone found the subject of vacationing in Door County or the Caribbean a more palatable topic. The New Jersey man offered his anchovies to Mankewitz, who declined but with a smile, as a wave of absolute fury passed through him. Hatred too. He’d decided that if their host ever ran for head of the national union Mankewitz would make sure his campaign