The Bodies Left Behind

poses, the blood making a paisley pattern next to the husband and a near-perfect circle around the wife. Brynn hesitated briefly and then knelt and searched their pockets for cell phones. None. She tried the jackets. Similarly empty. She then stood and looked down at them. Wished there were time to say some words, though she had no idea what.
    Did the couple have laptop computers? She looked at the briefcase on the floor—it was the woman’s—and at the pile of file folders all stamped with the word CONFIDENTIAL. But no electronics. The husband apparently used a backpack for his briefcase but that had contained only a few magazines, a paperback novel and a bottle of wine.
    Brynn’s feet were beginning to sting again from chafing; the lake water had soaked through the dry socks. She looked in the laundry room and found twopairs of hiking boots. She pulled on dry socks and the larger of the boots. She took the second pair for Michelle. She also found a candle lighter and slipped that in her pocket.
    Was there anything—?
    She gasped in shock. Outside, the croak of frogs and the whisper of wind vanished in the insistent blare of a car alarm.
    Then Michelle’s desperate voice calling, “Brynn! Come here! Help me!”
    Brynn ran outside, gripping her makeshift spear, blade forward.
    Michelle was standing beside the Mercedes, the window shattered. The young woman was frantic, wide-eyed. And paralyzed.
    Brynn ran to the car, glancing at the house at Number 2. The flashlights went out.
    They’re on their way. Great.
    “I’m sorry!” Michelle cried. “I didn’t think, I didn’t think . . .”
    Brynn ripped the passenger door open, popped the hood and ran to the front of the car. She’d made a point to learn all she could about cars and trucks—vehicles make up the majority of police work in a county like Kennesha—and her studies included mechanics as well as driving. Brynn struggled to work the cable off the positive terminal of the battery with the Chicago Cutlery knife. The piercing sound stopped.
    “What happened?”
    “I just . . .” Michelle moaned angrily. “It’s not my fault!”
    No? Whose was it?
    She continued, “I have low blood sugar. I was feeling funny. I brought some crackers with me.” She pointed to a bag of Whole Foods–brand snacks in the backseat. She said defensively, “If I don’t get food, sometimes I faint.”
    “Okay,” said Brynn, who’d avoided breaking into and searching the Mercedes specifically because she’d known it would be alarmed. She now climbed in fast, grabbed the crackers and handed them to Michelle, then rifled through the glove compartment. “Nothing helpful,” she muttered.
    “You’re mad,” she said, her voice an irritating whine. “I’m sorry. I said I was sorry.”
    “It’s okay. But we have to move. Fast. They’re on their way.” She handed Michelle the boots she’d found inside, the smaller pair, which should fit fine. Michelle’s own boots were chic and stylish, with spiky three-inch heels—just the sort for a young professional. But useless footgear for fleeing from killers.
    Michelle stared at the fleece boots. She didn’t move.
    “Hurry.”
    “Mine are fine.”
    “No, they’re not. You can’t wear those.” A nod at the designer footwear.
    Michelle said, “I don’t like to wear other people’s clothes. It’s . . . gross.” Her voice was a hollow whisper.
    Maybe she meant dead people’s clothes.
    A glance toward Number 2. No sign of the men. Not yet.
    “I’m sorry, Michelle. I know it’s upsetting. But you have to. And now.”
    “I’m fine with these.”
    “No. You can’t. Especially with a hurt ankle.”
    Another hesitation. It was as if the woman were a pouty eight-year-old. Brynn took her firmly by the shoulders. “Michelle. They could be here any minute. We don’t have any choice.” Her voice was harsh. “Put the goddamn boots on. Now!”
    A long moment. Michelle’s jaw trembling, eyes red, she snatched away the hiking boots and leaned against the Mercedes to put them on. Brynn jogged to the garage and found beside it what she’d seen when she’d arrived: a canoe under a tarp. She hefted it. The fiberglass boat wasn’t more than forty or fifty pounds.
    Although Yahoo’s estimate was accurate and two hundred yards separated them from the shoreline, a stream was only about thirty feet from the house and it ran pretty much straight to the lake.
    In the garage she found life preservers and