The Bodies Left Behind

weren’t really alone. Bats zipped by, owls hooted. Brynn gasped when she trod on the end of a deer rib rack, which swung up and clapped her in the knee. She danced away from the bleached, chewed bone. The scarred skull of the animal was nearby.
    Michelle stared at the skeletal remains, eyes wide, without response.
    “Let’s go. It’s just bones.”
    They pushed through the tangled wilderness for anotherhundred yards. Suddenly Michelle stumbled, grabbed a branch to support herself and winced.
    “What’s the matter?”
    She ripped off her thin glove, staring at her hand. Two thorns from the branch had punctured her palm and broken off into her skin. Her eyes flushed with horror.
    “No! No, it’s just blackberry. You’re fine. Here. Let me look.”
    “No! Don’t touch it.”
    But Brynn took the woman’s hand and flicked the candle lighter over the skin, examining the tiny wounds. “We just want to get them out so it doesn’t get infected. In five minutes you won’t feel a thing.”
    Brynn eased the thorns out of her skin and the woman winced, whimpering and staring at the growing dots of blood. Brynn pulled out the bottle of alcohol, dampened the edge of a sock with it and started to bathe the wounds. She couldn’t help notice the dark, artistic nails.
    “Let me do it,” Michelle said and dabbed at the skin. She handed back the sock and found a tissue in her pocket, pressed it onto the wound. By the time she lifted it away the bleeding had almost stopped.
    “How is it?”
    “It’s okay,” Michelle said. “You’re right. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
    They continued on their route, heading in the direction that Brynn pointed.
    Sure, she thought, Hart would pursue them and they’d have to remain vigilant. But he’d have no ideawhere they were headed. The women could have gone in any direction except south to the county road—since they’d have to sneak around the killers to get there.
    With every passing yard, Brynn grew more confident. At least she knew something about the forest and where the trail ahead of them lay. The men did not. And even if Hart and his partner happened to choose this direction, the men would surely find themselves lost in ten minutes.

    BACK ON THE shore near the Feldman house Hart was looking over the GPS function on his BlackBerry. Then he consulted the map of the area they’d brought with them.
    “The Joliet Trail,” he announced.
    “What’s that?”
    “Where they’re headed.”
    “Ah,” Lewis said. “You think?”
    “Yep.” He held up the map. “We’re here.” He tapped a spot then moved his finger north. “That brown line’s the trail. It’ll take ’em right to that ranger station there.”
    Lewis was distracted. He was looking over the lake. “That was smart, I gotta say. What they did.”
    Hart didn’t disagree. Their short row into the lake had revealed that the women had propped up life vests to resemble bodies hunched down in the canoe andthen shoved the boat into the water. The scream—at the sound of the shots—was ingenious. Had Brynn or Michelle uttered the sound? Brynn, he bet.
    Hart wasn’t used to having to out-think his opponents. Part of him liked the challenge but a bigger part liked being in control. The contests he preferred were those in which he had a pretty good idea that the outcome would be in his favor. Like working with ebony: the wood was temperamental—hard and brittle—and could split easily, wasting hundreds of dollars. But if you took your time, you were careful, you foresaw any potential problems, the end result was beautiful.
    What kind of challenge was Brynn McKenzie?
    Smelling the ammonia.
    Hearing the crack, crack, crack of her gun.
    Ebony, of course.
    His aching arm prodded him to think too: And what kind was Michelle?
    That would remain to be seen.
    “So you’re thinking of going after them?” Lewis asked. He opened his mouth and puffed out a bit of steam.
    “Yep.”
    “I gotta say, Hart. This isn’t what I planned on.”
    Putting it mildly.
    Lewis continued, “Everything’s changed. That bitch shooting you, trying to shoot me. The cop . . . You or me, in that bathroom, the ammonia trap. If it’d worked, one of us’d be blinded. And that shot in the house, the cop? Missed me by inches.”
    I can dodge bullets  . . .
    Hart said nothing. He wasn’t riled up the way Lewis was. The women were just being true to their nature. Like that animal he’d seen. Of course they’d fight