The Bodies Left Behind

away. Then he frowned, as if he’d remembered something, and lifted an index finger just as the lawyer was about to close the car door. “Oh, one thing. Just to be helpful. You hear about tomorrow morning?”
    Paul Morgan gave an exaggerated grimace and said, “What about tomorrow morning?”
    “Public Works is starting some construction on Hanover Street. On Saturday, can you believe it? And at eight-thirty. You might want to check out a different route if you want to get to the school by ten.”
    “What?” Hand on the half-open door, Morgan was frozen, staring at Jasons. The word was a whisper.
    “For the concert.” The slim man nodded pleasantly. “I think it’s great when parents take an interest in their children’s activities. A lot of them don’t. And I’m sure Paul Junior and Alicia appreciate it too. I know they’ve been practicing hard. Alicia especially. Every day after school in that rehearsal room, three to four-thirty . . . Impressive. Just thought you might want to know about the roadwork. Okay, you have a good evening, Mr. Morgan.”
    Jasons turned and walked to his Lexus, thinking that the odds of getting rushed were about 10 percent. But he got inside safely and started the car.
    When he looked out the rearview mirror, there was no sign of Morgan’s Mercedes.
    The slip of paper was gone too.
    The first of this evening’s tasks was finished. Now for the second. His stomach rumbled again but he decided he’d better get on the road right away. The directions told him it would take more than two hours to get to Lake Mondac.

    THE GROUND AROUND Brynn and Michelle was swampy and they had to be careful not to step on what seemed to be solid leaves but which was only a thin facade covering a deep bog. The frogs’ calls were insistent, piercing and they irritated Brynn because the creek-crack could obscure the sound of anyone approaching.
    They walked for twenty minutes in tense silence—following the least choked route they could, sucked farther into the forest’s discouraging labyrinth. Brynn and Michelle descended into a gully that was matted with blackberry, trillium, wood leek and a dozen plants Brynn didn’t recognize. With considerable effort they climbed to the top of the other side.
    Where Brynn realized suddenly that she was lost. Completely lost.
    On higher ground they’d had more of a sense of the correct direction—due north to the Joliet Trail. Brynn had used certain landmarks to guide them: peaks, a stream, unusualpatterns of tall oak trees. But they’d been forced farther and farther downward into the low ground by rocky cliffs and the compacted mass of brush and thorny bushes. All of her navigation beacons had vanished. She recalled the instructor at the State Police tactical procedures course saying that if you put somebody in unfamiliar territory without recognizable landmarks, they’d be completely disoriented within thirty-five minutes. Brynn had certainly believed him but hadn’t realized that too many landmarks could be as much of a problem as too few.
    “Did you and your friends ever hike this way?”
    “I don’t hike,” Michelle said petulantly. “And I’ve only been to their place once or twice.”
    Brynn looked around slowly.
    “I thought you knew where we were,” Michelle muttered.
    “I thought so too,” she said with more than a little exasperation.
    “Well, find some moss. It grows on the north side of trees. We learned that in grade school.”
    “Not really,” Brynn replied, looking around. “It grows where there’s the most moisture, which is usually on the north side of trees and rocks. But only if there’s enough sun to dry out the south side. In deep forest, it’ll grow everywhere.” Brynn pointed. “Let’s try that way.” Wondering if she was taking that route simply because it seemed less daunting, the vegetation less tangled. Michelle followed numbly, limping along with her polished rosewood crutch.
    A short time later Brynn stopped again. If it was possible, she was even more lost than ten minutes earlier.
    Can’t keep going on like this.
    She had a thought, asked Michelle, “Do you have a needle?”
    “A what?”
    “A needle, or a pin, maybe a safety pin.”
    “Why would I have a needle?”
    “Just, do you have one?”
    The woman patted her jacket. “No. What for?”
    Her badge! Brynn pulled it out of her pocket. Kennesha County Sheriff’s Department. Chrome. Ridges radiating like sun rays out of the county