The Bodies Left Behind

ask you a question?”
    “Yeah.”
    “I’m curious. Why’re you in this line of work?”
    “It suits me,” he’d said simply.
    “It looks like it does.”
    “Okay. What’s the threat situation?”
    “The what?”
    “How risky’s the job going to be? How many people up there, weapons, police nearby? It’s a lake house—are the other houses on Lake View occupied?”
    “It’ll be a piece of cake, Hart. Hardly any risk at all. The other places’ll be vacant. And only the two of them up there, the Feldmans. And no rangers in the park or cops around for miles.”
    “They have weapons?”
    “Are you kidding? They’re city people. She’s a lawyer, he’s a social worker.”
    “Just the Feldmans, nobody else? It’ll make a big difference.”
    “That’s my information. And it’s solid. Just the two of them.”
    Now, in the middle of Marquette State Park, Hart and Lewis circled around a dangerous stand of thorny brush. Like a plant out of a science fiction movie.
    Hart reflected sourly, Yeah, right, just the two of them. Feeling the ache in his arm.
    Angry with himself.
    He’d done 95 percent.
    It should’ve been 110.
    At least they knew they were on the right path. A half mile back they’d found a scrap of tissue with blood on it. The Kleenex couldn’t’ve been there for more than a half hour. Hart now paused and gazed around them, noted some peaks and a small creek. “We’re doing fine. Be a lot tougher without the moonlight. But we’ve caught a break. Somebody’s looking out for us.”
    The Trickster  . . .
    “Somebody . . . You believe that?” Lewis said this as if he did.
    Hart didn’t. But no time for theology now. “I’d like to move a little faster. When they hit the trail they might start running. We’ll have to too.”
    “Run?”
    “Right. Smooth ground’ll give us the advantage. We can move faster.”
    “Them being women, you mean?”
    “Yep. Well, and one of them being hurt. Pain slows people down.” He paused and stared to their right. Then hunched over the map and examined it closely with the flashlight, its lens muted by his undershirt.
    He pointed. “That a smoke tower?”
    “What’s that?”
    “Rangers look for forest fires from them. It’s one of the places I thought she might go for.”
    “Where?”
    “On that ridge.”
    They were looking at a structure about a half mile away. It was a tower of some sort but through the trees they couldn’t tell if it was a radio or microwave antenna or a structure with a small enclosure on top.
    “Maybe,” Lewis said.
    “You see any sign of them?”
    Now that their eyes were used to the dark, the half-moon provided fair illumination but the ravine separating the men from the ranger tower was shadowy, and in the bottom a canopy of trees provided perfect cover.
    The women heading for the tower made some sense, rather than the Joliet Trail or the ranger station. The place might have a radio, or even a weapon. He debated for a moment and risked scanning the ground with the flashlight. If the women were near, at least they’d be moving away and might not see the light.
    Then they heard a rustle of leaves, and turned fast toward the sound.
    Six glowing red eyes were staring at them.
    Lewis laughed. “Raccoons.”
    Three big ones were pawing at something on the ground. It glistened and crackled.
    “What’s that?”
    Lewis found a rock and pitched it toward them.
    With a mean-sounding hiss, they ran off.
    Hart and Lewis approached and found what they’d been doing—fighting over some food. It looked like bits of crackers.
    “Theirs?”
    Hart picked one up, broke it in half with a snap. Fresh. He studied the ground. The women had stopped here apparently—he could make out prints of knees and feet. And then they had continued north.
    “Women. Stopping for a fucking picnic.”
    Hart doubted, though, it was to rest. That wasn’t Brynn. Maybe somebody needed first aid; he believed he smelled rubbing alcohol. But, whatever the reason, the important thing to Hart was that they hadn’t made for the fire tower; they were headed right for the trail.
    He consulted the GPS and pointed ahead. “That way.”
    “Mind that patch there,” Lewis said.
    Hart squinted. When the moon was obscured by branches or a wisp of cloud, the forest around them turned black as a cave. He finally saw what Lewis was pointing at. “What’s that?”
    “Poison ivy. Bad stuff. Not everybody’s allergic. Indians aren’t.”
    “Doesn’t