The Bodies Left Behind

have good cover. “There, down into the ravine. Do the best you can. Come on. Fast.”
    They started down the hill, sticking to the thicker clumps of oak and dense brush, where they’d be less of a target. They half slid, half ran, scrabbling down the steep slope, Michelle in front, Brynn behind her.
    They were doing well until, halfway down, Brynntripped, her foot catching on a vine or branch. She landed hard on her butt and slid on the slick leaves right into Michelle, taking her legs out from under her. They began a long, unstoppable tumble down the hillside, Brynn desperately trying to keep a grip on the spear so it didn’t slash either of them to death.
    They ended up in a shallow ravine.
    The knife in Brynn’s pocket had poked through the ski parka but the blade hadn’t cut her. Michelle lay on her back, frantically patting her belly. Brynn was terrified that the younger woman’s knife had cut her deeply.
    Gasping for breath, Brynn whispered, “You all right?”
    Michelle’s hand found the knife inside her jacket. It hadn’t apparently done any damage. A nod.
    Brynn slowly sat up, gripping the spear. She looked around and saw a depression in the dry creek bed. They headed into it. Brush and a natural line of three and four-foot boulders gave them some cover.
    “Look,” Michelle whispered and pointed.
    Brynn watched Hart’s partner, holding the shotgun ready to shoot, moving east—toward them—in a jog. The breeze was busily stirring leaves but he must’ve heard something. He was looking directly at the spot where they’d fallen. Then he gazed around him and vanished into a thick copse of trees to the north.
    Brynn gripped the spear handle, staring toward him. “How’s your ankle?”
    “Okay. I fell on my other leg.”
    Scanning the hill. Neither of the men was visible.
    Brynn was estimating distances and speculatingwhere the partner might’ve gone. Michelle whispered something. Brynn didn’t hear. She was lost in consideration. She made a decision. Then surveyed the ground. “Okay. We’re going to split up. I want you to move that way, stay in the ravine and keep your head down. Over there, see that dip? Get down into it and cover yourself up with leaves.”
    “What are you going to do?” Michelle asked, her eyes wide.
    “See it?” Brynn repeated firmly.
    “You’re going to go after him, aren’t you?”
    Times to run, times to fight  . . .
    Brynn nodded.
    “I want to come with you. I can help.”
    “It’ll be a bigger help to me if you just stay hid.”
    Michelle looked somber for a moment. Then smiled. “I won’t worry about breaking a nail, if that’s what you mean.”
    Brynn smiled too. “This is my job. Let me do it. Now go on down there, cover yourself up. If they get close and you have to run . . .” She looked along the dry streambed and pointed to the lake, which was really no more than a pond. “That’ll be our rallying point. The near shore, by those rocks.”
    “Rallying point. What’s that?”
    “Where soldiers meet when they get split up. It’s not a cop thing. I got it from Saving Private Ryan. ”
    Drawing another smile from Michelle.

    CHARLES GANDY , a lean, bearded man in his early thirties, wearing a North Face insulated windbreaker, stood beside a Winnebago camper parked in the woods of Marquette State Park, next to a ramshackle ranger station that had been abandoned years ago. The camper was nicked and dented and the butt end sported a half dozen bumper stickers extolling the importance of green energy and listing such accomplishments as mountain biking Snoqualmie Pass and hiking the Appalachian Trail.
    “You hear anything else, honey?” asked Susan, a round woman with straight, light brown hair. A few years older than Gandy. She wore a necklace in the shape of an Egyptian ankh, two braided friendship bracelets and a wedding ring.
    “Nope.”
    “What was it?”
    “Voices, I’m pretty sure. Well, sounded like a shout almost.”
    “The park’s closed. And this time of night?”
    “I know. When’s Rudy due back?”
    “Any time.”
    Her husband squinted into the night.
    “Daddy?”
    He turned to see his nine-year-old stepdaughterstanding in the doorway, T-shirt, denim skirt and old running shoes. “Amy, it’s time for bed.”
    “I’m helping Mommy. She wanted me to.”
    Gandy was distracted. “All right. Whatever your mom says. But go on inside. It’s freezing out here.”
    The girl disappeared with a swirl of long blond