The Bodies Left Behind

dug a bullet out of the molding. “Not me.”
    Why would somebody take the trouble to dig out one but not the other bullets? Why? Because it had his DNA on it?
    Most likely, and that meant he was wounded.
    It also meant that he was a pro. Most crimes in Kennesha County involved people who didn’t even know what DNA was, much less worried about leaving any.
    A hit man.
    Okay, think. The two men had been hired to kill Emma Feldman. They’d done that—and killed herhusband too. Then, maybe, they’d been surprised by the friend who’d driven up with them. Maybe she’d been out for a walk or upstairs in the shower when the killers arrived.
    Or maybe it was Brynn who’d surprised them.
    Somebody, Brynn probably, had shot one of the men, wounding him. He’d dug the DNA-coated bullet out of the wall.
    But what had happened next?
    Had they ditched their car somewhere and taken Brynn’s? Were the friend and Brynn with them, captives? Had the women put on those hiking boots to run off into the woods?
    Were they dead?
    He called deputy Howie Prescott on his radio. The big man was near the lake in the yard between 2 and 3 Lake View, where they’d found some footprints. He was looking for any sign of a trail anybody’d left. Prescott was the best hunter in the office, though how the 280-pound man snuck up on his prey was a mystery to them all.
    “Anything, Howie?”
    “No, sir. But it’s dark as night here.”
    Dark as night, Dahl thought. It is goddamn night.
    “Keep looking.”
    Dahl said to Eric Munce, who was rubbing the grip of his pistol the way a child plays with its sippy cup, “I want to get some bodies. . . .” Dahl hesitated at the inappropriate word. “I want to get some searchers up here fast. As many as we can. But armed only. No volunteers.”
    Munce hurried to his squad car to call in a search party.
    Dahl stepped outside and gazed toward the lake. The moon was low, withholding most of its illumination from the surface.
    Dahl’s radio crackled. “This’s Pete.”
    “Go ahead.”
    “I’m in the driveway of Number One. Haven’t checked it out yet but wanted to tell you.” He was breathless. “There’s a truck just passed me. White pickup. Headed your way.”
    A truck.
    “Who’s inside?”
    “Couldn’t see.”
    “Okay. Check out the house. I want to know what you find.”
    “Will do.”
    “Got company,” the sheriff said to Munce, then called Prescott and told him to keep an eye out for the vehicle.
    They saw it approach slowly and turn up the drive.
    Both Dahl’s and Munce’s hands were near their weapons.
    But it turned out not to be a threat.
    Though it was certainly a complication.
    Graham Boyd climbed out of the cab, leaving his passengers, three fuzzy bushes, in the back, and walked straight up to Dahl.
    “She’s not here, Graham. We don’t know where she is.”
    “Let me see,” the big man said in an unsteady voice, heading for the house.
    “No, I can’t let you in. There’s some bodies. People’ve been killed, shot. It’s a crime scene.”
    “Where is she?” Graham’s voice was ragged.
    The sheriff put his arm around the man’s solid shoulders and led him away. “Brynn and those folks’ friend got away, we think.”
    “They did? Where?”
    “We don’t know anything for sure. We’re getting a search team up here now.”
    “Jesus Christ.”
    “Look, let us do our job here. I know it’s hard. But I’m going to ask you to help us out and go on home. Please.”
    The radio crackled once more. “Sheriff, it’s Howie. I was looking around the shore and found something.”
    “Go ahead.”
    “A car off the road. Went into the lake, looks like.”
    “ Looks like?” he snapped. “Or did?”
    A pause. “Yeah, it did.”
    “Where?”
    “Can you see the flashlight? I’m signaling.”
    Two or three hundred yards away a small yellow dot waved through the darkness.
    Graham shouted, “What’s the debris, what color?”
    A hesitation. Dahl repeated the question.
    Prescott said, “There’s a bumper here. It’s dark red.”
    “Oh, shit,” Graham said and started running.
    “Goddamn,” Dahl spat out. He and Munce climbed into the sheriff’s car, Munce driving. They stopped and Graham climbed in the back, then they sped to the shore.
    Skid marks, airbag dust, scrapes on the rocks and auto detritus—hunks of red plastic from lights, bits of glass—and an oil slick near the shore left no doubt. The car had sailed off the road, hit a rocky ledge