“She does run those a lot,” Graham agreed. “I always thought it was Tom Dahl. You know, wanting a woman there.”
“No. She’d volunteer.”
“What did she do? After Keith hit her?”
“She didn’t have him arrested if that’s what you mean. I think she was worried about Joey.”
“He ever do it again?”
“No. Not that she ever told me.”
Hitting someone you were married to. He couldn’t imagine it. Hell, hitting anyone, unless it was self-defense, was almost impossible to picture.
Graham was matching this information against other incidents in their past, against his wife’s words, her behavior. Dozens of times she’d touch her jaw in the morning. Even her waking, sweaty and groaning, from dreams. Her moodiness, her defensiveness.
Her control…
He pictured her hand, coasting along the uneven line of her jaw as they sat at the dinner table or watching TV on the green couch.
Still, sitting back, he said, “She didn’t know what was going on at Lake Mondac until she got there. Domestic may’ve been why she stayed tonight. It’s not why she volunteered to go in the first place.
That
’s what I want to know.”
“I think the answers’re pretty much the same, Graham.” The needle clicks resumed as Anna cranked up the assembly line of yarn once again.
THEY PAUSED TO
The routine was that Brynn and Michelle would kneel down, rest the alcohol bottle on its side and tease their magnetic vessel into the center of its tiny ocean, where it would nose out north for them. The compass was a lifesaver. Brynn was astonished at how easily they would start to veer in the wrong direction, though she’d been absolutely convinced they were on course.
Michelle asked, “How did you know how to make that?” Nodding at the compass as Brynn slipped it back into her pocket. “You have children? A school project?”
“A course I took through the State Police. But I do have a son.” She tried to imagine skateboarding fiend Joey sitting still long enough for a science fair project. The idea was amusing.
“How old is he?” Michelle was suddenly animated.
“Twelve.”
“I love children,” she said. Then she smiled. “What’s his name?”
“Joseph.”
“Biblical.”
“I guess so. We named him after his father’s uncle.”
“Is he a good boy?”
“He sure is.” Hesitated. “Though he gets into things sometimes.” She told Michelle about the skateboarding incident today, some of his scrapes at school. The woman listened with interest—and sympathy. Brynn asked, “You and your husband have kids?”
Michelle glanced at her. “Not yet. We lead pretty busy lifestyles.”
“And you’re an actress, you were saying?”
A shy smile. “Just little things now. TV commercials, community theater. But I’m going to get into Second City. The improv comedy troupe. I’ve had a couple of callbacks. And I’m auditioning for the touring company of
Wicked.
”
Brynn listened attentively as the young woman told her about some parts she was pursuing. Brynn’s opinion, though, was that she was a dilettante. It sounded like she jumped from medium to medium, hoping to find one she was talented at. Or one that was easier than others. She wasn’t surprised to learn that Michelle also tried her hand at writing plays, but had recently decided that independent films were the way to go. And was thinking of getting a job in L.A. to meet people in the movie industry.
They were walking uphill now and, breathless, fell silent as they slogged their way over another quarter mile.
She’d thought they’d have come across the Joliet Trail by now. It couldn’t be that far away. But with all this dense brush, she had no realistic sense of how fast they were traveling. Like treading through water; a lot of effort didn’t lead to a long distance covered.
After fifteen minutes they paused in a clearing surrounded by briars to take another compass reading. The lighter flared and Brynn saw they were on track. “Okay, shut it out.”
According to the routine they’d fallen into, they now sat for a moment or two, eyes squeezed shut to help them adjust to the dark.
A snap sounded behind them.
Loud.
Michelle gasped.
Both women tensed, rising to a crouch from their knees. Brynn slipped the compass away and grabbed the spear.
Another snap and a rustle of footsteps.
Brynn squinted until her cheek screamed in pain. But she couldn’t see anything.
Was it the killers?
“What? Do you—?”
“Shhh.”
Something was moving, circling them. Then stopped. Moved again.
Snap…
Then it vanished.
A moment later, from their right, came another snap, a shuffle of leaves. They spun suddenly in that direction. Brynn could vaguely make out a shadowy form, rocking back and forth.
It wasn’t the men. In fact it wasn’t a human. Brynn observed that it was an animal, about the size of a German shepherd.
Brynn believed it was staring at them with shoulders tensed and hackles high.
Michelle gasped and gripped Brynn’s arm.
Was it a mountain lion? The last one in Wisconsin had reportedly been shot a hundred years ago. But every year there were supposed sightings. You’d see coyotes from time to time. They were timid, but rabid ones, their minds melting, had strolled right into tents and attacked campers. Lynx weren’t unheard of either.
But this seemed too big for that. She decided it was a gray wolf, which were being reintroduced into the state. She didn’t know if they’d attack humans but the eerie, probing face—almost human—was unsettling.
Had Michelle and Brynn come close to the creature’s lair? Were there pups to be protected? A crazed mother was the worst of enemies, Keith, an avid hunter, had told her.
A flash of anger burned within her. They didn’t need another enemy tonight. She gripped the spear firmly and stood up. She strode forward, between Michelle and the creature.
“What’re you doing? Don’t leave me.”
Brynn thought: Don’t hesitate. Keep going.
The animal’s head cocked and its eyes caught light from the lopped-off moon.
Brynn kept walking, moving faster, hunched over.
Still staring their way, the animal backed up then turned and receded into the night. Brynn stopped and returned to the young woman, who was staring at her. “Jesus,” Michelle said.
“It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t the animal she was referring to. “Are you all right?” she asked uncertainly.
“Me?” the deputy asked. “Sure. Why?”
“You were…you were making this noise. I thought you couldn’t breathe or something.”
“Noise?”
“Like, growling. It was scary.”
“Growling?” Brynn was aware of breathing hard, teeth set tightly together. She wasn’t aware that she’d made a noise.
Queen of the Jungle…
She gave an awkward laugh and they continued on. Their route led them into a ravine, the rocks and trees along the side ensnared with vines,
and the floor covered with patches of poison ivy and vinca. Boggy pools too, surrounded by mushrooms and fungus. They pushed through it all, exhausted, and struggled up the other side, using saplings and sandstone outcroppings for hand-and footholds.
At the top they stumbled onto a trail.
It wasn’t wide—about four feet—and was overgrown from disuse during the winter months but it was heaven compared with what they’d been slogging through since fleeing the Feldmans’ house.
“Is this it?” Michelle asked.
They found their answer only thirty feet away, a large wooden sign:
PERKINSTOWN
64
MILES.
DULUTH, MN
187
MILES
CAMP RESPONSIBLY ON THE JOLIET TRAIL
ONLY YOU CAN PREVENT FOREST FIRES
“
HOW MUCH TIME
Referring to the conversation with Graham Boyd, Brynn’s husband.
“Hard to say.”
They’d come miles through the underbrush, adjusting their course occasionally after consulting the GPS, Google Earth and the paper map as they made their way north.
“So that was why you turned it on, her phone?”
“Right.” Though just after the conversation he’d removed the battery so the police couldn’t trace it. “I’ve been waiting for that. Wanted to hold out for as long as we could. Now we put him at ease. He’ll go to sleep and won’t worry until three or four when he wakes up in an empty bed. By then they’ll both be dead and buried.”
“He believed you?”
“Pretty sure.”
As they walked on, Hart was wondering about her husband, somebody married to a woman like Brynn…what would
he
be like? Low voice, seemed smart, well-spoken, wasn’t drunk. He wondered if the man’s words had contained clues that might help him find and kill her more efficiently.
Not really.
Still, he kept replaying the conversation. It fascinated him.
Two different last names. Didn’t surprise him that Brynn had kept her maiden name.
Graham…The man she slept with, the man she shared a life with. Unusual name. Where did it come from? Was he conservative, liberal? Religious? What did he do for a living? Hart was interested in the relief that had filled his voice. Something seemed a bit off about it. Hart didn’t know what to make of that. Yeah, relieved…but another emotion too.
He wished he’d gotten a better look at her in the Feldmans’ driveway. Pretty enough, he recalled. Brownish hair, pulled back. A nice figure. Hadn’t let herself go. Picturing her eyes. Brows furrowed as she registered his presence when he rose from the bushes.
Hart had killed six people. Three had looked at him as he did it. Seeing their eyes meant nothing to him. He didn’t prefer that they look away. He didn’t look away either. The only one who hadn’t cried was the one woman he’d killed, a drug dealer.
Yo, you gonna do this?
He hadn’t answered.
You and me, we work something out?
She’d stolen money, or hadn’t, skimmed the drugs, or hadn’t. Wasn’t Hart’s issue. He’d made an agreement with the man who wanted her dead. And so he, a craftsman, made her dead, staring into her face as he did so to make sure she wasn’t going to leap aside or pull a hidden weapon.
Brynn had looked
him
in the eye too as she fired.
A craftswoman.
“Hart?”
Lewis’s voice shook him out of his reflection. He tensed, looking around. “Yeah?”
“You’re a Milwaukee boy, I’m one too. How come we never worked together before?”
“Don’t know.”
“You work in the city much?”
“Not much, no. Safer that way.”
“Where you live?”
“South of town.”
“Toward Kenosha?”
“Not that far.”
“Lotta building going on in those parts.”
Lewis stopped suddenly. “Look up there, a post or something. A sign.”
“Where?”
“See it? On the right.”
They moved forward carefully, Hart putting aside his thoughts about Brynn with some reluctance, and stopped at the sign.
In the summer of 1673, Louis Joliet, a 27-year-old philosopher, and Fr. Jacques Marquette, a 35-year-old Jesuit priest, crossed Wisconsin on their way to the Mississippi River. Although the trail you are standing on is named for him, Joliet never hiked this 458 mile route. He and Marquette made their voyage mostly by waterway. The Joliet Trail was created by fur traders and people just like you, outdoor-lovers, some years later.
Hart consulted the GPS on his BlackBerry and the paper map.
“Which way’d those girls get?”
“Has to be to the right. That’s the ranger station, few miles away.”
Lewis looked up and down the trail, which, little traveled this time of year, was overgrown and tangled with branches and dotted with stubborn saplings rising through the sludge of leaves.
“What’s wrong?”
“You ask me, this ain’t no trail at all. It’s just less forest.”
Hart smiled at that. Which made Lewis smile too.
HERE THEY WERE,
The trail reminded Brynn of the last time she’d been horseback riding—one spring several years ago. She’d loved cantering along the bridle path in some woods near Humboldt. Years ago, before she’d become a deputy, she’d been an amateur competitive jumper and loved the sport. In fact, it was at a competition that she’d seen an exhibition by some mounted police from Milwaukee. The eighteen-year-old had spent time talking to an officer, which had ignited a fascination, ironically, not in the art of dressage riding but in police work.
Which, a few years later, provided the same thrill she’d experienced hurtling over jumps atop a half ton of animal.
Now, she realized how much she missed riding and wondered if she’d ever have the chance to get back into the saddle.
As they continued along the trail they’d see poignant evidence that the park was usually a far more innocent place than tonight, signs dispensing bits of history and information. The most troubling dangers had to do with fires, steep drop-offs and ecological risks.
EMERALD ASH BORER WARNING
Firewood purchased from Clausen may be infested with Emerald Ash Borer. If you have purchased any Henderson brand firewood, please burn any such wood immediately to avoid endangering our hardwood trees with the Emerald Ash Borer!
One tree—a massive oak—earned a sign all its own. Maybe the biggest or oldest (tourists loved their superlatives). Brynn, though, thought of it simply as a source of cover. Around here the trail wound through patches of
bare fields, exposing them to pursuers. To move off the trail, into the lowland brush, though, would slow them down way too much.
The flying squirrels were plentiful and bats flitted by silently, owls noisier. Several times they’d hear a beat of wing and a final squeak from a predator’s successful strike.
Michelle kept up pretty well but Brynn was growing concerned about her. Her ankle wasn’t bad—from the job and from Joey’s many mishaps, she knew about serious injuries; when to dole out sympathy and when to call medics. Rather, it was the young woman’s resignation. She was lagging behind. Once, she paused and looked up a steep incline, grimaced.
“Let’s go,” Brynn urged.
“I need to rest.”
“Let’s cover a little more ground.” She smiled. “Let’s earn a break.”
“I’m tired
now.
I’m so tired. My blood sugar, I told you.” Then she gasped and jerked back as a small animal scampered past. “What was that?”
A vole or mouse, Brynn told her. “Harmless.”
“It could crawl up your pants.”
Not yours, Brynn thought, considering Michelle’s tight jeans.
The younger woman’s good mood from earlier had faded. She was like a child who’d missed her afternoon nap. Patiently Brynn said, “Come on, Michelle. The more we walk, the closer to getting back home. And we can’t stop here.” They were in a clearing, very visible in the moonlight.