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Michelle’s purse was gone, which meant the killers had it-and that they’d now know her name and where she lived.
Bry
Did the couple have laptop computers? She looked at the briefcase on the floor-it was the woman’s-and at the pile of file folders all stamped with the word CONFIDENTIAL. But no electronics. The husband apparently used a backpack for his briefcase but that had contained only a few magazines, a paperback novel and a bottle of wine.
Bry
Was there anything-?
She gasped in shock. Outside, the croak of frogs and the whisper of wind vanished in the insistent blare of a car alarm.
Then Michelle’s desperate voice calling, “Bry
Bry
Michelle was standing beside the Mercedes, the window shattered. The young woman was frantic, wide-eyed. And paralyzed.
Bry
They’re on their way. Great.
“I’m sorry!” Michelle cried. “I didn’t think, I didn’t think…”
Bry
“What happened?”
“I just…” Michelle moaned angrily. “It’s not my fault!”
No? Whose was it?
She continued, “I have low blood sugar. I was feeling fu
“Okay,” said Bry
“You’re mad,” she said, her voice an irritating whine. “I’m sorry. I said I was sorry.”
“It’s okay. But we have to move. Fast. They’re on their way.” She handed Michelle the boots she’d found inside, the smaller pair, which should fit fine. Michelle’s own boots were chic and stylish, with spiky three-inch heels-just the sort for a young professional. But useless footgear for fleeing from killers.
Michelle stared at the fleece boots. She didn’t move.
“Hurry.”
“Mine are fine.”
“No, they’re not. You can’t wear those.” A nod at the designer footwear.
Michelle said, “I don’t like to wear other people’s clothes. It’s…gross.” Her voice was a hollow whisper.
Maybe she meant dead people’s clothes.
A glance toward Number 2. No sign of the men. Not yet.
“I’m sorry, Michelle. I know it’s upsetting. But you have to. And now.”
“I’m fine with these.”
“No. You can’t. Especially with a hurt ankle.”
Another hesitation. It was as if the woman were a pouty eight-year-old. Bry
A long moment. Michelle’s jaw trembling, eyes red, she snatched away the hiking boots and leaned against the Mercedes to put them on. Bry
Although Yahoo’s estimate was accurate and two hundred yards separated them from the shoreline, a stream was only about thirty feet from the house and it ran pretty much straight to the lake.
In the garage she found life preservers and paddles.
Michelle was staring down at her friend’s boots, grimacing. She looked like a rich customer who’d been sold inferior footwear and was about to complain to the store manager.
Bry
Michelle glanced back toward the house at 2 Lake View and, her face troubled, shoved the crackers in her pocket, then hurried to the canoe. The two women dragged it to the stream. Michelle climbed in with her pool cue walking stick and Bry
With a look back at the morass of forest, through which the killers were surely sprinting right now, the deputy climbed in and shoved off into the stream, a dark artery seeping toward a dark heart.
THE MEN RAN through the night, sucking in cold, damp air rich with the smell of rotting leaves.
At the sound of the horn, Hart had realized that rather than head for the county road, like he’d thought, the women had snuck back to the Feldman house. They’d probably broken into the Mercedes hoping to fix the tire, not thinking the car was alarmed. He and Lewis had started ru
Hart, never an outdoorsman, hadn’t thought about that. The men returned to the driveway and jogged to Lake View Drive and then north toward number 2.
“We go…up careful,” Hart said, out of breath, when they were halfway to the Feldmans’ driveway. “Still…could be a trap.” The jogging was hell on his wounded arm. He winced and tried moving it into different positions. Nothing helped.
“A trap?”
“Still…worried about a gun.”
Lewis seemed a lot less obnoxious now. “Sure.”
They slowed at the mailbox, then started up the drive, Hart first, both of them sticking to the shadows. Lewis was silent, thank God. The kid was catching on, if you could call a thirty-five-year-old a kid. Hart thought again of his brother.
About fifty feet up the driveway they paused.
Hart sca
Hell, a flying squirrel. Hart’d never seen one.
He was squinting at the Mercedes, noting the broken window. He saw no signs of the women.
It was Lewis who spotted them. He happened to look back down the driveway toward the private road. “Hart. Look. What’s that?”
He turned, half expecting to see Bry
“What?”
“There they are! On the lake.”
Hart turned to look. About two hundred feet into the lake was a low boat, a skiff or canoe. It was moving toward the opposite shore but very slowly. It was hard to see for certain but he thought there were two people in it. Bry
Lewis said, “That alarm, it wasn’t a mistake. It was to distract us. So they could get away in the fucking boat.”
The man had made a good catch. Hart hadn’t even been looking at the lake. He bridled once again at being outguessed-and he decided it was probably Bry