The Bodies Left Behind

“Afraid of what you’d do. Give up on us, think I was being too demanding, walk out the door. Or take control and I’d get lost in the shuffle…Make it seem like there was no problem at all.” He shrugged. “I should have asked you. I couldn’t. But look, Bry

“But it’s not too late. Don’t judge by last night. This was…this was a nightmare.”

Then, astonishing her, he snapped. He shoved the chair back and leapt to his feet. The beer bottle fell, spewing foam over the plates. The easygoing man was now enraged. Bry

Yet, she realized the rage wasn’t at her. It was, she believed, directed purely at himself. “But I have to judge by last night. That’s what did it, Bry

What he’d said before. He wasn’t pla

He inhaled deeply. “Eric.”

“Eric Munce?”

“He’s dead because of me.”

“You? No, no, we all knew he was reckless. Whatever happened didn’t have anything to do with you.”

“Yes, it did! It had everything to do with me.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I used him!” His own jaw, square and perfect, was trembling. “I know you all thought he was a cowboy. Last night nobody was going to look for you at the interstate. But I knew you’d go that way. So I told Eric if he wanted to see some action he ought to come with me. That’s where the killers were headed.” Graham shook his head. “I threw that out like it was a hunting dog’s favorite treat… And he’s dead because of me. Because I went someplace I had no business going. And I have to live with that forever.”

She leaned forward. He recoiled from her hand. She sat back and asked, “Why, Graham? Why did you come, then?”

He gave a cold laugh. “Oh, Bry

“No, honey, no…”

“Yes,” he whispered. Then held up a hand. The gesture meant: enough, no more.

He gripped her arm and squeezed softly. “Let’s get some sleep.”

As Graham went upstairs Bry

She heard his footsteps coming downstairs again. He was carrying a pillow and blanket. Without a glance her way, he walked to the green couch, made up a bed and closed the family room door.

“ALL DONE, MA’AM.”

Bry

“What do I owe you?” She peered around as if a checkbook floated nearby.

“Sam’ll send you a bill. You’re good for it. We trust you.” He gestured at her uniform. Smiled then stopped. “The funeral’s tomorrow? Deputy Munce?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m sorry about what happened. My son painted his garage. The deputy was very civil to him. Some people aren’t. They gave him an iced tea… I’m sorry.”

A nod.

After the painter left she continued to stare at the blank walls. No trace of the 9mm holes remained. She thought she should put up the pictures once more. But she didn’t have the energy. The house was completely silent.

She looked over a list of things she had to do-calls to return, evidence to follow up on, interviews to conduct. Someone named Andrew Sheridan had called twice-he had some business co

She heard footsteps on the front porch.

Graham’s?

A knock on the wooden frame. She rose.

“The bell’s out, I think,” Tom Dahl said.

“Hey. Come on in.”

The sheriff walked inside. He noticed the smooth walls. Didn’t comment on them. “How’s your mother doing?”

“She’ll be okay. Feisty, you know.” She tilted her head toward the closed family room door. “We made her up a bedroom downstairs. She’s sleeping now.”

“Oh, I’ll keep my voice down.”

“With the meds she’s on, she’d sleep through a party.”

The sheriff sat and massaged his leg. “I liked the way you phrased it. About those two killers: the bodies left behind. Described it pretty good.”

“Anything at all, Tom?”

“I’ll tell you up front there’s not much. That fellow got himself shot was Compton Lewis. Lived in Milwaukee.”

“Compton was his first name?”

“Ask his mother or father. Fellow was just a punk, a wa

“How about Hart?” She’d checked every criminal database in five states, all the nicknames, all the mug shots for everybody named Hart, Heart, Harte, Hartman, Harting…nothing.

“No leads at all. That man…he’s good. Look at the fingerprints. Didn’t leave a one anywhere. And digging the bullet with his DNA out of the woodwork? He knows what he’s doing.”

“And Michelle? She would’ve given Hart and Lewis a fake name but I’d guess Michelle is real; Hart and Lewis found her purse and probably looked through it. And she’d’ve told the truth to me-because I’d be dead by morning.”

Dahl said, “They’re more concerned about her ’cause the FBI’s sure it’s Mankewitz who hired her, and they want to prove him or one of his people hired her. But so far the snitches haven’t come up with anything concrete.”

“Are they taking the composite picture of her I did to acting schools and health clubs?” Bry

“I think they’re working from the top down more, going for a Mankewitz co

He went on to say that he’d opened files on the four meth cookers killed by Hart and Lewis. They were murder charges; like ’em or not, drug dealers have a right not to be killed too.

If the mysterious shooter near the ledge in Marquette State Park in the early hours of April 18 had any co