Jeffery Deaver - The Bodies Left Behind

SILENCE.

The woods around Lake Mondac were as quiet as could be, a world of difference from the churning, chaotic city where the couple spent their weekdays.

Silence, broken only by an occasional a-hoo-ah of a distant bird, the hollow siren of a frog.

And now: another sound.

A shuffle of leaves, two impatient snaps of branch or twig.

Footsteps?

No, that couldnt be. The other vacation houses beside the lake were deserted on this cool Friday afternoon in April.

Emma Feldman, in her early thirties, set down her martini on the kitchen table, where she sat across from her husband. She tucked a strand of curly black hair behind her ear and walked to one of the grimy kitchen windows. She saw nothing but dense clusters of cedar, juniper and black spruce rising up a steep hill, whose rocks resembled cracked yellow bone.

Her husband lifted an eyebrow. What was it?

She shrugged and returned to her chair. I dont know. Didnt see anything.

Outside, silence again.

Emma, lean as any stark, white birch outside one of the many windows of the vacation house, shook off her blue jacket. She was wearing the matching skirt and a white blouse. Lawyer clothes. Hair in a bun. Lawyer hair. Stockings but shoeless.

Steven, turning his attention to the bar, had abandoned his jacket as well, and a wrinkled striped tie. The thirty-six-year-old, with a full head of unruly hair, was in a blue shirt and his belly protruded inexorably over the belt of his navy slacks. Emma didnt care; she thought he was cute and always would.

And look what I got, he said, nodding toward the upstairs guest room and unbagging a large bottle of pulpy organic vegetable juice. Their friend, visiting from Chicago this weekend, had been flirting with liquid diets lately, drinking the most disgusting things.

Emma read the ingredients and wrinkled her nose. Its all hers. Ill stick with vodka.

Why I love you.

The house creaked, as it often did. The place was seventy-six years old. It featured an abundance of wood and a scarcity of steel and stone. The kitchen, where they stood, was angular and paneled in glowing yellow pine. The floor was lumpy. The colonial structure was one of three houses on this private road, each squatting on ten acres. It could be called lakefront property but only because the lake lapped at a rocky shore two hundred yards from the front door.

The house was plopped down in a small clearing on the east side of a substantial elevation. Midwest reserve kept people from labeling these hills mountains here in Wisconsin, though it rose easily seven or eight hundred feet into the air. At the moment the big house was bathed in blue late-afternoon shadows.

Emma gazed out at rippling Lake Mondac, far enough from the hill to catch some descending sun. Now, in early spring, the surrounding area was scruffy, reminding of wet hackles rising from a guard dogs back. The house was much nicer than they could otherwise affordtheyd bought it through foreclosureand she knew from the moment shed seen it that this was the perfect vacation house.

Silence

The colonial also had a pretty colorful history.

The owner of a big meatpacking company in Chicago had built the place before World War II. It was discovered years later that much of his fortune had come from selling black-market meat, circumventing the rationing system that limited foods here at home to make sure the troops were nourished. In 1956 the mans body was found floating in the lake; he was possibly the victim of veterans who had learned of his scheme and killed him, then searched the house, looking for the illicit cash hed hidden here.

No ghosts figured in any version of the death, though Emma and Steven couldnt keep from embellishing. When guests were staying here theyd gleefully take note of who kept the bathroom lights on and who braved the dark after hearing the tales.

Two more snaps outside. Then a third.

Emma frowned. You hear that? Again, that sound. Outside.

Steven glanced out the window. The breeze kicked up now and then. He turned back.

Her eyes strayed to her briefcase.

Caught that, he said, chiding.

What?

Dont even think about opening it.

She laughed, though without much humor.

Work-free weekend, he said. We agreed.

And whats in there? she asked, nodding at the backpack he carried in lieu of an attach case. Emma was wrestling the lid off a jar of cocktail olives.

Only two things of relevance, Your Honor: my le Carr novel and that bottle of Merlot I had at work. Shall I introduce the latter into evid Voice fading. He looked to the window, through which they could see a tangle of weeds and trees and branches and rocks the color of dinosaur bones.

Emma too glanced outside.

That I heard, he said. He refreshed his wifes martini. She dropped olives into both drinks.

What was it?

Remember that bear?

He didnt come up to the house. They clinked glasses and sipped clear liquor.

Steven said, You seem preoccupied. Whats up, the union case?

Research for a corporate acquisition had revealed some possible shenanigans within the lakefront workers union in Milwaukee. The government had become involved and the acquisition was temporarily tabled, which nobody was very happy about.

But she said, Thiss something else. One of our clients makes car parts.

Right. Kenosha Auto. See? I do listen.

She looked at her husband with an astonished glance. Well, the CEO, turns out, is an absolute prick. She explained about a wrongful death case involving components of a hybrid car engine: a freak accident, a passenger electrocuted. The head of their R-and-D departmentwhy, he demanded I return all the technical files. Imagine that.