Текст книги "Lucas Davenport Novels 1-5"

Автор книги: John Sandford

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Текущая страница: 54 (всего у книги 105 страниц)

CHAPTER

13

Cassie was muscular and intense, and fought him, wrestling across the bed. When they were done, she lay facedown on the extra pillow, while he lay faceup, sweat evaporating from his chest, chilling him.

“Jesus,” he said after a while. “That was all right. I was a little worried.”

Her head turned. “About what?”

“It’s been a while.”

She propped herself up on one elbow. “Ah. A little depression?”

“I guess,” he said, curiously ready to talk about it. He’d never talked about problems with Jennifer. “I had all the symptoms.”

She crawled over him, reaching, switched on the bedside lamp. He winced and turned away from it.

“Look here,” she said, showing her wrists to him. There were two whiter lines on the inside of each, parallel, transverse. Scars to be read as clearly as needle tracks.

“What’s this shit?” he said. He took her wrists in his hands and stroked the scars with his thumbs.

“What do they look like?”

“Like you cut your wrists,” he said.

She nodded. “You win the golden weenie. Fake suicide attempt—that’s what the shrinks say. Depression.”

“The scars don’t look so fake,” he said.

“I didn’t think so, either,” she said, pulling her wrists away. “Are there any cigarettes around here?”

“No. I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I don’t, except after sex,” she said.

“Those were pretty heavy cuts. Tell me . . .”

She sat up and pulled her knees under her chin, looking down at him. “This was five years ago. I was never in much danger. A lot of blood, and I had to go to counseling for a few months.”

“What’s fake about that?” Lucas asked, rolling up on an elbow.

“What the shrinks say is, I was living with this guy and he had a gun, and I knew where it was. And our apartment was on the seventh floor, I could have jumped. And I knew the guy was coming home pretty soon. So they say I really wanted to live and this was just an attempt to draw attention to my condition.”

“But the cuts . . .”

“Yeah. The shrinks are full of shit. They can tell you how to talk to someone else, how to deal with personal problems, but they don’t know what happens inside your head, unless it’s happened to them. I could have jumped out the window. I could have shot myself. But that’s not what I thought of. I had this, like . . .”

“Fixation.”

“Yeah. Exactly,” she said, smiling at him. “See, you know. The theater’s got a whole oral literature about killing yourself and knives are the way to do it. I fucked it up, did it all wrong—I should have cut myself lengthwise, or at the elbow, but I didn’t know that. I could have used little pieces of glass, you get a better cut that way, but I didn’t know that, either.”

Lucas shuddered. “Glass. I saw that once. You don’t want to cut yourself with glass.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said wryly.

“So you cut yourself . . . ?”

“Yep. I just hacked and sat there and bled and cried until my friend came home. They didn’t even give me a transfusion at the hospital,” Cassie said. “Good thing, too. This was back when there was AIDS in the blood supply. Though who’d ever know, with me fuckin’ actors, and all.”

“Jesus, that makes me feel good . . . .” He looked down at himself.

“Maybe you oughta run dip it in Lysol . . .” she said.

“Don’t have any Lysol—I got some Oven-Off,” he said, and laughed. She grinned and patted his leg. “So what were you going to do? Your guns?”

He looked at her for a minute and then nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got a gun safe down in the basement. It was like they were glowing down there, the guns. Glowing with some kind of gravity, or magnetism, or something. I could feel them wherever I was, pulling me down there. It didn’t make any difference if I was on the other side of Minneapolis, I could feel them. I carry a gun, but I never thought about using it. It was the guns in the safe, pulling me down.”

“You ever go down? Just to look, or handle them? Stick one in your ear?”

“Nope. I would of felt stupid,” Lucas said.

She threw back her head and laughed, but not a happy laugh; an acknowledgment. “I think a lot of suicides are avoided because you’d feel stupid. Or because of the way you’d look afterwards. Like hanging . . .” She gripped herself around the throat and squeezed, crossing her eyes and sticking her tongue out.

“Jesus,” he said, laughing again.

She turned serious. “Did you think about it because everything was too painful, or what?”

“No. I just couldn’t handle what was going on in my head, this, this storm. I couldn’t sleep: I’d have these crazy fucking episodes where nine million thoughts would go pounding through my head, and I couldn’t stop them. Crazy shit. You know, like the names of people in my senior class, or all the guys on the hockey squad, and all kinds of bizarre shit, and you get crazy because you forget a couple of them.”

“That’s pretty common,” Cassie said, nodding.

“But basically, I thought about the guns because it didn’t seem to make any difference whether I lived or died. It was like, Heads I live, tails I die—and if you keep flipping, it’ll come up tails, sooner or later.”

Cassie nodded. “There was a guy I knew in New York, he used to play Russian roulette with a revolver. About once a year he’d spin that thing, that . . .”

“Cylinder.”

“Yeah. Then he’d put the barrel in his mouth and pull the trigger. Right around Christmastime. Said it kept him straight for a whole ’nother year.”

“What happened to him?” Lucas asked.

“I don’t know. He wasn’t that good a friend. He was still alive the last time I was in New York. I could never figure out if he was lucky or unlucky.”

“Huh.”

She stretched out again, her hands behind her head, and they lay beside each other in comfortable silence for a minute. “Did you have the voice in the back of your head, watching you go through all this shit?” she asked finally.

“Yeah. The watcher. It was like having my own critic back there. My own journalist.”

She giggled. “I never thought of it that way, but that’s it. Like, the major part of me was hacking away with a bread knife—”

“Ah, fuck, a bread knife?”

“Yeah, the kind with the serrated blade?”

“Ah, Jesus . . .”

“Good brand, too, Solingen . . .”

“God, Cassie . . .”

“Anyway, the big part was hacking away, and this little voice was back there reporting on it, like CNN or something. Kind of skeptical, too.”

“Jesus.” He reached out and stroked her, from navel to breasts, and back down across her groin to the inside of her knee.

“Pretty gross, huh? Anyway, I’m glad you’re getting better.”

“I’m not really sure I am . . . .”

“Oh, you are.” She patted the bed. “You’re here. When you’re really depressed, your sex life jumps in a car and leaves for Chicago. I was in this group, as part of the therapy, and every one of the men said so. It wasn’t that they couldn’t—they just couldn’t stand the thought of the complications. Sex is the first thing to go. When it comes back, you’re definitely getting better.”

The phone rang at eleven o’clock. Lucas woke clear-eyed, rested, already rolling toward the edge of the bed before he was aware of the weight on the other side. He’d slept, and dreamed, and had almost forgotten . . . .

Cassie was lying facedown again, bare as the day she was born, the sheet covering her hips. Her hair had parted on either side of her head, and the light slanting through the venetian blinds played across the sensuous turn of her vertebrae, starting at the nape of her neck, trailing down almost to her just hidden tailbone. He reached down, still aware of the phone, now ringing the fourth time, or fifth, and gently slid the sheet even farther down, onto her legs . . . .

She reached down with one hand and pulled it back up. “Go answer the phone,” she grumped, not moving her head.

He grinned and headed for the kitchen, and picked the phone up on the sixth ring. Dispatch. “I’ve got a call holding from Michael Bekker,” the woman said. “Put it through?”

“Yes.”

There was a click, a pause, and then Bekker said, “Hello?”

“Yeah, this is Davenport.”

“Yes, Lucas. Will you be free tonight, late?” Bekker’s voice was low, friendly, carefully modulated. “I’ve got classes, then a dinner, but I’ve found something in my wife’s papers that I thought was interesting. I’d like to show it to you . . . .”

“Can you tell me on the phone?”

“Mmm, why don’t you come over? Somebody’ll have to anyway, and I’d prefer it be you. That other policeman . . . he’s a bit thick.”

Swanson. Not thick at all, although any number of Stillwater inmates had made the mistake of thinking so . . . . “All right. What time?”

“Tennish?”

“I’ll see you then.”

Lucas hung up and padded back to the bedroom. The bed was empty, and water was running in the bathroom. Cassie was bent over the sink, using his toothbrush. He winced, then reached out and touched her bottom.

“Hi,” she said through a mouthful of bubbles, looking into the mirror over the sink. “Done in a minute. Breath like a dinosaur. And I gotta pee.”

“I’ll run down to the other bathroom,” he said. He went down the hall, looked back to make sure she wasn’t following, opened a drawer, took out a new toothbrush, peeled the package, removed the brush and hastily stuffed the packaging back in the drawer. He was smiling when he looked at himself in the mirror.

Back in the bedroom, he found the sheets and blankets in a pile on the floor, while she lounged in the middle of the bed.

“Hop in,” she said, patting the mattress beside her. “We’re right on time for a nooner and we’re not even up yet. Ain’t it great?”

After Cassie left, in a cab, he spent the rest of the day fooling around, unable to focus much on the case, making call-backs, driving around town, checking the net. He walked past Bekker’s house again, and spoke to a neighbor who was raking the winter gunk from his lawn. Stephanie had once had a cocker spaniel, the neighbor said, and when Bekker had had to walk it in the winter, he’d take it up to the corner and then “kick the shit out of it. I saw him out the window, he did it several times.” The neighbor’s wife, who had been splitting iris bulbs, turned and said, “Be fair, tell him about the shoes.”

“Shoes?”

“Well, yeah, the dog had bad kidneys, I guess, and he used to sneak up to Bekker’s closet and pee in his shoes.”

Lucas and the neighbor started laughing at the same time.

In the evening, an hour before Cassie went on at the Lost River, she and Lucas walked down the block for a cup of coffee. They sat across from each other in a diner booth, and Cassie said, “Ultimately, you’re not flaky enough for me. But it’d be nice if we could keep it together for a couple of months.”

Lucas nodded. “That’d be nice.”

At five after ten, he walked up the steps to Bekker’s. Lights blazed from several of the ground-floor windows, and Lucas resisted the temptation to go window-peeking again. Instead he rang the bell, and Bekker came to the door, wrapped in a burgundy dressing gown.

“Is that your Porsche?” he asked in surprise, looking past Lucas to the street.

“Yeah. I have a little money of my own,” Lucas said.

“I see.” Bekker was genuinely impressed. He knew the price of a Porsche. “Well, come along.”

Lucas followed him into the study. Bekker seemed skittish, nervous. He would try something, Lucas decided.

“Scotch?”

“Sure.”

“I’ve got a nice one. I used to drink Chivas, but a couple of months ago Stephanie . . .”—he paused on the name, as if calling up her face—“Stephanie bought me a bottle of Glenfiddich, a single malt . . . . I won’t be going back to the other.”

Lucas couldn’t tell one scotch from another. Bekker dropped ice cubes into a glass, poured two fingers of liquor over them and handed the glass to Lucas. He looked at his watch, and Lucas thought it odd that he would be wearing a watch with a dressing gown. “So what’d you find?” Lucas asked.

“A couple of things,” Bekker said. He settled behind the desk, leaned back with the scotch and crossed his legs. They flashed from the folds of the dressing gown like a woman’s legs from an evening dress. Deliberately, Lucas thought. He thinks I might be gay, and he’s trying to seduce me. He took a sip of the scotch. “A couple of things,” Bekker repeated. “Like these.”

He picked up a stack of colored cardboard slips, bound together with a rubber band, and tossed them across the desk. Lucas picked them up. They were tickets to shows at the Lost River. He thumbed through: eight of them, in three different colors.

“Notice anything peculiar about them, Lucas?” Bekker asked. Using his first name again.

“They’re from the Lost River, of course . . . .” Lucas rolled the rubber band off and looked at the tickets individually. “All for matinees . . . and there are eight tickets for three different shows. All punched, all different shows.”

Bekker mimed applause, then held up his glass to Lucas, as if toasting him. “I knew you were intelligent. Don’t you find you can always tell? Anyway, the second woman who was killed worked for the Lost River, correct? I went to a couple of evening performances with Stephanie, but I had no idea she was going in the afternoons. So I began to wonder: Could her lover . . . ?”

“I see,” Lucas said. A connection. And it seemed to let Bekker out.

“And I also found this,” Bekker said. He leaned forward this time, and handed Lucas several letter-sized sheets of paper. American Express account sheets, with various items underlined in blue ballpoint ink. “The underlined charges are for tickets at the Lost River. Six or seven times over the past few months, on her personal card. A couple of them match with the matinee dates and the charge amount is right. And then, on four of the days, there’s a dining charge, and none less than thirty dollars. I’d bet she was taking somebody to dinner. That restaurant, the Tricolor Bar, I’ve been there once or twice, but not in the afternoons . . . .”

Lucas looked at the papers, then over the top of them at Bekker. “You should have shown these to Swanson.”

“I don’t like the man,” Bekker said, looking at him levelly. “You, I like.”

“Well, good,” Lucas said. He drank the last of the scotch. “You seem like a pretty reasonable guy yourself. Pathology, right? Maybe I’ll call you on one of my games; you could consult.”

“Your games?” Bekker glanced at his watch again, then quickly looked away.

What’s going on? “Yeah, I invent games. You know, historical strategy games, role-playing games, that sort of thing.”

“Hmph. I’d be interested in talking sometime,” Bekker said. “Really.”

CHAPTER

14

Bekker shut the door behind Lucas and dashed upstairs, leaving the lights out. He went to the window over the porch and split the curtains with an index finger. Davenport was just getting into his Porsche. A moment later the car’s lights came on, and in another minute it was gone. Bekker let the curtain fall back into place and hurried to his bedroom. He dressed in dark blue slacks, a gray sweatshirt and navy jacket, loafers. He gobbled a methamphetamine and went out the back, through the garage, and got in the car.

A neighborhood restaurant had a pay phone just inside the door. He stopped, dialed, got the answering machine on the second ring—a message was waiting. He punched in the code, 4384. The machine rewound, paused, then Druze’s voice blurted a single syllable.

Druze hunched over the wheel, the weight of the night pressing on him.

Like the tarbaby. One foot stuck, then you have to kick with the other one, then you have to punch him, and your fist gets stuck. . . .

This would be the last for him. He’d talk Bekker out of the third killing. There was no need for a third. Not now. He’d seen them on television, and the cops were convinced: one killer, a psycho.

Druze was orbiting a red-brick university building, Peik Hall, watching. Lots of lights, big orange sodium-vapor anti-crime lights, walk lights, globe lights outside the entrances to the university buildings. Lots of trees and shrubbery, too. Good cover. And nobody around.

The night was cold, with heavy broken clouds darting across the sky, a full moon sailing between them; and it smelled of coming rain. A good night for beer and brats and television in the Riverside Avenue taverns with the theater crowd. Druze could never be one of the happy crowd, throwing darts or chattering, but he could sit on his stool at the end of the bar, feeling a little of the reflected warmth. Anything would be better than this—but he had nobody to blame for this but himself. He should have gone after the fat man . . . .

Druze was wearing the ski jacket again, but this time as much for concealment as for protection from the weather. He wouldn’t want George to recognize him prematurely.

George’s Cherokee was parked in a small public parking lot tucked behind an older building adjacent to Peik Hall. Pillsbury Drive, a cross-campus road, ran past the end of the lot. After ten o’clock there was little traffic—but there was some. Every few minutes or so, a car went past, and the road was smooth enough that you couldn’t hear it coming.

One other car was parked in the lot, across from George’s. Druze circled the campus complex as long as he dared, then parked his Dodge wagon beside George’s Jeep, leaving a full parking space between them. He sat for a moment, watching, then got out, listened a few seconds more. The lot was poorly lit, with most of the light coming from a bowl-shaped fixture on the back of the building.

No people around, unless they were hiding in the bushes. Druze started toward the sidewalk that led past the building, stopped next to a bush of bridal wreath and listened again, ten seconds, twenty. Nothing. He walked back to the Jeep, squatted, took a tire-pressure gauge out of his pocket, reversed it and used the spike to let the air out of the Cherokee’s left rear tire. George had to approach from that side; he should see it.

The hissing air sounded like a train whistle in Druze’s ears, and it seemed to go on forever. But it didn’t. In less than a minute, the tire was flat. Druze stood, looked around again and wandered away.

The parking meters. Jesus Christ.

He walked back and plugged the university’s twenty-four-hour parking meters. He’d have to remember to look for the campus cops. They checked the parking lots once or twice a night. A ticket would be a disaster.

Druze didn’t feel anything when he killed—revulsion, sorrow, empathy. He didn’t fear much, either. But tonight there was an edge of apprehension: it came as he almost walked away from the meters. Suppose he came back, killed George and only then noticed a ticket on his windshield? They’d have him. Or, like Brer Rabbit with the tarbaby, he’d be chasing around the campus, hunting down the cop with the ticket book. He’d have to kill him to get the book. And then . . .

That’d be impossible. That was a nightmare, not a rational possibility. Druze shivered and hunched his shoulders. He hadn’t expected to get this tangled.

A woman student, carrying books, walked by on the other side of the street, looking resolutely away from him. He went out to University Avenue, keeping an eye on the lighted windows in Peik. Bekker had scouted the building, told him which ones to watch . . . . A black kid in a red jacket hurried by, on the other side of the street. Another kid, white, wearing a white helmet and a daypack, zipped past on Rollerblades.

Druze sauntered now, moving into actor mode, one hand in his pocket, on the handle of the antique German knife-sharpening steel. The steel was as heavy as a fireplace poker, but shorter, eighteen inches long, tapering like a sword, with a smooth hickory handle. He’d shoved the point of the steel right through the bottom of his pocket. The handle was big enough for the steel to hang there on its own, cold down his leg, out of sight. He’d practiced drawing it. It came out smoothly and swung like a pipe wrench, with better balance. It would do the job.

Druze moved off University Avenue and walked across a lawn outside Peik. He was doing a lot for Bekker, he thought, and then: But not only for Bekker. This is for me, I’m the one he’d recognize . . . .

At five minutes after ten, three students carrying books came out the front door of Peik Hall. They stopped on the steps for a moment; then one of the men went left, the man and woman right. Another minute passed, and another knot of students came out of the building, talking, and walked away together. A bank of lights went off in the target windows, then another. Druze drifted out toward University Avenue again, then down Pillsbury, toward the parking lot. He walked to the far end of the lot, stepped between two bushes, waited, waited . . . .

Two men walked into the lot, from along the side of the building. He could hear their voices, at first like a faraway typewriter, clacking, then as human speech:

“ . . . Can’t figure out how they won it, given the way the company failed to warn anybody about the gas-tank leaks . . .” The speaker was the shorter of the two men.

“Juries. You have to keep that in mind, always. There’s no absolutely good way to predict what they’ll do, even with the best screening program. In this particular . . . Oh, shit.” The conversation stopped. Druze started back up the sidewalk toward the building. If there were two of them, he’d have to forget it. “Look at the goddamn tire. It’s only three months old . . . .”

“You want me . . .” the other man offered. A student, Druze thought.

“No, no, I can change it in two minutes,” George said, peering down at the tire in disgust. “But it pisses me off, excuse the expression. I should be able to drive over railroad spikes with those tires . . . . Now, there’s a case for you, Mr. Brekke. Sue the goddamn tire company for me . . . .”

“Glad to . . .”

There was more talk and a clatter of tools as the slender student stood and watched the heavyset professor dismount the spare from the Jeep. Druze, feeling something almost like relief, thought the student would stay. But after watching for a couple of minutes, the man looked at his watch and said, “Well, my wife will be wondering . . .”

“Go on. This’ll just take a minute.”

The student was gone, rolling out of the lot, never looking toward Druze’s bush. Druze let him go, heard his car accelerate down University . . . . The professor had his jacket off, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and he grunted and cursed in the night. The flat came off, the spare went on. He seemed to know what he was doing, working without wasted motion. With a series of quick twists, the spare was lugged down.

Druze took a deep breath, got a grip on the sharpening steel with his right hand and stepped into the parking lot, jingling his car keys with his left hand, moving slowly.

The professor popped open the back of the Jeep, leaving the keys in the lock—everything was moving slowly for Druze now, everything was in needle-sharp focus—lifted the flat, holding it carefully clear of his trousers, and heaved it inside the Jeep.

Druze was ten feet away, checking, checking. Nobody around. Nothing coming on Pillsbury, no cars: The professor, a big, beefy blond man, slamming the back of the Jeep, now turning at the sound of Druze’s keys . . . The keys would be a soothing sound, suggesting that Druze was headed for the last car in the lot . . . .

“Flat tire?” Druze asked.

The professor nodded without a flicker of recognition, although Druze was less than a long step away. “Yeah, damn thing was flat as a pancake.”

“Got it under control?” Druze asked, slowing. He looked around a last time: Nothing. The handle of the sharpening steel was cool in his hand.

“Oh yeah, no problem,” George said, pulling on his jacket. His hands were black with grease from the lug nuts.

“Well . . .” Druze drew the steel behind his leg and stepped on, heading for his car, then pivoted and swung the steel one-handed, half overhead, like a whip, or a machete chopping sugarcane. The steel crashed through the side of George’s head, two inches above his right ear. The professor bounced off the Jeep and down. Druze hit him again, but it was unnecessary: the first blow had crushed the side of his head. A sudden stench told Druze that George’s bowels had relaxed. Neither he nor Bekker had thought about the stink the body could make in the car.

No reason to be furtive now: if anyone came in the next thirty seconds, it was over. Druze grabbed George under the arms, dragged him to the station wagon. The building lights, which had seemed remote and inadequate a few moments before, now seemed bright as stadium lights. Druze snatched open the wagon’s back door and threw the body on the black plastic garbage bags that covered the floor behind the front seat. A short-handled spade was on the floor below the bags. When George’s body hit the floor, it landed on the tip of the blade, and the handle popped up, tearing the bags. Druze swore and pushed the handle down, but now the body rolled . . . .

George was heavy, and his legs were still sticking out of the car. Druze struggled, half frantic, trying to bend the legs; then he grappled with the overweight torso, pulling on the sport coat lapels, not seeing the bloody twisted head, trying to lift the torso farther into the car while he pressed the feet in behind. The spade bounded up and down like a teeter-totter, obstructing everything. Druze was sweating heavily by the time he finished.

Never been scared . . . He was scared now. Not badly, but enough to identify the emotion, a feeling that went back to the days of the burning. The hospital baths, where they peeled the dead skin . . . those had scared him. The transplants had scared him. When the doctor had come to check his progress, that had scared him. He hadn’t been scared since he’d left the hospital. But he felt it now, a distant tingle, but definitely there . . . .

When George was fully inside the car, on the floor behind the front seat, Druze covered the body with more black plastic garbage bags and then folded the back seats down over it. The seats didn’t quite cover it, but to anyone looking casually inside, the wagon would appear empty.

He slammed the door, went back to the Jeep, got the keys out of the back door, shoved them between the curb and the front tire, then checked the meter: ten minutes. Druze took more quarters from his pocket, put in two hours’ worth, then went back to the wagon. Nobody around. Nothing but the lights of Minneapolis, over across the river, and the distant sound of an unhappy taxi horn on Hennepin Avenue.

What if the wagon wouldn’t start? What if . . . The wagon turned over, and he rolled it out of the lot, took a right. Met no cars. Turned onto University Avenue, let a breath out. Past the frat houses . . . Checked the gas gauge for the hundredth time. Full. He drove down Oak Street, then left, and then onto I-94, and pointed the car east toward Wisconsin.

The drive was eerie. Quiet. He had the feeling that the car was standing still, with the lights zooming by, like a nightmare. A cop crossed the overhead ramp at Snelling. Druze kept his eyes glued on the rearview mirror, but the cop continued south on Snelling, and out of sight.

He crossed the Fifth Street exit, past Highway 61, and exited at White Bear Avenue. Drove into a Standard station, called the number Bekker had given him, got the answering machine and spoke a single syllable: “Yes.”

Back on I-94, fifty-five miles per hour all the way, ignoring the signs for sixty-five, through the double bridge across the St. Croix River at Hudson, out of Minnesota and up the Wisconsin side. The interstate mileage signs started on the western ends of each state, so he could count the ascending numbers as he moved deeper into Wisconsin, ten miles, twelve. He took the exit specified by Bekker, heading north.

Four-point-two miles, three red reflectors on a sign at the turnoff. He found it, right where Bekker had said, took the turnoff and bumped down a dirt track. Two-tenths of a mile. The track ended at a simple post-and-beam log cabin, a door in the center, a square window on either side of the door. The cabin was dark. In the headlights, he could see a brass padlock hanging from a hasp on the door.

Beyond the cabin, Druze could see moonlight on the lake. Not much of a lake; almost like a large pond, rimmed with cattails. He turned off the car lights, got out and walked down to the water, his feet groping for the path between the cabin and the water. There was a dark form off to his left, and he stepped next to it, trying to figure out what it was. Boards, on a steel frame, tires . . . a rollout dock. Okay.

On the opposite side of the lake, he could see a single lighted window but not the house around it. There was no sound but the wind in the trees. He stood for a moment, listening, watching, then hurried back up to the car.

George was easier to handle this time, because Druze didn’t have to move so quickly or quietly. He got a flashlight from the glove compartment, then grabbed George by the necktie and the crotch, and hauled him out of the wagon. He threw the body over his shoulder like a sack of oatmeal and carried it down past the end of the track, as Bekker had said, past the tire swing hanging from the cottonwood. He flicked the light off and on, as he needed to spot footing; he was walking diagonally away from the cabin across the lake, so the light wouldn’t be visible at the other house.

Blackberry brambles, dead but still armed, plucked at his clothing. Through the brambles, Bekker had said. Just go straight on back, nobody goes out there. Bekker and Stephanie had explored the place three years earlier, when she had been looking for a lake cabin. They’d seen the “For Sale” sign on the way back from another lake, stopped to look, found the cabin vacant, stayed for ten minutes, then moved on. The cabin was primitive: an outhouse, no running water, no insulation. Summer only. Stephanie hadn’t been interested, and nobody in the world knew they had been there.

Druze pushed through the brambles until the ground went soft, then dumped the body. He flicked the light on, looked around. He was on the edge of a bleak, rough-looking tamarack swamp. Bekker was right. It could be years before anyone came back here. Or never . . .