Free The Bodies Left Behind by Jeffery Deaver Page B

when handling the bottle.
    “You worry too much, Hart,” Lewis said, laughing. “I know the score, my friend. I know how they operate in places like this. I wouldn’t do that in Milwaukee or St. Paul. But here…these cops’re like Andy in Mayberry. Not CSI. They don’t have all that fancy equipment. I know how to play it and how not to.”
    Still, Hart noted that he wiped the lip of the bottle with his shirtsleeve before replacing it.
    And he saw in that tiny gesture—so fast you’d miss it easily—a clue. A telling clue about Mr. Compton Lewis. He recognized the careless, aggressive attitude that he’d seen in other men—in his brother, for instance. The source was simple insecurity, which can control you the way a pinch collar controls a dog.
    They returned outside. Lewis went to work on the Ford once more, getting the spare on the front, in place of one of those that’d been shot out—so they could drag the other flat on the rear, like he’d suggested.
    Hart reflected on how much the disaster at the house was eating at him.
    Blindsided…
    Looking for clues he should’ve seen but hadn’t. He hated incompetence but hated it most when he was the guilty party. Hart had once canceled a hit in St. Louis, when it turned out that the “park” his victim used to walk home from work—a perfect shooting zone—was a neighborhood playground, filled with dozens of energetic little witnesses. Angrily, he’d realized that the two times he’d surveyed the place in preparation for the kill had been in midmorning, while the kids were still in school.
    He now looked around the house and yard. There was a possibility that somewhere he’d left damning trace evidence. But probably Lewis was right; the cops here weren’t out of that famous show CSI — Crime SceneInternational or whatever it was called. Hart didn’t watch TV, though he knew the idea: all that expensive scientific equipment.
    No, something more fundamental was bothering him. He was thinking back to the paw print and the creature who’d left it, its disregard for the men who’d invaded its territory. Any challenges here weren’t about microscopes and computers. They were more primitive.
    He felt that tickle of fear again.
    Lewis was moving along with the jack and the lug wrench, swapping the wheels on the Ford. He looked at his watch. “We’ll be back to civilization by ten-thirty. Man, I can taste that beer and burger now.”
    And returned to the task, working fast with his small but clever fingers.
     

    “NO ALARM,” BRYNN

whispered, grimacing.
    “What?” Michelle asked, not understanding the mumpy voice.
    She repeated slowly, “No. Alarm.” Brynn was looking over the spacious mountain house, 2 Lake View. The owners clearly had money; why no security?
    She broke a window in the back door with her elbow, unlatched the lock. The women hurried into the kitchen. Brynn walked immediately to the stove and turned on a burner to warm herself, risking the light. Nothing. The propane was shut off outside. No time to find the valve and turn it on. Please, she thought, just have some dry clothes. It was cold inside but at least they were protected from the wind, and the bones of the house retained a bit of heat from the day’s sun.
    She touched her face—not the bullet wound but her jaw. When the weather was cold or she was tired the reconstructed spot throbbed, though she often wondered if the sensation was imaginary.
    “We’ve gotta move fast. First, look for a phone or a computer. We could e-mail or instant-message.” Joey was always online. She was sureshe could get a message to him but she’d have to phrase it so that he’d get the urgency but not be upset.
    There’d be no vehicular escape; they’d already peered into the garage and found it empty. Brynn continued, “And look for weapons. Not much hunting here, with the state park and most of the land posted. But they still might have a gun. Maybe a bow.”
    “And arrow?” Michelle