The Bodies Left Behind by Jeffery Deaver Page A

three shotgun rounds into the room, shaking the curtains and rattling the glass, while Hart fired his Glock four times in a random pattern. He didn’t expect to hit anything but he knew it would keep their prey down, give him and Lewis time to get inside.
    “Go!”
    The men ran through the doorway, guns ready.
    They found a room filled with mismatched antiques, rustic prints, books and magazines stacked on dressers and in baskets. But no human beings.
    Hart thought for a moment that the women had used the delay to escape by the door to the hallway but it was still blocked—by a big dresser, it turned out. He gestured to the closet. Lewis pulled the door open and fired a shotgun round inside.
    The noise was deafening. Wished the man had held back. The sudden deafness was freaking Hart out; he couldn’t have heard anybody sneaking up behind him.
    Looking around again. Where? The bathroom, Hart supposed. Had to be.
    The door was closed.
    Lewis stood in front of it. Hart pointed at Lewis’s fatigue-jacket pocket. The man nodded and set down the shotgun and pulled out his silver SIG-Sauer pistol, still loud but less deafening than the Winchester scattergun. He chambered a round and flicked off the safety.
    Hart started forward. Just as he was about to kick in the bathroom door, though, he paused, cocking his head. He gestured Lewis back.“Wait,” he mouthed. He pulled a drawer out of a dresser and tossed it into the door, which snapped open.
    Fumes poured from it. Their eyes stung fiercely and both men began to cough.
    “Jesus, what is that?”
    “Ammonia,” Hart answered.
    “Like fucking teargas.”
    Holding his breath, Hart flicked on the bathroom light.
    Well, look at this.
    The women had propped a bucket of ammonia on the top of the door so that whoever walked through would get drenched—and possibly blinded. Luckily the door eased shut by itself and tipped the bucket to the floor before the men arrived.
    “A fucking trap.”
    He imagined what it would’ve been like to get soaked with the chemical. The pain, unbearable.
    Wiping his eyes, Hart slammed the door shut and scanned the bedroom. “Look.” He sighed. “It wasn’t them at all. That ’s what we heard.” He pointed to a TV. The electric cord of the Sony was tied around the leg of the dresser and then plugged into the wall outlet. When Hart had tried to break in the door, he’d pushed the dresser inward about three inches, which had unplugged the TV—making it seem that the women had stopped talking and presumably were hiding in the room.
    He plugged the cord in again. The Shopping Channel came on. “Women talking,” Hart whispered, shaking his head. “No music. Just voices. They set it up and went out the patio door and through the other bedroom. To keep us busy and give ’em time to get away.”
    “So they waited in the woods, saw us go past and’re halfway to the county road.”
    “Maybe.” But Hart wondered too if they’d made it seem like they were escaping to the highway when in fact they were hiding somewhere else in the house. He’d glanced downstairs earlier; the place seemed to have a large basement.
    Yes or no? He finally decided: “I think we’ll have to search.”
    Lewis replaced his pistol in his jacket and picked up the shotgun. “Okay. But let’s get the fuck out of here. ” He was coughing. They pulled the dresser away from the door. But Hart paused, noticed something stuffed under a table. It was a pile of wet clothes. Of course, the copwould have changed after her swim in the freezing lake. Hart looked through the clothes. The pockets were empty. He examined the front of the shirt, the name tag, black and etched with white lettering. Dep. Brynn McKenzie.
    She’d tricked him, sure, but Hart was pleased. For some reason he always found knowing the name of his enemy comforting.
     

    MUTED GUNSHOTS FROM

inside 2 Lake View Drive snapped like impatient fingers. There was a pause and then more shots followed.
    Brynn and