The Bodies Left Behind by Jeffery Deaver Read Free Book Online Page A

keys aren’t in the car. She’s got ’em.”
    It came from toward the front of the house, but she couldn’t tell where exactly.
    Brynn flattened herself against the wall. Wiped her right palm on her left shoulder, then gripped her gun firmly.
    After a moment another voice—Hart’s, she supposed—speaking firmly, not to his partner but to her: “You, lady. In the house. Bring your keys out here. We just want your car is all. You’ll be fine.”
    She lifted the gun, muzzle up. Brynn McKenzie had fired a weapon at another human being four times in the decade and a half she’d been a public safety officer. Not a lot, but four times more than most deputies did in their whole careers. Like Breathalyzing drivers and comforting beaten wives, this was a part of her job and she was filled with an odd blend of tension, terror and contentment.
    “Really,” Hart called. “Don’t worry. Or, tell you what, just throw ’em out the front, you don’t trust us. But otherwise we come in and get them. Believe me, we just want to be gone. Just want to be out of here.”
    Brynn flicked the kitchen lights out. Now the only illumination was from the roaring fireplace and the bedroom she’d glanced into.
    A whisper, its source uncertain. This meant they’d joined each other.
    But where?
    And were there just two? Or more? She found herself staring at the bodies of the couple.
    And where was the friend?
    Hart again, speaking so very calmly: “You’ve seen those folks inside. You don’t want that to happen to you. Throw the keys out here. I’m telling you not to be stupid. Please.”
    Of course the moment she showed herself she’d be dead.
    Should she say she was a deputy? And that more were on their way?
    No, don’t give yourself away.
    Pressing back against the pantry door, Brynn scanned the back windows. They reflected the living room and she gasped softly as a man appeared in the front door, slipping inside. Cautious. He was tall, solid, wearing a dark jacket. Long hair, boots. He carried a pistol in his—the reverse image confused her momentarily—his right hand. The other arm hung at his side and she got the impression he’d been injured. He disappeared. Somewhere in the living room.
    Brynn tensed, gripped the pistol in a shooting pose. She stared at the reflection at the front of the house.
    Go for the shot, she told herself. Your only advantage is surprise. Use it. He’s in the living room. It’s only twenty feet. Step into the doorway. Fire a burst of three, then back to cover. You can take him.
    Do it.
    Now.
    Brynn swallowed and stepped away from the wall, turning toward the living room. She gasped as the voice from behind her, in the dining room, shouted, “Listen, lady, you do what we’re saying!” A skinny man in a combat jacket, with short, light hair, a tat on his neck and eyes mean, had come through the French doors. He was lifting a shotgun to his shoulder.
    Brynn, spinning to face him.
    They fired simultaneously. Her slug came closer than his buckshot—he ducked and she didn’t—puncturing a stuffed dining room chair inches from him as the pellets from his shotgun crunched into the ceiling above her. The light fixture rained down.
    He crawled out the French door. “Hart! A gun! She’s got a gun.”
    She wasn’t sure these were his exact words, though. The shots were thunderclap loud and had numbed her ears.
    Brynn glanced into the living room. No sign of Hart. She started toward the back kitchen door. Then paused. She couldn’t just leave if the Feldmans’ friend was still here.
    “I’m a sheriff’s deputy,” she shouted. “Hello! Is someone in the house? Are you upstairs?”
    Silence.
    Brynn desperately scanned the windows, shivered, sure somebody was aiming at her even as she crouched in the shadows. “Hello?”
    Nothing.
    “Is anybody here?”
    The longest twenty seconds of her life.
    Leave, she told herself. Get help. You can’t do anything for anybody if you’re dead.
    She raced out