by Ritter, Todd
On the way there, she paused at a framed photograph of her parents, which was hanging in the stairwell. It showed her mother standing in front of a tidy two-story house with an apron around her waist. Kat’s father was next to her, wearing his uniform. The house in the picture was the same one Kat lived in now. She had inherited it from her parents.
Staring at the picture, Kat realized she had also inherited something else from her father—the Charlie Olmstead case and all the other missing kids that came with it.
“Thanks a lot, Dad,” she muttered. “I would have preferred cash.”
*
Eric spent the rest of the day in a silent daze. After Kat and Nick left, taking that morbid board of pictures and clippings with them, he had wanted to go about his normal business. He tried to write. He made dinner. He called his father again. But everything was filtered through a numbing haze of shock and helplessness. The end result was that his laptop monitor remained a blank slate, his dinner was as flavorless as it was unappetizing, and he decided not to leave another message when his father didn’t answer.
Adding to his stupor was the rain that had started soon after he was alone. With it had come an unrelenting grayness that seemed to settle over the town like a damp blanket. The sky was so dark and dreary that Eric never noticed the transition between day and night. Meanwhile, the rain kept coming, steadily pummeling the roof.
Now it was nearing midnight, and Eric decided it was time for him to try to get some sleep. He didn’t think it would come. The day had been too surreal for him to fall easily into sleep. Even if he did, he wasn’t looking forward to the faces of missing children that were bound to haunt his dreams.
Trudging up the stairs to his old bedroom, he marveled at how his mother had lived for so long with her suspicions, theories, and crazy string-crossed map. He wondered how much time she had spent on her amateur sleuthing and where she got some of those newspaper clippings in the first place. Crawling into bed and closing his eyes, he pictured her slipping into libraries in distant towns while he was at school. He imagined her looking over her shoulder like an unfaithful wife before she stepped into reading rooms or sat before microfilm machines. He wondered how she reacted each time she discovered a new victim to add to her collage and if she ever told anyone about her search.
Hovering in that zone between sleep and wakefulness, he silently apologized to Maggie for not being the son she wanted or needed. For not being good enough to be trusted with her suspicions. For leaving in the dead of night when he was eighteen, leaving only a note on the kitchen counter and two broken hearts in his wake.
I’m sorry, Mommy, he thought. I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.
A strange noise silenced his thoughts. It was a muted thud, followed by what seemed to be a watery scratch. At first Eric thought he had imagined it. Then he heard it a second time. A third time. A fourth.
He opened his eyes. When the sound occurred a fifth time, Eric realized it was coming from outside, and he padded to the window. The rain, still falling heavily, had dappled the glass until it resembled a mirror that had been shattered to smithereens. But by adjusting his eyes and peering past the drops, he was able to make out Glenn Stewart’s house next door and a portion of his backyard.
There were no lights on at Mr. Stewart’s house, but Eric knew he wasn’t asleep. Instead, he was outside. Eric spotted him through the inky darkness, standing by the line of trees that bordered his yard. At his feet was a small cardboard box. In his hand was a shovel. When he lifted the shovel and sunk it into the ground, it made the exact noise Eric had heard when his eyes were closed.
The shovel continued to rise and fall, going deeper each time. After a few more minutes, Glenn dropped the shovel, picked up the box, and placed it in the hole he had just created. He bowed his head a moment, as if in prayer. Eric counted as he watched, noting the stillness lasted about fifteen seconds. Twenty, tops.
Then, without further hesitation, Glenn Stewart grabbed the shovel and began to bury whatever was in the box.
THURSDAY
TEN
Although the bulk of the rain had stopped during the night, there was enough of a drizzle in the morning to require an umbrella. Kat struggled with hers as she got out of the Crown Vic. An old golf umbrella that had once belonged to her mother, it didn’t want to open. When she finally did force it into full bloom, Kat discovered one of the ribs was broken, causing a third of the umbrella to flop down like one of Scooby’s ears when he was tired. She decided that, flop or no flop, it would do in a pinch. She didn’t expect to be in the cemetery for very long.
Edging around the massive puddles that dotted the gravel parking lot, Kat headed for the wrought-iron arch that was the only way in and out of the cemetery. Passing beneath it, she looked up at the words welded into place more than a century earlier—Oak Knoll Cemetery.
The cemetery was the only game in town as far as graveyards went. Most of Perry Hollow’s past residents lay within its gates, which had enough room to accommodate most of its present citizens whenever their ends arrived. Kat visited twice a year, once on Mother’s Day and once on Father’s Day. That morning, three days after Labor Day, was an anomaly. She didn’t want to be there, but she had to go. There was something she needed to get off her chest.
Carrying two bouquets of flowers under her arm, she walked to a secluded corner of the cemetery that was studded with ancient maple trees. There were six of them total, their heavy branches grazing each other and creating a leafy canopy. Once under it, Kat discovered that the leaves created enough cover to allow her to lower the umbrella and go about her business.
She laid one set of flowers in front of her mother’s grave. Kissing her open hand, she placed it on the section of tombstone where her mother’s name was etched. After a brief moment of silence and a whispered “I love you,” she moved to the grave beside it.
Kat repeated the ritual of flower placing and hand kissing. But instead of whispering, she spoke aloud at her father’s tombstone. She started off by briefly mentioning Lou van Sickle and the state of the police department in general. Then she moved onto the topic of James, who had been named after her father.
That morning she had packed her son’s lunch in a brown paper bag, just as he requested. She figured it would make him far happier than the previous day. She was wrong. James was just as moody as he had been during the lunch box controversy.
Things only got worse—and more baffling—when she dropped him off at school. Instead of heading directly into the building, he meandered, as if delaying his entrance as much as possible. Kat, thinking maybe he was embarrassed to be dropped off in a decidedly uncool police car, pulled away from the curb. If James wanted space, she’d give it to him. She wasn’t going to be one of those moms who couldn’t take a hint when they were humiliating their children. But as she drove away, a quick glance in the rearview mirror revealed James approaching the trash can at the school’s front door. Just before stepping inside, he lifted his lunch bag, held it over the garbage, and let it drop inside.
Kat didn’t know what prompted his actions. Probably the same thing that caused him to intentionally lose his lunch box the day before. But whatever was going on, it wasn’t good. And as she drove from the school to the cemetery, her thoughts settled on one thing.
“I’m worried, Dad,” she said. “I think he’s having a hard time at school. Kids are probably teasing him, and he’s not equipped to handle it. And I don’t know what to do. You would know. You were always good at that kind of thing.”
In hindsight, her father had been too good at keeping kids off her back. The result was that not many people wanted to be her friend, let alone boyfriend. There was no faster way to spinsterhood than being the daughter of the town’s police chief.
When she was done talking about James, she moved on to the real reason for her visit.
“You’re not going to believe what landed in my lap,” she said. “Charlie Olmstead. Crazy, right? Turns out he might not have gone over th
e falls after all. Even worse, he wasn’t the only kid who vanished.”
As Kat spoke, a wave of anger washed over her. Its presence surprised her, as did its strength. She agreed with Nick that times were different back then, and that her father and Deputy Peale couldn’t be blamed for not thinking Charlie’s disappearance was part of a larger crime spree. But she also couldn’t let her dad off the hook entirely. Her conscience wouldn’t allow it.
“Why didn’t you look closer?” she asked the granite slab that bore her father’s name. “Maybe you could have caught someone. It might not have been enough to save Charlie, but it could have saved five other boys.”
Kat knew there’d be no real answer as to why her father didn’t investigate further. The only thing she could do about it now was investigate herself. Which she intended to do tirelessly.
Moving out from under the dry sanctuary of the maple trees, Kat didn’t even bother with the umbrella. The drizzle had softened into a light mist, which was easily dealt with on the long trudge back to the car.
About a hundred yards from the parking lot, another grave caught her attention—a recent addition. Time hadn’t yet worn down the gentle mound of dirt, which was still untouched by grass. The headstone, colored a crisp slate gray, looked fresh from the quarry. Kat halted as soon as she saw the name that had only recently been etched into it.
Maggie Olmstead.
Approaching the grave, Kat wished she had brought another bouquet of flowers. Instead, she came equipped with nothing but a promise.
“I’m going to find out what happened. I swear to God, I am.”
Unlike with her parents, she felt foolish talking to the grave of a woman she had barely known. She averted her eyes, as if not looking at the grave would lessen her sense of embarrassment. She focused instead on a patch of grass to the right of the tombstone. Like the rest of the cemetery, it was badly in need of mowing. Crabgrass sprouted up as high as her ankles, and at first she didn’t see the marble marker that rested among the blades. When Kat did take note of it, she assumed it was a placeholder for someone else—a final resting place already reserved.
Bending down, she tugged up a few handfuls of slick grass to get a better view. A few rogue blades stuck to the marker itself, and as Kat wiped them away, her fingers ran over a name and date that had been etched in the marble many years earlier.
CHARLES OLMSTEAD, 1959–1969
It was a sight Kat hadn’t expected to see. She had no idea what people did for loved ones who vanished without a trace. There was no body to bury. No certainty the person was really dead. Every so often Kat felt the urge to ask Nick what his family had done when his sister was missing. She never followed through on it. Some things were best left unanswered.
As for Maggie Olmstead, she had given her missing son a grave site. Kat didn’t know when. She suspected Eric didn’t, either. But its presence in Oak Knoll Cemetery raised a question she couldn’t shake, even as she returned to her car, tossed the bum umbrella in the trunk, and drove off. It remained with her, unspoken, until she reached the Olmstead residence. Then, as she burst through the front door, she finally let it out.
“What, if anything, did your mother have buried instead of your brother’s body?”
*
Eric was naked.
Actually, he was wearing a towel. But seeing how it was draped over his left shoulder, Kat didn’t think that really counted. Especially when he was standing in front of her, caught at the bottom of the stairs.
For a fraction of a second, neither of them reacted. Both were too shocked—Eric for suddenly being so exposed and Kat for seeing him that way. When they did move, it was quick and reflexive. Eric whipped the towel in front of him and started to wrap it around his waist. Kat averted her eyes and lifted a hand over her face for good measure.
“Not sure if you know this or not, but there’s been a great invention called knocking,” Eric said as he knotted the towel at his hip.
“I didn’t expect you to be—” Kat was too mortified to say the word.
“Naked?” Eric said. “Well, in case you’re wondering, I’m not a nudist. I just got out of the shower and came downstairs to get clean underwear out of the dryer. And you can look now. I’m decent.”
When Kat faced him, she thought decent wasn’t the best word to describe Eric Olmstead at that moment. Surprisingly sexy would have been her choice. The towel still left little to the imagination, and Kat found herself staring at him, her face getting flushed.
“I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “You’re right. I should have knocked.”
Yet she hadn’t. Not that she minded the view, but the whole situation made her more than a little weak in the knees.
“I’m going to wait outside until you get dressed,” she said with finality. “And while I’m out there, I’ll try not to die of embarrassment.”
Outside, Kat collapsed onto the front step. She felt dizzy, hopefully from humiliation and not because of long-dormant urges being zapped back to life. Yet she suspected it was the latter. Seeing Eric naked made her feel like a nun at a Chippendales show.
Fanning her face with her hand, she thought back to high school. Eric hadn’t been as good-looking then. She was sure of it. He had been cute, of course. That’s what had attracted her in the first place. But the way he looked now was on a whole different level. If he had been that hot while they were dating, she was pretty sure her virginity wouldn’t have survived the relationship intact.
Or maybe it would have. Eric’s actions hadn’t given her much of a say in the matter. They had never gone any further than making out, when he abruptly ended things.
The breakup, if that’s what you could call it, happened in early June, the day after Eric graduated. The night before, Kat had been in the bleachers of the high school gymnasium, proudly watching her boyfriend accept his diploma. After the ceremony, they went to a party on the banks of Lake Squall. There was a bonfire. And beer. And Madonna blasting out of someone’s boom box. Kat and Eric sat on a large rock by the shore, the lake lapping at their ankles.
“Kat,” he said abruptly, “I think I love you.”
She had leaned against him, squeezing his hand. “That’s good. Because I know I love you.”
It was a perfect moment, one of the few Kat had ever experienced in her life. When they kissed by the lake that night, it was like she was living a fairy tale come true. She went to bed that night swooning, convinced that she and Eric were going to be together forever.
The next day he was gone.
His mother had been the one to break the news. Standing in the doorway with a pained look on her face, she told Kat that Eric had left during the night. There was no note. Only empty dresser drawers where his clothes should have been, a picked-apart shelf missing his favorite books, and a fresh space in the hall closet that had once marked the spot of the suitcase he packed everything in.
Maggie Olmstead had been composed while she spoke. Only when she stopped did the sobs break through: rough, guttural ones that terrified Kat. She sprinted off the porch and down the street, sobbing herself, not stopping to consider all that Eric’s mother was going through. Kat was too young and heartbroken to comprehend that for the second time in her life, one of Maggie’s sons had vanished in the night.
“So what’s so important that you had to burst in on me naked?”
Eric plopped down next to Kat on the porch. The towel was gone, replaced by jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt bearing the name of a bookstore—Murder by the Book. Even in that modest getup, he still looked good.
“I was just in Oak Knoll Cemetery.”
“Why?”
She gave Eric the same answer she had given Mayor Burt Hammond the day before when he asked her about the bridge overlooking Sunset Falls. “That doesn’t concern you.”
“I think it does,” Eric said, goading her. “After all, you did just see my—”
“Parents.”
“Beg pardon?”
Kat pres
sed a palm to her cheek. Her skin was hot to the touch. She was blushing again. “My parents. I was visiting their graves.”
She told him about stopping at his mother’s grave, too, and about the marker next to it that bore Charlie’s name. “Do you know if your parents ever had a funeral service for him?”
“If they did, I was too young to remember it,” Eric said. “I never knew about any grave marker, and I was probably standing right next to it during my mother’s funeral.”
“What concerns me is what’s beneath it.”
Sometimes people who put a grave marker in a cemetery bury something with it. The usual choice was a photograph of the deceased, along with one or two personal items. Kat assumed something similar had been done with Charlie’s grave.
“Are you saying you want to dig it up?” Eric asked.
“Yes. But before I can order an exhumation, I need permission from the deceased’s next of kin, usually a parent.”
Eric let out an ironic chuckle. “Good luck getting in touch with my father. I still haven’t been able to reach him.”
“Then it’s up to you to decide.”
It was obvious the idea made Eric uncomfortable, especially when he changed the subject. “Don’t we have to go ask Lee and Becky Santangelo about the night my brother vanished?”
Actually, that was Kat’s next stop. But she wanted an answer from Eric first, so she pressed him for one. “Maybe your mother buried something that’s important to our case.”
“Like what?”
Kat had no idea. But she knew she’d feel a hell of a lot better once she did.
“Tell me you’ll at least think about it.”
“I am thinking about it,” Eric said. “And what I’m thinking is that I should try to call my father again later today. He might be able to tell us what was buried there.”
“What if you can’t reach him?”
“Then you’ll be the first person I tell once I make my decision.”