by Ritter, Todd
Kat found herself in a small entrance foyer that led to other points inside Glenn Stewart’s house. Directly in front of her was a staircase that rose to the second floor. To the right sat a darkened dining room. To the left, a soft red light glowed from a parlor. Kat followed it, just as another shriek sliced the air.
Glock still raised, she pushed into the parlor. It was remarkably clean, considering the house’s exterior appearance, and decorated in an Asian theme. A bamboo screen covered one corner. On the walls were watercolor images of mountains and pagodas. Red Japanese lanterns hung from the ceiling, providing the glow.
The only piece of furniture not fitting in with the décor was a small bookshelf pushed against the wall. Kat saw volumes of Shakespeare, modern classics, even a copy of The Art of War. One shelf was devoted to the works of a single author—Eric Olmstead. Glenn owned a copy of every book he had written, all in pristine condition.
James was on the floor in front of the bookshelf. Sitting on his shoulder was a slithery mass of brown and black fur. A ferret, which scurried across the back of his neck to his other shoulder. When the animal’s bushy tail brushed his face, he shrieked once more with delight.
“James?”
He froze when he saw her. “He told me to come in.”
“It’s true,” Glenn Stewart said. “I saw him and urged him to come inside.”
His voice rose from a dim corner behind Kat. He was a shadowy figure, sitting in an overstuffed chair with ethereal stillness.
Kat stepped in front of her son. “James, let the animal go.”
“But, Mom—”
“Let it go!”
James released the animal, which skittered past her legs. The ferret jumped into Glenn’s lap, where it received a tender pat on the head.
“They’re gentle creatures,” he said. “A little rambunctious, but nothing too bad. This one lost his companion just the other day. He’s still grieving.”
Kat glanced back at James. “Little Bear, I need you to get up and go to the door.”
James didn’t protest. Frightened and confused, he climbed to his feet and hovered by the doorway, waiting for further instructions.
“Now, go to the hallway,” Kat told him. “Wait by the door. If something happens to me, run outside to Eric’s house and tell him to call Carl. Understand?”
James’s reply was a scared and silent yes.
“Good. Now go.”
Kat waited until James was gone before pointing the gun in Glenn Stewart’s direction. “What the hell were you doing with him?”
“I know you mistrust me,” Glenn said. “But he was perfectly safe. In fact, he’s safer here than he is out there.”
“What’s out there?”
“Danger, of course. A world of danger.”
“Is that why you don’t go outside?”
“Partly,” Glenn said. “But looking like I do, I suspect most people would prefer me to stay inside.”
It was too dark to see him clearly. All Kat could make out was a silhouette, shoulder rising and falling as he continued to pet the ferret.
“You don’t look too unusual to me,” Kat said.
She detected a note of amusement in Glenn’s response. “You’re very kind. But you’ve yet to see the full picture.”
He stood. Kat took a cautious step backward and aimed the Glock at Glenn’s chest, prepared to shoot if necessary. But there didn’t seem to be a need. All he did was move forward into the light, giving her a clear view of his face.
From the nose down, Mr. Stewart looked normal. Handsome even, with full lips and sharp cheekbones that narrowed to a strong jaw. Above the nose, it was a different story. The left side of his face boasted a thin brow and an eye colored a startling shade of blue. The eye on the right was missing. So was the brow. In their place was a patch of skin as smooth as wet clay. Rising above it was a thick, pale scar that sliced through his forehead and into his hair.
Kat kept her gaze steady. “What happened to you in Vietnam?”
“My Lai happened. I assume you’ve heard of it.”
Kat certainly had. In March 1968, hundreds of civilians were killed by a unit of the United States Army. The victims were unarmed. Many of them were women and children.
“Some people think you shot yourself,” she said. “That true?”
“I don’t suppose it really matters now. The important thing is what happened to me afterward.”
“Mặt trăng vinh quang,” Kat replied. “You learned about that in the hospital?”
Glenn nodded. “It opened my eyes to so many things, even though it’s a very misunderstood religion.”
“I can see how people wouldn’t get that whole human sacrifice part. Is it true?”
Glenn’s voice was pained as he said, “It is, I’m afraid. There are some who used to practice such things. But I’m not one of them. Most good followers aren’t.”
“Then what do you believe in?”
“That life is sacred. Including my own. That one needs to find peace with himself before he can find peace with the world. I’m still working on that, even after all these years. And that no matter what we do, bad things exist in the outside world. I should know. I’ve seen them.”
“In Vietnam?” Kat offered.
“Yes. There, of course. But also here, in Perry Hollow. On this very street, in fact.”
“Did you see anything the night Charlie Olmstead was taken?”
“I did,” Glenn said. “I lied to your father about it. Not because I wanted to, mind you. I needed to. For the sake of everyone on this street.”
“What did you see?”
“Sit down,” Glenn said. “And I’ll tell you.”
*
It felt weird having a brother again. Good but weird—like a recurring daydream you can’t believe is actually coming true. Eric couldn’t stop grinning. And crying. He felt overjoyed, despondent, thrilled, and subdued all at once.
“I don’t know what to talk about,” Eric said. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Family,” Charlie suggested. “Are you married? Do you have kids?”
“Divorced. No kids. You?”
“Divorced. A daughter, although it’s been a while since I’ve seen her.”
They went back and forth like that, swapping forty-two years’ worth of information about jobs, homes, likes and dislikes. Eric learned that Charlie was a mechanic in Chester County who liked country music, Harleys, and a good bourbon. He told Charlie about the highs and lows of a writer’s life, about living in Brooklyn, about the famous people he’s met. They learned their differences—Charlie was an ace centerfielder in high school, Eric not an ace at any sport—and their similarities, such as the fact that both of their ex-wives were named Laura.
Then the topic turned to Eric’s family, whom Charlie insisted on calling Ken and Maggie Olmstead.
“I heard Maggie passed away,” he said. “How did she die?”
The mention of his mother made Eric sad again. She would have loved to have witnessed this conversation. The fact that it was her final wish made it all the more poignant.
“Cancer. Ovarian.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. From what I remember, she was a great lady.”
“What else do you remember about living here?” Eric asked.
Charlie mulled the question over, hand absently stroking his chin. Watching him, Eric saw traces of the boy he had known only through decades-old photographs. Same awkward ears. Same sad eyes. Same crooked smile when he said, “I remember Mrs. Santangelo’s cookies. Are the Santangelos still around?”
“They are,” Eric said. “So is Glenn Stewart.”
“The Clarks are long gone, right?”
“Of course. But you—”
Eric halted when he realized Charlie still didn’t know that Mort and Ruth Clark had been his maternal grandparents. He didn’t have the heart to tell him just yet. They’d have plenty of time to discuss things that happened before he was born and after he left.
“Did you know,” Charlie said, “that the Clarks had a bomb shelter built under their yard?”
“Really?”
“That’s another thing I remember. I used to play in it when I was a kid. And the falls. Jesus, when I was ten, I loved walking out on that bridge and seeing Sunset Falls.”
“It’s still there,” Eric said. “The bridge, too.”
Charlie’s face lit up. “We should go there.”
“Now?”
“Yeah. Come on.”
He was off the couch in a flash, heading toward the back door. Eric followed, at first with reluctance. But his attitude began to change once they were in the backyard, rushing through the grass. By the time they crossed onto Glenn Stewart’s property, he was having a blast.
Charlie was faster than he was, practically sprinting across Mr. Stewart’s yard. He seemed to know so much more than Eric did about the area, from the Clarks’ bomb shelter to the place where Glenn buried his pets. (“I’d spy on him when he did it,” Charlie said as they passed the spot Eric had dug up the night before.)
Running behind him, struggling to keep up, Eric felt annoyance and admiration in equal measure. He was jealous of what Charlie knew and glad he was sharing it with him. He was in awe of him and just a little bit intimidated. In short, for the first time in his life, he knew how it felt to have a big brother.
They hurried around the far side of Glenn Stewart’s house, the roar of Sunset Falls growing louder. Eric glimpsed it through the trees, a heady tumble of whiteness stretching three stories.
“I’d go this way to sneak out to the falls,” Charlie told him as they emerged at the end of the cul-de-sac and headed through the trees. “That way no one could see me.”
Since Eric had traversed the grown-over path earlier in the week, he went first. Charlie followed close behind, peeking over his shoulder for glimpses of the waterfall itself.
“There’s the bridge,” he said excitedly. “I figured they’d have torn it down by now.”
“They’re going to soon,” Eric said.
His brother slapped him on the shoulder. “So that’s all the more reason to take one last trip across it.”
They had come to the sawhorse blocking the bridge. Charlie leaped over it. Eric ducked beneath it. Yet another difference between the two.
“Be careful,” Eric warned as Charlie hurried onto the bridge itself. “It’s not stable.”
Charlie heeded the warning, stepping carefully onto the bridge’s first few boards. “Can it hold two people?”
“Two, yes,” Eric said. “Three, probably not.”
By that time, he was on the bridge, too, trying to follow Charlie’s footsteps. He stepped over the gaping hole that Kat fell through a few days earlier. Some of the other planks creaked beneath his weight, and the entire bridge shimmied slightly, but overall, it seemed stable. At least stable enough to hold them up as they stood shoulder to shoulder against the railing, watching the inexorable flow of the creek.
“You having fun?” Charlie asked.
“Yeah,” Eric said. He was having the time of his life. “You?”
Charlie put his arm across Eric’s shoulders. “Definitely, brother.”
Noise suddenly rose from the woods to the right—the sound of twigs snapping and branches being whipped out of the way. It was followed by footsteps, loud and fast on the dirt path leading to the bridge. Someone was running toward them.
Eric turned toward the sound, seeing Kat Campbell burst through the trees. She had her gun out, raising it once she reached the cusp of the bridge.
“Charlie, put your hands in the air and back away from him.”
But it was Eric who lifted his hands, holding them waist-high in front of him. “Kat? What are you doing?”
“Get off the bridge, Eric.”
“I don’t understand. What’s happening?”
Eric saw a blur of motion on the edge of his vision, as quick as a lightning strike. He felt one of his brother’s arms wrap around his neck, pulling him backward, choking the air out of him. Then he was slammed against the side of the bridge, the railing pushing into his ribcage. Charlie was behind him now, holding him in place.
“I’ll kill him if you come any closer!” he yelled to Kat. “You hear me? I’ll toss him off this bridge just like I did when he was a baby.”
THIRTY-FIVE
Nick rode in Ken Olmstead’s rig, although not by choice. When Ken got word that Charlie was back in Perry Hollow, he immediately started to leave, giving Nick only enough time to grab his cane and limp into the truck with him. He left his car on the entrance ramp, where it would no doubt be hit, scratched, or otherwise impounded.
Whatever damage occurred, Nick knew it would be worth it. Because as he drove, Ken told him everything that happened on July 20, 1969.
“It was supposed to be a quiet night,” he said. “After dinner, Maggie put the baby to bed and then went to sleep herself. Her naps had become a nightly ritual.”
“Where was Charlie?” Nick asked.
“He was also napping. At least he was supposed to be. Maggie and I had already agreed to let him stay up to watch the moon landing. We knew history was going to be made that night. Instead, everything fell apart.”
According to Ken, the beginning of the end was signaled by a tentative knock on the door a little after 10:00 P.M. Ken answered it quickly, fearful the sound would wake up everyone else. He assumed it was Mort and Ruth Clark, whose TV always seemed to be on the fritz, asking to watch the moon walk with him. But when Ken opened the door, he saw not his neighbors but a man standing on the front porch.
A man he knew.
A man he hadn’t seen in more than ten years.
“It was Craig Brewster,” Ken said. “He told me he wanted to see his son. Back when Jennifer died, he told Maggie and me that he’d never bother us. But there he was, standing at my door begging to see Charlie.”
“But why then?” Nick asked. “After all that time?”
“His father had died a few days before, and ever since then he couldn’t stop thinking that he had made a huge mistake leaving Jennifer and letting us take Charlie. He said he came to town with the intention of telling Mort and Ruth Clark everything, but he couldn’t get the nerve to actually ring their doorbell.”
Ken said he listened, patiently at first. He let Craig tell him about his job guarding juvenile offenders. About his rapport with them. About how he wanted to open a camp for them using land he had just inherited.
“He said he was a changed man. But that he was lonely. Said that there was a hole in his life that he never noticed until his dad passed away.”
“And he thought being Charlie’s dad could fill that void?” Nick asked.
“He said he didn’t want to take Charlie away from us,” Ken continued. “He just wanted to meet him and see how he had grown. The problem was that Charlie didn’t know who he was.”
The truck, which had been traveling at top speed, slowed as it started the climb up the hill they had just come down only minutes before.
“You never told Charlie about him or his real mother?” Nick said.
“We couldn’t tell anyone. Not with Charlie’s real grandparents still living across the street. Everyone, Charlie included, needed to think he was our boy. Otherwise, it would have been a disaster. The Clarks could have sued for custody. The police could have arrested us for kidnapping. We had no real right to raise him. It didn’t matter we were the only ones who had cared for him in the days after his birth. The law was the law, and what we had done was illegal.”
“How did Craig take the news?”
“Not good,” Ken said. “He kept telling me Charlie had a right to meet his real father. That he needed to know he wasn’t our son. His voice got louder. So loud I expected him to wake the whole house.”
Instead, Ken said, he only woke Charlie.
“His bedroom was located directly above us. He might not have heard every word, but he heard enough. I yan
ked Craig outside, telling him to keep his voice down. While we were out there, Charlie must have crept downstairs and slipped out the back door.”
“He was running away?” Nick said.
“Not quite,” Ken answered. “He had the baby with him.”
Ten minutes later, as Ken still argued on the front porch with Craig, they heard the sound of running cut through the rainy night. It was Glenn Stewart, bursting out of the darkness with Eric in his arms.
“I grabbed the baby. He was soaking wet. When I asked Glenn what happened, he told me Eric had almost drowned.”
“Drowned?” Nick replied. “In the creek?”
“I looked at Glenn and saw he was drenched, too,” Ken said. “And that’s when I knew what had happened. I knew Charlie had done it before Glenn even told me.”
“How?”
“Because he had tried it before. In May. That time it was in the bathtub. Only I thought Maggie was responsible. I blamed her for everything.”
They had reached the top of the hill and were now starting their descent. The truck groaned from the sudden acceleration, the noise almost drowning out Ken Olmstead. It didn’t help matters that Ken spoke softly, with a hollow tone to his voice. He sounded to Nick like a man who was dead inside.
“I went inside and looked in Charlie’s room, hoping that Glenn was lying and I’d find him there fast asleep. But he was gone, just as I knew he would be. So I went downstairs, grabbed a flashlight, and headed to where I thought he’d be hiding.”
“Where was that?” Nick asked.
“The bomb shelter Norm Clark had built under his backyard. Charlie loved going down there and playing. Soldier. Astronaut. Alien invader. It was like his own private hideout.”
“And was he there?”
“He was,” Ken said. “Craig went with me, and I had him hold Eric while I went down there. I found him sitting on one of the cots Mort had put down there, his legs swinging beneath him. When I shined the flashlight in his face, Charlie didn’t even flinch. I asked him if he dropped Eric into the creek. He told me yes. I told him that Eric could have drowned. Or worse, gone over the falls.”
“What did Charlie say?”
“He said, ‘I know. That’s why I did it.’”