The Dead Season

by Tessa Wegert

  This was one of the things that astonished me about Tim, a man I’d known only a few months. In spite of my secrets, and notwithstanding the shield I’d raised between us, he was always willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. It had surprised me when it happened before. It stunned me now.

  I was ready with my answer, had thought about it all the way from the souvenir shop and felt good about my plan. “Basements,” I said. “Search the one at Boldt Castle again, and the ones in town, too—apartment buildings, commercial businesses, places like that. In New York, he kept his victims in a basement. That might be his comfort zone.”

  Tim nodded as he jotted notes.

  “In the meantime, who can we send to Smuggler’s Cargo for a sketch?”

  “We’ve got a forensic artist down in Albany. Part-timer, but she can usually fit us in, and she works remotely using illustration software to speed things up. I’ll get her on a video chat with the shop owner.”

  “Perfect.”

  “What else?” he said.

  My gaze traveled to his notebook. “I could look over what you’ve got so far, see if anything lights a spark.”

  Tim smiled a little. “Have at it.”

  I reached for the notebook in Tim’s hand. He didn’t let it go. “I shouldn’t have complained about the cases we were getting,” he said, and I recalled the work report he’d given me at Nelly’s, the jokes we’d both cracked about Miss Betty and her stolen motorboat. “That little boy’s still out there, scared. Maybe worse.”

  “Yeah, he is,” I said, locking him in my gaze. “So let’s go find him.”

  THIRTEEN

  Tim left the room to call his contact, and I flipped through his notes, savoring the sensation of being back in action. It was a thrill to hold information in my hands that might help us save a life. If we solved this case, it wouldn’t be my name on the report, but that was okay with me. As for my supervisor in Oneida, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

  While the majority of data these days is digital, Tim and I share a common love of paper. I’d never seen the inside of his notebook before, and at first poring over the facts as he perceived them, from verbal and nonverbal responses to stream-of-consciousness estimations he’d written in his tidy script, felt like an intrusion. I got over it quickly. There was no time for discomfiture now.

  Half an hour passed this way before Tim reappeared with two bottles of water and the news that his forensic artist would be calling the shop owner shortly. “Anything?” he asked hopefully, nodding at the notebook. I’d scribbled a few notes of my own, but most of those were questions or comments about gaping holes in the case. I shook my head.

  “The parents are pushing for a press conference,” Tim said. “They want to make a plea to the public for help. I’d rather do a broader search first, send some divers into the water, but it’ll be black as pitch in an hour, and I guess a conference couldn’t hurt. I’m thinking first thing tomorrow.”

  I looked at my watch and was shocked to see it was almost 7:30 p.m. A press conference. I pictured Mr. and Mrs. Hayes huddled in front of the news cameras, begging for the safe return of their son, and sensed that Tim was doing the same. A look of understanding passed between us. Criminals can’t resist keeping tabs on investigations into their misdeeds. I imagine it’s like eavesdropping on a teacher-parent meeting after you’ve willfully broken a school rule: a preview of what’s to come.

  I bounced a pen off my teeth. “A press conference could help us flush him out, and I can help with surveillance.”

  “If you’re right about this being an abduction, then yeah,” Tim said. “That all sounds great. But if the guy we’re trying to expose is the same man who imprisoned you for eight days in a filthy basement where he killed three other women, you can’t be there, Shane.”

  It was weeks ago now, but I still remembered the fury in Tim’s voice when I told him what Bram had done. That, and his appeal for me to let it lie. “I have to be there,” I said. “If it’s him, nobody stands a better chance of making a positive ID.”

  “What if he approaches you? What if he tries to—”

  “He won’t. Not in public. You don’t know him, Tim.”

  “And you do? You were with him for a week, a couple hours a day, and you only heard what he wanted you to. It might be enough to get a sense of his personality, but you’re not a criminal psychologist. You were drugged, traumatized, probably in a state of shock. You weren’t in any position to psychoanalyze him. No one would expect you to be.” Tim tugged a breath through his teeth. “You think you have some kind of connection with him, but all that bullshit Carson fed you about Stockholm syndrome messed with your head. I know you blame yourself for not detaining him when you had the chance, but here’s the thing: you’re right. Whatever sick act he planned to carry out down there was interrupted. That means there’s a chance he wants to finish it. We don’t need you in the open, in the middle of a crowd where this lunatic can make a move and slip away unseen. We’ve already got one missing person on our hands.”

  I couldn’t blame Tim for seeing it that way, or for feeling the way he did. He didn’t know Bram’s message on the photo was decades in the making. “How about a compromise?” I said. “You hold the press conference tonight.”

  “Tonight? You’re crazy. And how is that a compromise?”

  “Just listen. It’ll up the media coverage and expose the neighboring towns to Trey’s photograph sooner, maybe even bring in more tips. It’ll also show our guy how serious we are about getting Trey back. And it will be dark. Pitch-black, like you said. I can blend in.”

  But your scar. Tim was thinking it, I knew he was, and I didn’t want to hear him say it aloud. “I’ll cover my face,” I said preemptively. “It’s cold out; everyone will be bundled up. He won’t even know I’m there, but I’ll be scanning the crowd the whole time.”

  Accept my help on a case that was already stalled, or send me home and risk losing our target if I was right about Bram’s involvement? From where I was sitting, the decision was easy. Tim must have known I wouldn’t take no for an answer, because it wasn’t long before his shoulders slumped forward in defeat. “See you back here at nine,” he said.

  * * *

  * * *

  While I inhaled a prepackaged sandwich from the Price Chopper up the road, chugged another bottle of water, and made the round trip to Mac’s house for outdoor gear, Tim managed to pull a fully formed media event from his ass. I got back to the station to find a crowd of spectators had coalesced in the parking lot, where they looked expectantly at a flimsy plywood podium and a placard displaying an enlarged print of Trey’s latest school photo, along with the phone number for our tip line. Night had long since descended on A-Bay, but the camera crews’ equipment cut a swath of light through the inky darkness. The podium, and Trey’s photo, shone like a beacon on a sea cliff. I hoped it would be enough to call the boy home.

  The first person I ran into was Don Bogle, who, while speed-smoking a cigarette, told me he’d be videoing the event and streaming the footage to Twitter. At six-foot-six, he’d have a clear sightline to the podium over the heads of the civilians. When I praised him for the idea, he admitted it was Tim’s. I was impressed.

  Outfitted in McIntyre’s old ski jacket and Cossack hat, with a flannel scarf wrapped around my face, I joined the mob of similarly dressed bystanders who’d come to watch. Like highway car crashes, these types of events always generated attention. I liked to think onlookers gathered out of sympathy for the family, but just as many were there to rap on the door to their humanity and make sure somebody was still home.

  I hadn’t been waiting long before Tim emerged from the station with Richard and Virginia Hayes. They arranged themselves behind the podium, where they were flanked by Jeremy Solomon, his gray hair oscillating like wheat in the wind, and Mac, who’d turned up as a show of police community support. Wit
h a solemn nod at the sheriff, Tim approached the mic.

  It should have been me up there. This duty was right in my wheelhouse. But the crowd was where I belonged tonight. Peering out from between my hat and the scarf, I drew an icy breath and began to scan the dozens of faces that surrounded me.

  “Good evening,” Tim said into the microphone. “I’m BCI Investigator Tim Wellington with the New York State Police, stationed here in Alexandria Bay. With the assistance of Investigators Solomon and Bogle, and support from Jefferson County Sheriff Maureen McIntyre and our local law enforcement partners, I am heading the investigation into the disappearance of nine-year-old local resident Trey Hayes.”

  My gaze slid to Trey’s parents. This was usually the moment when family members snapped out of their daze and found themselves staring into the jaws of a real-life nightmare. Both Richard and Virginia Hayes were rigid but dry-eyed, staring blankly at the news cameras. Tim looked much the same. He was holding up well. Until I showed up in A-Bay, murders and kidnappings were practically unheard of, and that was the way Tim liked it. I knew how profoundly thoughts of this boy, cleaved from his family and out in the cold, must be affecting him.

  They were affecting me, too. If I was right, and Bram was behind this, the blame was squarely on me. My history with my cousin was complicated, but there was no disputing the role I played in his departure from Swanton, and what leaving his family—leaving me—did to him.

  “This is an active investigation,” Tim went on. “We’ve received close to a hundred tips so far, and we encourage anyone who thinks they know something about Trey’s disappearance or current whereabouts—no matter how seemingly inconsequential—to call. We’re also asking those who were at or near the municipal dock here in Alexandria Bay this morning between the hours of nine and twelve to call in. If you think you’ve seen Trey”—Tim gestured at the placard—“whose photo is also available on the New York State Police Twitter and Facebook feeds, we urge you to contact us immediately.”

  After a beat, Tim cleared his throat. “I’d like to take this opportunity to thank the community for your support thus far. We’re doing everything in our power to ensure that Trey is reunited with his family, and the assistance we get from individuals and local businesses here in town as well as the surrounding areas will be invaluable to our investigation. Now, I’ll turn the microphone over to Richard and Virginia Hayes, Trey’s parents, for a brief statement.”

  If the onset of a news conference is the moment when a criminal investigation is made real for the victim’s family, then a statement from the parents is that moment for the community. Soft murmurs reverberated through the crowd as Tim traded places with Trey’s mom and dad. To my left I could see Bogle, his iPhone held steady eight feet in the air. The mnemonic I’d created to distinguish between my two investigators when we first met—Shaggy Solomon, Big Bogle—flashed through my mind. Feeling my eyes on him, he dispatched a bleak smile. I hiked Mac’s scarf up over my nose.

  My eyes darted from one male onlooker to another. Too old, too young, too short, too tall. As Richard Hayes began to speak, reiterating Tim’s plea to share any and all pertinent information, I noticed Tim watching me. It wasn’t obvious. To anyone else it would look as though he was staring at the frozen horizon. Beneath his heavy brow, though, his eyes scavenged the area around me, ensuring nobody was coming too close, searching for signs of trouble. It wasn’t until I realized he was monitoring my position that a cold frisson snaked up my spine.

  What if this was a mistake?

  As I stood among A-Bay’s concerned citizens, listening to a mother beg for the safe return of her son, I suddenly remembered that Bram’s games were easy to lose. Even in grade school, there’d always been a twist designed to throw me off-kilter just when I thought I had things figured out. Like that money stolen from my teacher. It was all I thought about for weeks, until a new scandal replaced it. Mrs. Dooley’s original of our upcoming math test, complete with answers, was filched from the copy machine. Shortly after it began to make the rounds of the playground, I overheard my teacher talking to the principal about the strange timing of it all. The theft of her money was a smoke screen. The test was the target all along.

  Tim had adopted a squint that told me he was having second thoughts about holding the event in the dark. At the podium, Virginia Hayes finally cracked. Tears coursed down her cheeks as she held up Trey’s favorite stuffed animal and promised her son he’d be home soon. At my sides, my hands, red with cold, squeezed into fists. How dare he. Taking those women was bad enough, but this? This was deplorable.

  Think, Shay. Where is he? What’s next? If it were me Bram was ultimately after, he wouldn’t leave me at a disadvantage. The game was no fun unless both players stood a fighting chance. I thought of that day in the fifth grade, how the other teachers helped Mrs. Dooley look for the money and the principal gave a speech about dishonesty while, one floor down, a cunning boy with dirty hair slipped unnoticed into the copy room. That’s when it hit me. While the people of A-Bay were gathered in the cold, praying for little Trey Hayes, nobody was watching Bram.

  The realization struck with the force of a falling branch. He’s not here, and he’s not coming. Wherever he’d been hiding Trey up until now, this was his chance to make a move.

  “Thank you, Richard and Virginia, for sharing that with us.” Tim was back at the podium to finish up. My hands were stiff and raw from the cold, the burn still too tender for gloves, but I fumbled for my phone and navigated to Google Maps. Seconds later I was looking at a map of A-Bay.

  If Bram needed somewhere to hide a kid, this was the first thing he’d do. The second would be to find a place that meant something to me.

  Heart Island was located in the middle of the St. Lawrence River. A-Bay sat on one side of it, while Wellesley Island and the Thousand Islands Country Club closed in from the north. On the mainland, Keewaydin State Park, Otter Creek Preserve, and the Cranberry Creek Wildlife Management Area made up the bulk of the woodland. The cat in the forest. The memory rippled through me like a shiver. We had no evidence to suggest Trey was in the woods, too, but such areas were attractive to criminals. The isolation and dense foliage made it easier to hide their victims. Brett was proof enough of that. The woods were a big part of our youth. I could see Bram incorporating them into his game plan.

  I didn’t notice it right away, but when I did it seemed absurdly obvious. There was a road that meandered straight into Alexandria Bay, and where it intersected Cranberry Creek, a patch of green denoted a thicket of trees. It assumed the form of a bird with its beak open. A forest, shaped like a swan. Those woods were six minutes from the center of town, just ten from any number of docks and rocky beaches along the river. The road was called Swan Hollow.

  “No show?”

  I looked up to see Tim standing in front of me, his scarf flapping in the wind.

  “No,” I said. “But I might have something.” I showed him the map.

  “Swan Hollow. Swanton.” He lifted his eyes from the screen. Away from the lights the press had set up near the podium, his pupils were as dark and glossy as the feathers of a crow. “It’s a stretch.”

  “Got a better idea?”

  Tim was quiet for a moment before he said, “Looks like we can rule out the biological mother in Syracuse. Sol called around, and she’s got an alibi for yesterday morning. She works at a nail salon, and the staff and customers all confirm she was on site.”

  It pained me to see Tim exploring other angles and working the case as if he had doubts about who took Trey, but had I left him any choice? By holding back my history with Bram, I was also holding back Tim. “I think we need to organize a search,” I said.

  “What, now?” He looked up at the cloudy sky, the lack of a visible moon. “A night search in below-freezing temps is going to look like a search for a body.”

  Fighting the urge to cringe, I said, “What we’re l
ooking for is a cabin, somewhere for Bram to hide Trey. If he took the kid as bait, as a way to get to me, Bram’s going to need him alive.” But the girls. I tried to ignore the voice in my head that had been chanting their names like a mantra for months. Becca. Lanie. Jess. Bram hadn’t needed them alive. All I could do was hope this time was different.

  Criminal investigations take baby steps. They totter, one foot in front of the other, always in danger of falling, failing, returning to the starting line. Whether because of Swan Hollow, or fifth grade, or some innate understanding of my lost cousin’s mind, this felt like the right line to tread.

  For the time being, precarious moves were the only kind we had.

  FOURTEEN

  It was late on Monday night when Troop D’s investigators, a handful of other officials, and a few dozen volunteers set out across the Cranberry Creek Wildlife Management Area on the outskirts of town. Flashlight beams crisscrossed the terrain as voices shouted Trey’s name through the woods. With its mix of wetland and marsh, the maple, birch, and beech trees straight as flagpoles, the environment reminded me so much of Swanton’s own refuge I kept forgetting where I was. It was disorienting, like waking up in a different time zone and finding that whether it’s the smell of the air or the color of the sky, something’s off.