“Do you live near here?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Somewhat,” he said with a weary smile. “We live about two hours away in Boise. These last few days have been tough—we didn’t want to uproot our kids. So Edie’s been here, and I’ve been taking care of them and traveling back and forth. Thank goodness for my sister’s family taking the kids sometimes, or I wouldn’t be able to come up at all.”
Joe nodded. “I don’t mean to pry, but do your kids know what’s going on? Have you told them about Justin?”
Hank shook his head. “No, that’s a fair question. We haven’t. Didn’t want to get them all excited about a brother if . . . well.” He looked at the floor and sighed deeply. “It’s been a tough week.”
“It must be tough to see your wife in pain,” I suggested.
“Very tough.” Hank agreed. “And there’s nothing I can do. I can only imagine how I would feel to lose one of our children, then get him back years later, but he doesn’t remember me.” He frowned and added quietly, “And you see what Jacob is like.”
Joe and I glanced at each other, unsure how to respond. “He seems . . . challenging,” I said finally.
“He’s not exactly Mr. Sensitivity, let’s put it that way,” Hank scoffed, shaking his head. “And he’s always been like that. Way Edie tells it, that had a lot to do with their split.” He paused, looking from me to Joe. “You boys need a ride back to camp? Edie’s down in the chapel—says she needs to be alone. Maybe once I take you boys out and come back, everyone will be in a better mood.”
I nodded. “If you’re willing, that would be great.”
“No problem,” Hank said, pulling a set of car keys out of his pocket. “I’m right this way.”
We followed him down the corridor toward the exit. Joe looked like he was hesitating—like he wanted to say something, but he kept biting his lip. I looked at him like, What? Finally he spoke: “Maybe,” he said, “I mean, I don’t want to presume, but maybe Jacob will get better over the next few days, you know?” he asked, looking thoughtful.
“What do you mean?” asked Hank. He didn’t look offended—just curious.
“I mean, now Jacob has hard evidence that this is his own flesh and blood,” Joe went on. “Maybe it’s not just a matter of Justin recognizing Jacob—maybe Jacob needs to recognize his son a bit, too.”
We had walked out into the parking lot, and Hank gazed up into the afternoon sun, looking thoughtful. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Although, there’s one major problem with that theory. No matter what, Justin isn’t Jacob’s flesh and blood.”
I frowned. “What?” I asked. “I thought they tested his DNA against Jacob’s and Edie’s.”
“No.” Hank shook his head. “They tested his DNA against Justin’s—against a lock of hair Edie kept in his baby book.” He paused, looking at us curiously. “They really never told you?” he asked, shaking his head.
“Told us what?” Joe asked.
“Justin isn’t Edie and Frank’s biological son,” Hank explained. “He’s adopted.”
Someone Was Here
As soon as we got back to our campsite, it was time for Frank and me to play a little game of What Did We Learn Today And Who Are Our Suspects?
“Well,” I began as soon as we were well out of earshot of anyone in the parking lot and headed down the trail back to camp, “that Farley sure is a ray of sunshine.”
Frank smiled. “He’s a crusty one, that’s for sure. But you know, he seems to have a soft side, too.”
I nodded. “When he was talking about his son, I felt so terrible for him. You could see how much it hurt him.”
“Yeah,” Frank agreed, “and back at the hospital, when they were talking about Justin—I dunno. It seems to me that Farley was really hurt by these children’s disappearances, deep down. He seemed almost like . . . he couldn’t handle knowing more about Justin.”
I hadn’t seen it that way, but now that Frank said it, I remembered the look in Farley’s eyes as he’d abruptly left the hospital. “I guess so,” I said, then paused before adding, “though he’s still a suspect, in my mind.”
SUSPECT PROFILE
Name: Farley O’Keefe
Hometown: Misty Falls, Idaho
Physical Description: 6’0”, short gray hair, close-cropped beard, grizzled expression
Occupation: Park ranger
Background: Lost a son in Desert Storm; lost a wife eighteen months ago. Says he understands the pain of parents who lost children
Suspicious behavior: An almost pathological dedication to convincing visitors the Misty Falls Lost were victims of natural accidents
Suspected of: Knowing more than he lets on
Possible motive: To protect the park’s good name and his own job
“What do you mean?” asked Frank. “You think Farley might have done something to the kids who disappeared?”
I shook my head, although now that he said it, I wasn’t totally sure what Farley might have done. “I just . . . think he knows something. I can’t quite put my finger on it. I can’t imagine him hurting a kid, but then, we don’t know that much about him.”
“And it’s in Farley’s best interest to deny any crimes were committed,” Frank pointed out. “You could argue that’s not really suspicious behavior, coming from him.”
I nodded. “I guess. I just want to keep my eye on him. He’s quite a character.”
Frank rolled his eyes. “Speaking of characters,” he said, “let’s discuss Jacob.”
I sighed. “He’s . . . troubling.”
SUSPECT PROFILE
Name: Jacob Greer
Hometown: Doddsville, Idaho
Physical description: 5’10”, shaggy salt-and-pepper hair, brown eyes. A little heavy, rough around the edges
Occupation: Sporting equipment salesman
Background: Justin’s adoptive father; ex-husband of Edie; lives alone
Suspicious behavior: Refused to believe Justin is really his son; when DNA tests proved it, had a tantrum and claimed Justin will never be “normal”
Suspected of: Having a reason to fear Justin’s reappearance. Maybe Justin knows something he’d rather not go public
Possible motive: Self-protection
“Agreed,” said Frank. “I know we can’t imagine what he’s going through right now. To lose a child, then gain him back, only to lose him again when he has no memory of you . . . that has to be very, very difficult.”
“They don’t make a greeting card for that one,” I added.
“Definitely not. But his behavior is . . .”
“Angry,” I suggested.
“Cold,” added Frank.
“Almost like he’s trying to sabotage something,” I added. “He almost seems . . . afraid of Justin. Like he doesn’t want to believe Justin is his son and he’ll remember him.”
Frank nodded, looking thoughtful. “Maybe that’s totally normal,” he suggested. “Maybe he’s afraid.”
“Or maybe,” I suggested, “he has something to hide. Maybe he has a reason not to want Justin to come back.”
Frank sighed, like it pained him to go down this path. “You really think he might have something to do with his own son’s abduction, though?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “That seems farfetched. And even if he did, that doesn’t tell us anything about the other seven kids who went missing. But I think . . . like Farley, maybe he knows more than he’s letting on.”
Frank looked unhappy. “Never assume anyone is telling the truth,” he said, reciting from the ATAC handbook.
“They have no reason to be straight with us . . . not if it could hurt them down the line,” I added.
With that depressing thought, we returned to our camp. After the primer on bear attacks we’d gotten from Farley earlier that day, we were both inspired to safety-up our campsite, disposing of any food remnants and storing anything that looked potentially interesting to a bear in an aluminum cooler that ATAC had provided
us.
“Does this look interesting to a bear?” I asked Frank, holding up a pack of gum I’d fished out of my backpack.
“Are you kidding?” asked Frank, elbow-deep in his own backpack. “Do I look like I know what a bear thinks? If you’re wondering at all, put it in the cooler.”
After totally ridding our tent of bear-attracting items and taking quick naps to make up for the sleep we lost last night, we were soon cooking our dinner over a roaring fire as the sun set.
I looked around at the darkening woods, my heart quickening. “I know it’s silly,” I said, “but I’m getting nervous the darker it’s getting. I don’t know why nighttime is so much scarier out here than at home. It’s not like anything happened last night.”
Frank was quiet for a minute. He pushed his foil-wrapped potato closer to the fire and seemed to think for a minute before replying, “Right.”
“I guess you have the first shift tonight,” I added, taking a sip of water.
“No problem,” Frank agreed.
It wasn’t long before I was climbing into my sleeping bag and Frank was settling down with a flashlight and his magazine. “Goodnight, bro,” I said, my eyelids already growing heavy. “See you in three hours.”
• • •
After all my nervousness, the first part of the night was kind of an anticlimax. The woods were totally silent, except for the occasional wind, and even when I peered outside the tent, having trouble believing that nothing weird was happening, a silent, motionless campsite greeted me.
“Your turn, bro,” I told Frank when I woke him for his second shift.
Frank blinked, then wiped his eyes, sitting up. “Did anything . . . happen?” he asked.
“Nope,” I said with a mock sigh. “I guess you were right about ghosts not being real and all.”
He smirked at me, and I climbed back into my sleeping bag for a welcome second shift of sleep.
• • •
Frank woke me at four a.m. for my final shift of watching the campsite. It was still pitch dark, and I marveled at how long the night seemed when you were actually awake for half of it. “How was . . . ,” I began asking Frank once I’d wiggled out of my sleeping bag, but he was already curled up in his own bag, fast asleep.
I knew we were supposed to be roughing it out in the wilderness, but when I was going to be up half the night, I needed video games. Muting the sound, I pulled out my handheld gaming device and got lost in the latest racing game. After a while, Frank’s snoring and the occasional wind whipping through the trees lulled me into, if not total calm, then at least a pretty relaxed state.
Then I heard it. The sound was so jarring in the near-silent woods, I dropped my video game.
A car door slamming.
We were a good ten- or fifteen-minute walk from the parking lot, but I knew the roads that ran through the park were pretty extensive, and it was probably possible to drive closer to our site. The slam wasn’t right nearby—it was like hearing one of your distant neighbors heading off on a quiet morning. But in such a serene area, the sound was unmistakable.
Don’t freak, I told myself as my heart sped up. Maybe it’s Farley chasing after a bear. Maybe it’s somebody heading to one of the other campsites.
Then I heard the footsteps.
They were slow, deliberate. Coming out of the woods and heading for our tent. Heavy, like the person was large and not interested in disguising his or her approach.
I felt my heart jump into my throat.
I grabbed my flashlight and turned it on.
The footsteps stopped.
My heart pounding, I tried to sit perfectly still for a few minutes, just listening. I knew whoever made those footsteps was probably out there, staring at my silhouette against the illuminated tent. It seemed like hours but was probably only a couple minutes . . . no footsteps. No sounds at all, except the wind in the trees. Had I imagined the whole thing?
I thought about waking Frank, but then I remembered the night before: the raccoon incident. Not my proudest moment. No, before I woke Frank, I should at least peek outside the tent and see if there was anything suspicious out there. Grabbing the flashlight, I stood and waited for a moment to see if the footsteps would start up again. They didn’t. So in one quick motion, before I could second-guess myself, I zipped open the tent and stepped outside.
I noticed it right away. Our fire pit! When we’d gone to sleep, it had been burned out but neat—charred logs in the middle, fresh firewood and kindling piled off to the side. But now, it looked like someone had charged right through the middle—kicking the logs and kindling while they went! Worse, there were footprints, very big and very human, in the dirt and leading off into the woods.
Someone had been here. Someone who wanted us to know.
I felt my heart start to pound again. And just then, I heard them. Footsteps! Someone was running through the woods, just yards away! Springing into action, I ran after the mystery man, still clutching my flashlight. If someone was trying to mess with us—whether to hurt us or just frighten us—I wanted to find out who!
My feet pounded against the uneven ground as I struggled to keep up with the intruder and not trip on the rocks and undergrowth. In the distance, I could see the stranger who’d disturbed our campsite: a large man dressed all in black. I couldn’t see his face, though—he was too far ahead and wearing a knit cap. Whoever he was, the intruder was making a beeline through the forest—we weren’t on any sort of a path. He splashed through a shallow creek, and I followed. He vaulted over a fallen tree, and I was just seconds behind him.
Finally I heard feet slapping on pavement, and I knew he’d reached the road. Sure enough, seconds later I was standing at the edge of the park’s main road, looking left and right. Where was he? Just then, a few feet down the road, I heard an engine pealing out as a huge black SUV roared into motion. It sped down the road toward, I assumed, the exit—and away from me.
I stood there for a few seconds after the SUV was out of sight, trying to calm myself.
Someone was really there. Someone was invading our campsite.
As frightened as I’d been of whatever befell the Misty Falls Lost, I still couldn’t believe it.
After catching my breath, I turned around and tried to pick my way back to the campsite. It was slow going, trying to retrace my steps with no perspective and no trail to follow. All in all, it was probably a good half hour before I found our tent again. The first light of morning was just starting to break through the trees.
I sighed, walking up to the tent. I’d never been so relieved to see the sun!
But then, as I walked toward the tent, I stopped dead.
There. On the ground. Right before the tent entrance.
Am I seeing things?
No. And the sight brought fresh horror to my thumping heart.
Someone had scrawled letters in the damp dirt:
LO
Two Nights, Two Letters
I woke to the sound of my brother screaming. Within seconds he was inside the tent. “Frank, wake up. Frank . . .”
“What’s going on?” I asked, sitting up in my sleeping bag and rubbing my eyes. I’d only gone back to sleep about an hour before.
Joe looked like he’d seen a ghost. He looked at me, pale-faced and breathing hard. “Someone was here, Frank.”
“Here where?” I asked, then gestured outside the tent. “Here here?”
“Yeah.” Joe paused for a minute, trying to catch his breath. “And they left something.” He stood up and headed for the exit and without a word, I followed.
He stopped just a few feet from the tent and turned around. “Look!”
I took just one step away, then turned around. He was gesturing to the ground right before the tent entrance. “Oh, man,” I whispered.
This time it was clear as day. Someone had scrawled LO in the dirt with a stick. There was no mistaking the letters.
“It gets worse,” Joe went on, giving me a grave look. “I hea
rd a car about half an hour ago, then footsteps approaching the tent. It was still dark, so I turned on my flashlight. The footsteps stopped right away. But when I came out to look I saw that someone had run right through our fire pit. And then I heard them start up again—footsteps running through the woods. I followed them, and I saw the guy—big, wearing all black with a ski mask. I trailed him about half a mile to the road, then he got into a big black SUV and drove away.”
I just stood there for a moment, taking all this in. Joe had seen an intruder, too. That meant there was no denying it anymore.
“Someone’s trying to scare us,” I said aloud.
Joe looked at me, then nodded slowly. “You think?” he asked.
“Isn’t it obvious?” I asked. “The L-O must be a reference to the L-O-S-T that was supposedly scrawled outside the tents of the kids who disappeared.”
“But Farley said that didn’t really happen to all of them,” Joe pointed out.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Whoever’s doing this knows we know about it. And they’re trying to scare us—to make us think we’re under attack, too.”
Joe took a slow breath. “You think they’re just trying to scare us,” he said, “as opposed to really wanting to hurt us? I mean, who knows what that guy had in mind? Maybe I interrupted him before he could do us in and write the full ‘lost’ outside our tent.”
I shook my head. “Come on, Joe,” I said, “we’re teenagers, not little kids. Besides, I think I saw an L scrawled outside the tent yesterday morning. Whoever’s doing this is leaving one letter at a time.”
Joe looked at me, shocked. “You saw an L yesterday and didn’t tell me?” he asked.
I shrugged, feeling a little guilty. “I thought maybe it was left by the rain,” I admitted, “or that it was a piece of an animal track. You know, on its own, L doesn’t look like much.”
Joe stared at the LO, then nodded. “Two nights, two letters,” he said. “That means we have two more days to figure this whole thing out.” He paused, then looked at me. “Then we become ‘lost,’ ” he went on, “and who knows what will happen then?”
The Children of the Lost Page 7
