by Tessa Wegert
Snatches of giggles. Sleeping bags and fuzzy striped afghans strewn across the living room floor. “I remember,” I said.
Dad scratched his chin, leaving behind a stripe of flour. “Your mother was always helping out, and thank God for that. The only way to ensure the children got their baths and homework done was to bring them here. But Crissy made it difficult. She could be a right git sometimes, but later, after Brett moved out of the house and into his apartment, the girl went stark mad. The truancy, the drugs—and so young! We all knew what she was up to; she made little effort to hide it. We were concerned her behavior would send you and Doug off course as well.”
“Your father did try to reason with her,” said Mom.
“Not that it did much good. Eventually, your mother stopped asking Crissy over. What else could we do?”
My mother said, “Brett set a bad example, for what it’s worth. While Crissy was out tearing up the town, her dad was doing the same thing. I’m surprised they didn’t cross paths at a party somewhere. Who knows, maybe they did.” She sighed deeply. “Crissy was furious with him for moving out, though. I do know that.”
“At the time,” Dad went on, lovingly shaping a second ball of dough, “we thought Brett buggering off to Philadelphia was for the best. If he had any hope of reforming himself, he wasn’t going to manage with the likes of Russell Loming for a friend. Loming was more of a skiver than Brett.”
“Russell Loming?” I said. The name wasn’t familiar.
“His best mate. I ran into him at the hardware store, oh, last year it must have been. He’s still working in manufacturing, at the maple-sugaring equipment plant now.”
“Felicia was furious, too, when she got the news that Brett was going away,” said Mom. “God knows it wasn’t easy living with Fee, and I can’t blame him for wanting a normal life, but what kind of person leaves the state without telling his own children good-bye?”
“So Brett quit his job and left,” I said. “That could have been when it happened. It’s possible he planned to say good-bye but died before he could do it.”
“I suppose,” said Dad. I could tell he hoped it was true, that he was conflicted about how to treat the memory of his dead brother-in-law. My father liked to give people a fair shake, and Brett hadn’t made that easy.
In my pocket, I felt my phone buzz.
The sight of McIntyre’s name on the display was startling, an abrupt reminder of the life I’d momentarily forgotten in A-Bay. Wiping my hands on a dish towel and excusing myself, I hurried out into the hall.
“How would you like to spend a few days in Vermont?” I asked Mac, taking the stairs two at a time and ducking into my old bedroom. The walls were still yellow, the curtains Mom had sewed decades ago striped in ballet pink. “I could seriously use a distraction.”
“I can help with that,” said the sheriff in a tone I didn’t like. “I’m calling on official police business. We’ve got a situation over here.”
“Must be bad if I’m on your call list.” McIntyre had kept me up to speed on the county’s most recent crimes throughout my suspension, but only as dinner conversation or an aside as we passed each other in her hall. I was touched she’d gone out of her way to call about a new case. Touched and a little concerned.
“Tim’s on it,” Mac assured me, “but you’re still my most senior investigator, so I want your take, too. Because you’re right. It’s bad. A kid’s gone missing, nine-year-old boy by the name of Trey Hayes.” She took a breath and rattled off the details. Local. African American. Brown hair and eyes. Small for his age. “Real cutie,” she said sadly. “Last seen about two hours ago on a field trip to Boldt Castle.”
“In November?” The castle, I knew, was on Heart Island, only accessible by water. School kids would have to take a ferry from A-Bay to reach it. It had already been chilly on the river back in October, when Tim and I worked the Tern Island case.
“The weather,” Mac said by way of explanation. “Tours were supposed to end three weeks ago, but the winters here, they’re long. Any place that can squeeze out a few extra days of tickets—”
“Or bear claw sales.”
“Right.” As she laid out the full story of Trey’s disappearance, I grew just as despondent as she was.
At 9:00 a.m. that morning, thirty-nine fourth-grade students, two teachers, and four parent-chaperones had boarded a couple of district school buses bound for the Alexandria Bay Municipal Dock. A ferry owned by River Rat Boat Tours made two trips to transport its passengers to Heart Island. Although Boldt Castle was normally a self-guided experience, the school had arranged for a guide to take the group through the castle and around the grounds. Tim had confirmed Trey was on the tour, which kicked off at 10:00 a.m.
At 11:20 the group convened at the dock to reboard the tour boat bound for the mainland. That’s when a head count came up short. Trey’s parents, whom Tim had interviewed already, described their son as spirited but well behaved, not prone to fits of rebellion or likely to wander off. He liked school and had been looking forward to the trip. No signs of verbal or physical abuse, and both parents had alibis; they were at work when they got the school’s call.
“Tim’s still out there interviewing teachers and chaperones. Kids, too,” Mac said. “I’m on my way to join him.”
That many interviews would take some time. I drummed my fingers on the dresser, feeling the heat of the phone against my ear. Somehow, I seemed to attract missing persons cases. Pity, that, given the last two I worked ended in tragedy.
“The employees,” I said. “Any progress with them?” I hadn’t had a chance to visit Boldt Castle yet, though Tim kept telling me it was a must-see attraction. I did know it was a legitimate chateau: six stories with something like a hundred and twenty rooms, medieval-style turrets, an actual drawbridge. I thought back to my own school days and my father’s complaints about field trip destinations that weren’t sufficiently equipped for scores of visitors. As the man in charge of the field trip review and approval process for the district, Dad used to say unconventional sites were his undoing.
The Thousand Islands were tourist country, though. “There must have been staff around, even if it isn’t peak season—which means there could have been a shift change,” I said. “Someone might have seen something and left the island before Tim got there.”
“I’ll pass that thought along. Tim would call you himself, but he’s deep in the weeds.”
The weeds. My mind went to the river, crammed with kelp. “The water,” I said. It would be glacial by now. “You don’t think—”
“Don’t know. At nine years old, a kid who grew up around here should be a proficient swimmer. But if he was injured somehow . . .” Her voice trailed off. “We’ve got the local media involved, and it sounds like a few calls have come in to the tip line already. But that water’s deadly. Tim had better work fast.”
As Maureen McIntyre spoke, I walked to the window and brought my face close to the glass. The cold had found its way inside and glazed the pane with frost. Tim isn’t alone, I told myself as I used a fingernail to carve a line into the fragile layer of ice. There were other investigators at the A-Bay station who could help him search Heart Island, along with McIntyre herself. They’d be in full-on disaster mode already. Picturing the urgency of the chase, a kid gone and my team working as one to beat the clock, made the pizza I’d eaten earlier churn inside my stomach.
I’d only spent one night in Swanton, but I missed A-Bay terribly. I wanted to be back there with Mac and Tim, helping with this pressing case.
But the warning I’d issued to Crissy weighed heavily on my mind. Whoever killed Brett might still be in town. The locals are on it, I reminded myself. This isn’t your job. The closest thing I had to one of those was back in Upstate New York. In so many ways, Swanton was about the past; whereas, back at my new home in A-Bay there was a kid who needed help now. When I
thought of it like that, staying in Vermont felt selfish. My parents seemed to be coping. They’d be okay without me for a few days, wouldn’t they?
“Mac?” I said into the void.
“Yeah?”
“I’m coming back.”
“What, already?”
“I know my eval isn’t until Thursday and I’m not cleared to work. I know I can’t lead the team. But I want to help in whatever way I can.” I paused, and drew a breath. “Please let me help.”
Mac didn’t ask a lot of questions, not when I left Watertown for Swanton, and not now. I hoped she’d be glad to have me around, but when she spoke again I heard an intimation of uneasiness in her voice.
“I don’t need to tell you how time-sensitive this case is.”
“No,” I said, “you don’t.”
“We can’t wait to start the search until you get here.”
“Of course not.”
“Okay,” Mac said. “It’s your call.”
I had to think it was the right one.
TEN
When I told them I was leaving, my parents didn’t argue. “Work comes first,” said Dad, though I knew my mother didn’t share that philosophy. It was family first with her, always. She hadn’t asked me to come, but I felt a twinge of guilt for leaving, and assured them I would be back soon.
Thoughts of Brett’s irresponsible behavior and Felicia’s struggle raising kids alone kept me company all the way to Chateaugay near the Canadian border. In Massena, New York, with an hour and twenty to go until A-Bay, I finally managed to put Swanton behind me and give my thoughts over to Trey Hayes. A boy, lost among the islands, just as the weather was starting to turn. A boy who, God willing, was still alive.
On Tern, while searching for Jasper Sinclair, picturing the man’s unresponsive body galvanized me. Imagining him in physical peril sharpened my senses and turbocharged my legs. I couldn’t take this same approach with Trey, though, couldn’t bring myself to visualize a child left for dead in the brush. In the water. In the weeds.
What I did do was surrender to the ghastly thrill of the coming search. I urged my brain to fire up like a furnace. My heart thumped as I braced my palms against the wheel. It was all I could do to keep still.
The road unfurled before me, a russet landscape flitting past the windows of my speeding SUV, and before I knew it, I was back in A-Bay. I’d tried calling Tim via Bluetooth on the way, but got no answer. My efforts to contact McIntyre again had proved fruitless, too. There was no guarantee they had stayed at Boldt Castle. They’d need to interview people in the village, too, friends and family close to Trey, as well as search the shoreline. I was counting on meeting up with them on the mainland. No such luck. At the station I was told Jeremy Solomon and Don Bogle, the other two investigators from my team, had handled the interviews in town, and that Tim and Mac were still on Heart Island.
I’d ridden a wave of adrenaline back to the Thousand Islands, but without access to a boat, let alone the ability to drive one, I now found myself at a standstill. I wasn’t supposed to be working, so I couldn’t press Sol or Bogle to put my presence to good use. In the three weeks since my suspension, I hadn’t felt as cowed by my ineffectiveness as I did standing in the station parking lot now.
There was only one way I could think of to release my nervous energy while I waited to hear back from Tim and Mac.
Making a U-turn in the station parking lot, I hit the highway once more.
* * *
* * *
I came to karate later in life, picking it up in my midtwenties because I thought it would prove useful for work. As it turns out, I rarely need to deliver a crescent kick to a criminal’s face. By the time I arrive at the scene, the bad guys are usually long gone—but martial arts makes me more self-assured, and when I’m confident in my body’s ability to react, I’m better able to focus my mind. There’s solace in karate’s rules and the precision of its movements. I find the lack of chaos soothing.
My private class with Sensei Sam was on Sundays, but he taught all week long, so I hoped to join as a walk-in. Really, I’d take any class I could get.
Back at the studio, I repeated the same routine of watching my back as I pushed through the door. The foyer was usually quiet, but this afternoon electronic dance music pumped through the speakers. No sooner had I walked in than four students filed out of the studio, bowing to their sensei and dropping to one knee to untie their belts. The teens were the after-school crowd, sporting smiles and a post-workout flush. Again I thought of Trey. These contented kids would get to go home to their parents, who’d steal a touch or swift embrace as they recounted the story of the poor boy’s disappearance and warn their own children to be vigilant.
Sam’s face brightened when he saw me. Today his gi was red, and the color suited him.
“Back so soon?” he said as his students collected their things. “You’re really serious about this, huh?”
“Missed it more than I realized. Look, I don’t have my gi or anything. I was just hoping to drop in. How’s my timing?”
“Not great.” He nodded at the kids. “This was my last class of the day.”
“Ah,” I said, trying to mask my disappointment. “That’s okay. I’m really just killing time.”
Sam laughed and said, “Ouch.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I’ll take any chance to see you that I can get.”
“Yeah?” Sam’s mouth twitched. “Tell you what, I’ll help you kill time another way. Can I buy you three or four cups of coffee?”
I looked at the splash of color on Sam’s high, apple-firm cheeks and the shine in his eyes and thought, oh. Strange, how the dynamic between two people can shift from innocent to complicated from one moment to the next. Had I done this? I replayed my last words in my mind and cursed myself. I’d never considered Sam in the context of a romantic relationship, not because I didn’t know if he was single, but because I didn’t see myself that way. My engagement was in the past, but only just. Was I even ready to consider dating again? With everything going on inside my head, my gut said bad idea.
The last of the teens pushed through the door just as a heavy man in a baseball hat entered.
“Hold that thought,” Sam said merrily as he left to attend to his customer. He was expecting me to say yes. As he walked to the counter to dig up a class schedule, I racked my brain for an exit strategy. I didn’t want to hurt Sam’s feelings. I really had come to like the guy, and I needed this class with every brain cell and shred of muscle tissue in my body.
“This is all on the website, too,” Sam said, “and if you want to leave your name and e-mail, I’ll get you on the mailing list.” The guy in the baseball cap got to scribbling, and Sam crossed the room to join me once more.
“So,” he said, “ever been to the Bean-In? They make a killer—”
“Thanks for the offer, but—”
“Oh.” Sam’s expression hardened. “Hey, it’s cool. No need to explain.”
“No, it’s just . . . I need to run some errands. A friend of mine turns fifty on Friday, and I have to find the perfect card.” That much was true. Mac was milking the milestone for all it was worth, and I planned to take her out to a no-holds-barred fish dinner, but the occasion seemed to warrant a funny Hallmark message about senior discounts or entering the prehistoric age, too. “Rain check?” I asked.
Sam searched my face for a second before saying, “Sure. Of course. I’ve got your number from sign-up. I’ll text you mine. FYI, Smuggler’s Cargo has some great cards, and I’ll be back here at 10:00 a.m. tomorrow if you’re game.”
“Thanks. Can’t promise I’ll make it,” I said, contrite, “but I’ll do my best.” At the counter the man set down his pen, mumbled a word of thanks, and left.
“He won’t be back,” Sam said.
“How do you know?”
�
��I sensei it.”
I groaned, but Sam knew he’d nailed the joke. We grinned at each other. He did have a great smile.
“Listen,” I said, growing serious. “The other day, when I . . . you know.”
“Clammed up? It happens, especially to people who’ve been through what you have.”
“You seem to know a lot about PTSD.”
Sam squared his shoulders. “My sister. It happened on a date.”
Oh, God. “I’m so sorry. Is she okay?”
“She wasn’t. She is now. Most of the time.”
“Most of the time,” I repeated, thinking of my sleepless nights on McIntyre’s sofa. “So that’s normal, then.”
“It’s a long road back from trauma like that.”
“Yeah.” I paused. “Here’s the thing. The way I responded in class? That can’t happen again.”
“I’ve seen what you can do, Shana, and you’re closer to your goal than you think. Keep coming in, and you’ll get there. That’s a promise.”
I believed him, not because of his teaching skills, but because of his sister. If I could trust anyone to train me the way I needed to be trained, it was Sam.
Back in my SUV, which had barely begun to cool, I checked my messages. Sam’s number popped up on my screen, but there was nothing from Tim and Mac. Not knowing what they were doing, what they’d learned, whether they’d found some evidence of what happened to Trey, was driving me insane.
There were a disproportionate number of souvenir and gift shops in A-Bay, but I took Sam’s advice and ten minutes later found myself at kitschy Smuggler’s Cargo, where a huge rusted anchor welcomed visitors at the door. The place was a labyrinth of tight aisles crammed with merchandise that ranged from stuffed animals and shot glasses to mugs and sweatshirts. Much of it boasted a pirate theme. In the mid-1800s, famed smuggler Bill Johnston pillaged supply ships and the occasional passenger steamer on the St. Lawrence River, and he’d become an iconic figure in the village. As I’d discovered upon my arrival in A-Bay, the pirate was commemorated annually with a ten-day summer festival of family fun—breeches, waistcoats, and all.
