“Why?”
“Because that’s what your grandfather did.”
Lucas didn’t argue with me. The two of us got on the bus. Ten years ago, I was sure Paul Nadler had done the same thing. He’d walked out of the retirement home and crossed the street just as the Martin’s Point bus was pulling up to the stop. He’d climbed the steps, probably said a polite hello as he paid the driver, and taken a seat. He was dressed impeccably in his blazer, checked shirt, tan slacks, and wing tips. No one looking at him would have given him a second thought or wondered if this old man wasn’t where he was supposed to be.
Lucas and I had no trouble finding a seat. In summer, the bus would have been crowded, but not in January. We made a handful of stops in other towns as we made a zigzag route south, leaving Stanton County behind and crossing into the lower half of Mittel County. I saw the city limits sign as we neared Martin’s Point. The road descends as you drive into town, and below us, I could see the huge swath of white marking the lake that was frozen from shore to shore. Lake homes dotted the breaks in the bare trees. We rumbled along the main street past shops and inns that were mostly shuttered for the winter. When the bus pulled to the curb, I said to Lucas, “This is our stop.”
“Is it?”
“Oh, yeah.”
We got out of the bus and let it pull away in front of us. When it did, we were immediately across the street from Bonnie Butterfield’s ice cream parlor. Unlike many of the other Martin’s Point shops, Bonnie kept her store open year-round, because people here eat ice cream no matter how cold it gets outside.
“I know this was a long time ago,” I said to Lucas, “but do you remember what kind of car your grandfather used to drive? Back when he would take you out to the resort on summer vacations?”
Lucas thought about it. “A white pickup, I think.”
I pointed down the block. “Like that one?”
He followed the direction of my finger, and his eyes widened in surprise, as if I were a magician performing a trick. I realized he was beginning to think I might not be crazy after all. “Yes, just like that one.”
Ten years later, Bonnie Butterfield still owned a white F-150, parked in the same place where she’d always kept it, half a block away from her shop. I wondered if she still left her keys inside. I imagined Paul Nadler getting off the bus from Stanton and seeing that truck. It was his truck, or at least that was what his mind told him. Mr. Nadler got in that white F-150 and headed off for the Mittel Pines Resort, where he’d spent some of his happiest days with his grandson.
But you know, every dirt road looks like every other one around here, and it’s easy for an old man to get confused. I was pretty sure Mr. Nadler had made a wrong turn on his way to Witch Tree and wound up on the dead-end road that leads into the national forest.
That was where he met Jeremiah.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Dad was right about the snow coming. As I made the long drive back to Everywhere late that afternoon, it began to fall, like sand tapping across my windshield. Soon a thin white layer covered the highway, and my tires kicked up a cloud that I could see behind me in the mirror. I drove carefully to avoid slipping off the road.
Darkness was already setting in as I arrived in town. Everywhere looked like a fairy land, covered in swirling snow and lit up with the Christmas lights that we kept on through most of the winter. I parked outside the Carnegie Library. Across the street, I could see the early bird crowd at the Nowhere Café. The evening special was Swedish meatballs, and the lingonberry sauce was famous. I could see several members of the FBI team filling the booths, but not Agent Reed. He was waiting for me in the sheriff’s office.
I climbed the concrete steps that fronted the century-old library building and let myself inside through the massive oak doors between two Corinthian columns. The stairs to the basement were on my left. I was about to head down to the sheriff’s office when I heard a voice call to me from the darkness of the library.
“Shelby, over here.”
It was Agent Reed. The library was closed, but he was wandering among the shelves and lighting up the spines of the books with his phone. I do that sometimes at night, too, if I’m working late. There’s something about being alone with all those books that makes you think the characters will come to life.
Reed had a book in his hand, which he returned to the shelf. “You know, I’ve never asked you, Shelby. Why is the sheriff’s office in the basement? It seems like a strange location even for Mittel County.”
I smiled. “Oh, it was a temporary fix that became permanent. We used to have our own building, but it burned down about fifteen years ago. We moved in underneath the library while the county board debated what to do about a different space. Eventually, my father told them we’d just stay where we were. He always thought we should be out on the roads anyway, not stuck in an office.”
“Smart man. What started the fire?”
“An overnight deputy was smoking.”
“Ah. Not Sheriff Twilley, I hope. I can tell he likes his cigars.”
“Fortunately not.”
The two of us made our way to the front of the library where chambered windows overlooked the street. We sat down in overstuffed chairs that had been here my whole life. The air inside had grown cold. You could hear a pin drop in the quiet, and when we talked, our voices had a faint echo on the stone floors.
I explained to him my theory of what had happened between Paul Nadler and Jeremiah. I expected him to dismiss it out of hand as impossible. He didn’t.
“I remember the old man,” he replied when I was done. “I couldn’t have told you his name was Paul Nadler, but I remember the body by the river. He had a peaceful look about him.”
“Yes, he did.”
“And you’re convinced that Jeremiah went off with this man?”
“I am. I can’t make all the details fit yet, but I believe that’s what happened.”
Reed knitted his hands on top of his bald head. “Yesterday, I said the boy seemed to be having fun out at the resort, not that he was some kind of prisoner. That’s consistent with your theory.”
“It is.”
“Did you check with the police in Stanton about Nadler’s background?”
“I did. He had no criminal record. Nadler’s grandson, Lucas, says his grandfather was never abusive. There’s no reason to think he planned to harm Jeremiah. Frankly, I don’t think this was a kidnapping at all. I think it was completely innocent.”
“Did you get a DNA sample from the grandson?”
“I did. I told him we’d need to run familial comparison on any DNA samples found at the resort.”
“And what do you know about the grandson?”
“He’s a local veterinarian. Solid guy.”
“Are you sure?”
I felt an urge to defend Lucas. “Yes, I’m sure.”
“His grandfather was missing, and the two of them had history at that resort. It’s at least possible that he went out there looking for him, Shelby. I can tell you like him, but we have to cover all the bases.”
“I know we do. And I already checked. Lucas was with a friend of mine, Jeannie Samper, most of that Friday and Saturday. They were searching for his grandfather. Plus, I saw him myself late Saturday night at the raptor center in Stanton. He wasn’t involved.”
“Well, that leaves us with several mysteries,” Reed said.
“I know. If this was an innocent accident, I can’t understand why we never found Jeremiah. This case should have had a happy ending.”
“Unfortunately, the fact that it started out as innocent doesn’t mean it ended up that way. It’s possible that the wrong kind of person found them and took advantage of the situation. After all, we know that a third party got involved at some point. This wasn’t just Paul Nadler and Jeremiah Sloan. Someone else wound up in the middle of it.”