“Good thing you didn’t tell him that,” David said.
“Well,” Ron Jones said slowly, “that’s where I might have let the cat out of the bag. Just a bit.”
So it was possible Brandon had figured out his ex-wife and son had packed their sleeping bags and planned to live in a tent until his recapture. But even if Brandon had put that much together, he wouldn’t have any idea which campsite they might go to.
But David did.
What was it Sam had said to him? She’d been talking about how, once their relationship had progressed to the point where they didn’t care if the boys knew they were sleeping together (which, let’s face it, they had probably already figured out), it would be fun to take them on a camping trip.
Sam had said that she and Carl had gone camping a couple of times since moving to Promise Falls. It was something she’d done back when she was married to Brandon, and she’d enjoyed it more than he had. Carl loved everything about it. Exploring the woods, cooking over a fire, burning the marshmallows until they were black ash.
“There’s a nice place up around Lake Luzerne,” she’d told him.
David said to Theresa and Ron Jones, “Thanks very much for your help. I appreciate it more than you can know.”
When he got back into his car, he got out his phone and opened a Web browser. He couldn’t remember the name of the campsite Sam had mentioned. But he thought if he could find a list of places in the Lake Luzerne area, he’d recognize it when he saw it.
It didn’t take long.
Camp Sunrise.
He was sure that was the place.
David considered driving up there now. But it would be dark by the time he got to Lake Luzerne, and he didn’t know where, exactly, Camp Sunrise was. Traipsing around the campsite late at night, surprising Sam and Carl in their tent when they were probably worried about Brandon finding them-assuming they were actually at Camp Sunrise-might not end well.
David could very well end up with a shotgun in his face once again. This time, it might go off.
First thing in the morning. That was what he’d do. He’d head up first thing in the morning.
THIRTY-NINE
Duckworth
I stayed for a while with Randall Finley.
First, I went back into the house and took a more formal statement from Lindsay. She related the events of the day a second time, and her story held together. I don’t know why I felt the need to apologize on Randy’s behalf, but I told her he’d been upset, and he understood she had not set out to murder Jane. I suppose I did it for her more than him. Still, Lindsay remained distraught, and I wasn’t convinced she could drive herself home safely. She called her twenty-year-old son, who took a taxi over, then drove his mother back to her place in her car.
I asked Randy, who had dropped himself into a wrought-iron chair outside near the front door, if he wanted me to do anything with Bipsie. He shook his head sorrowfully and asked if I could put her into a garbage bag until he decided what to do with her. He muttered something about burying her in the backyard next to Jane, given how much she loved that dog.
Gently, I told him town bylaws prevented him from burying Jane on the property.
“I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore.”
I said I would bag the dog’s body and leave it in the garage out back, but Randy asked me to leave her in the downstairs laundry room for now.
And that was what I did.
I explained that it might be some time before anyone could come and deal with Jane.
“Maybe I’ll go up and sit with her,” he said. I wasn’t sure he appreciated how unpleasant it was in that room. He added, “I could start getting Jane ready. You know, get her cleaned up and all.”
With as many euphemisms as I could muster, I cautioned him against meddling with his wife’s body.
“I understand,” he said, and went back into the house.
I wanted to give the place another walk-through before I left.
Through the kitchen, the basement, out back. As I was getting ready to leave, I could hear a voice on the second floor.
As I ascended the stairs, I could hear Randall Finley talking softly and continuously, not pausing to formulate thoughts. At the top of the stairs I could just see into Jane’s bedroom.
Randy was in a chair by the bed, an open book on his lap, seemingly oblivious to the stench that enveloped him.
He was reading to his wife.
I’d planned to pay a visit to Victor Rooney on my way home. I’d only spoken to him once, several days ago, and I wanted to pick his brain some more about Olivia Fisher, the woman he’d been going to marry.
But there was more to my visit than just that. It was what Walden had said, about how angry Victor was. With himself, and those twenty-two Promise Falls citizens who might have responded to Olivia’s cries, but did nothing.
Those twenty-two, and himself. Twenty-three people who, had they behaved with a greater sense of community, might have made the difference between life and death for Olivia. Maybe none of those twenty-two people could have saved Olivia’s life. By the time she was screaming, she was probably as good as dead.
But if they had acted, if they had done anything when they heard what was happening in the park by the falls, they might have seen her killer. They might have been able to provide a description. They might have seen his car, recalled part, or all, of a license plate.
If they had done any of those things, the police might have caught him.
And Rosemary Gaynor would be alive.
And Lorraine Plummer would be alive.
Just how angry was Victor Rooney about this town’s failure to measure up? Angry enough to get even somehow?
Angry enough to start sending out messages? Like twenty-three dead squirrels strung up on a fence? Three bloody mannequins in car “23” of a decommissioned Ferris wheel? A fiery, out-of-control bus with “23” on the back? And then there was Mason Helt and his hoodie with that same number on it, and what he had supposedly told the women he’d assaulted. That he didn’t mean to harm them, just to put a scare into them. That it was a kind of gig.
And finally, there was today’s date. May 23. A day Promise Falls would never forget. In a year or two or even less, someone would suggest a memorial in the town square with the names of everyone who had died this day.
So, the plan had been to see Victor Rooney.
But by the time I was done at the Finley house, I was exhausted. I was weak, I had a headache, and my feet were killing me. I needed a recharging before I asked anyone else a single question.
I pointed the car home.
There were familiar voices as soon as I stepped into the house. But I already knew Trevor was there by the Finley Springs truck parked in the driveway. I found him and Maureen at the kitchen table.
The smell of something wonderful was in the air. Something from the oven. If I was not mistaken, it was lasagna.
They pushed back their chairs in a chorus of squeaks and came to greet me. Maureen put her arms around me first. “I didn’t know when to expect you,” she said, “but I put something together just in case.”
I held her tightly in my arms. Behind her, Trevor stood, waiting. When Maureen released me, my son gave me a strong hug, several pats on the back.
“Hey, Dad,” he said, and there was this collective feeling that we were all just on the edge of losing it.
I think, at that moment, we were all glad to be alive. We were all okay, and we were together at a time when in so many other houses in Promise Falls, there was only grief and unbearable sorrow.
“I was never able to find Amanda Croydon for you,” Maureen said.
“She turned up,” I said. When I was driving home with the radio tuned to the news, I heard some snippets of a shouting match between her and Randall Finley where he’d been handing out free water.