“You know,” said Walter, “he asked Barbara to the dance. But she said no.”
Tracy sat very still, letting his words settle over her. She had known ever since the Survival Trip that Lowell wasn’t interested in her, whatever she might have thought before. It was Barbara whom he loved. Still, hearing it knocked the breath out of her all over again.
“He was torn up about it,” Walter continued. “When she said no, I mean. People like Lowell aren’t used to being rejected.”
He wasn’t trying to be cruel; Tracy was certain of this. Most likely, he assumed that Barbara would have told Tracy already. They were, after all, a pair at Camp Emerson. Just like Walter and Lowell were.
The silence between them persisted awhile, until Tracy heard Walter sniff loudly, once. He was crying, she realized.
“He’s amazing,” said Walter. “Isn’t he.”
Louise
1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975
She saw everything. She sat on the edge of the stage that overlooked the community room, watching her campers in all of their triumphs and failures, the ones having genuine fun, the ones pretending to have it.
If she believed in a God, it was in one who functioned something like Louise in this moment: rooting for her charges from afar, mourning alongside them when they were rejected, celebrating every small victory that came their way. She noticed the lonely ones, the ones at the edge of the crowd; she felt in her heart a sort of wild affection for them, wanted to go to them, to stand next to them and pull them tightly to her side; and yet she also knew that to intervene in this way would disrupt something sacred that—at twelve and thirteen and fourteen years old—they were learning about themselves and the world. And this, too, was how she thought of God.
• • •
At a certain point she began to play a game in her mind, counting each one of her charges, picking a name and scanning the crowd until she found the person in question. With every name she chose she was successful, until she got to Annabel.
She couldn’t find her counselor-in-training anyplace in the room.
In retrospect, this would make a different kind of sense to her; just then she chalked it up to her suspicion, that session, that Annabel had met a boy.
Earlier, she had noticed that Annabel was getting ready with particular care. In theory, the dance was for the campers, but in prior years Louise had often seen counselors and CITs pairing off there, too. Going out into the dark woods for a few minutes, or an hour. Coming back flushed.
This, she suspected, was where Annabel Southworth had gone. And from her place on the stage she smiled, happy that Annabel, too, had found love, or at least infatuation, at Camp Emerson.
Judyta
1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975: Day Three
Who’s everyone?” asks Denny Hayes.
It’s noon already, and this is the first time she’s seeing him. He’s half in and half out of his car when she launches into her updates, the new theories she’s formed since this morning.
“The whole town,” says Judy, now. “Every person in Shattuck thinks the wrong man was blamed when Bear disappeared. And that the Van Laars were too quick to accept it.”
Hayes tilts his head in the direction of the Command Post in the Director’s Cabin.
“Come on,” he says. “I need coffee.”
Together, they walk. He glances at her.
“Judy, were you wearing the same outfit yesterday?”
She flushes. “Don’t remember,” she says.
It’s still raining, on and off, and her hair and clothing have gotten soaked and partially dried several times over. She must look like a drowned rat, she thinks.
“Judy,” says Hayes. “Where exactly did you hear this about Bear Van Laar?”
She tells him what happened last night, and early this morning.
He raises an eyebrow. They’ve reached the Director’s Cabin now, and he holds the door open for her. Judy goes inside first. Reflects for a moment on the time-capsule decorations, the World War II–era kitchen appliances, all of which clearly predate the director herself. Judy has seen her only a few times, wandering about the grounds. Each time, she’s looked beside herself with anguish. More distraught, thinks Judy, than the Van Laar parents themselves.
Hayes pours himself a mug of coffee. Holds one out to her, as well.
She takes it. She’s never been much of a coffee drinker—it’s something she associates with older people, with her own father—but since being on the Van Laar Preserve, she’s begun appreciating its bitterness and warmth, which now cuts through the wetness of her hair and clothing.
She sips. Grimaces. Sips again.
“So who does the town of Shattuck think is to blame?” says Hayes. “If Carl Stoddard was innocent.”
“Well, according to Mr. Alcott, there are two prevailing theories.”
“I’m all ears.”
“The first,” says Judy, “is that Jacob Sluiter did it.”
He looks at her. “Weren’t you the one asking me about Sluiter yesterday?”
“Well, yes,” says Judy. “But—it makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“Good old Slitter,” Hayes says. “The bogeyman of the North Woods. I’ve heard him blamed for every death—accidental or intentional—from here to Rochester.”
