“This hotel.”
“Motel.”
“This motel. It’s run by a very nice family. The Alcotts. The husband is a history teacher. The wife reads books.”
Her father is looking at her.
“I’m going to stay here tonight,” says Judy. “Because I have to be at work very early in the morning. And I’m tired.”
“Judy,” says her father. “Get in the car.”
“I’m going to keep staying here as long as I work this case,” says Judy. “After that, I’m going to find an apartment closer to BCI headquarters in Ray Brook. I can afford it, because I got a raise.”
“Judy.”
“When I was promoted,” she adds, for emphasis.
Slowly, her father closes the passenger door. For an instant, she feels almost bad for him. She pictures him on the drive home, alone, his face a mask of sadness and anger. This will be the first time in her life that she’s gone directly against his wishes.
“Your mother’s been crying,” says her father. “Because of you, she’s been crying.”
“I’m twenty-six years old,” says Judy. “I’m a woman now, Dad. I can take care of myself.”
He says nothing. He gets into his car—his ancient car, a Fairlane Skyliner from the late 1950s that Judy still remembers him buying and proudly bringing home—and pulls backward into the night, one thick arm thrown over the passenger’s seat, where her mother would normally be.
Then Judy is alone.
Judyta
1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975: Day Four
In her room at the Alcott Family Inn, Judy turns the boxy television on as she gets ready. The anchor is telling her about the weather: sunnier today, cool for August. She likes this new routine: waking up alone, at a reasonable hour, with no brother shouting at her from the other room.
She turns on the shower as hot as she can take it. Stands in it for far longer than her mother would allow.
• • •
At last, reluctantly, she steps out. Turns off the water in time to hear the news anchor say, in the other room: in custody at this time.
Towel clutched to her front, she runs quickly into the bedroom, where she sees an image of Jacob Sluiter on the screen.
From there, the newscast cuts to an interview with the superintendent of the New York State Police, who confirms, from state police headquarters in Albany, that Sluiter was captured at a private home near North Creek.
• • •
At work, Denny Hayes has been tasked with leading the morning briefing; LaRochelle, he says, is up at the house, speaking again with Barbara’s father.
“Well, if you haven’t heard already,” says Hayes, “you’re about to.”
After filling everyone in on the events of last night—a distant neighbor who spied Sluiter as he walked past his home; a police stakeout while Sluiter slept—he makes a few things clear: the first is that Sluiter is in custody, is uninjured, and is in good health.
The second is that he seems willing to talk.
The third is that—yes—there is one possible timeline that would have enabled him to reach the Van Laar Preserve four days ago, just in time to capture Barbara Van Laar, and then double back to North Creek, heading south. But that seems unlikely; and they have no evidence of it, yet.
The last is that it’s up to Hayes to decide who’ll get the first crack at interviewing him.
For a moment, Judy thinks Hayes is going to call on her. He even looks right at her—but then he looks away.
“Goldman,” he says. “Did you have contact with him when you worked the Bear Van Laar case?”
Goldman shakes his head. No.
“Would you be up for it now?” says Hayes.
This makes sense. Judy tries not to let herself feel disappointed. Goldman is steady, fatherly, unthreatening. A good detective, everyone says; the rumor about him is that he’s never accepted the promotions he’s been offered because he likes the legwork that an investigator undertakes.
Judy holds her breath. Wonders if Goldman will say no.
“Yes,” says Goldman.
Hayes nods. Then, one by one, he assigns the rest of them their work for the day—including Judy, who’s given the names of some parents to track down.
Then he dismisses everyone, sending them out of the cabin.
Judy stalls. Waits until everyone else has gone before approaching Hayes.
“I called your house last night,” she says. “I left a message with your wife.”
