The land had a secret, though, that even the Van Laars seemed not to know about.
On Lake Joan’s opposite shore—deemed impassable by most due to its steepness and rockiness, by the density of its trees—was a series of natural caverns. The Sluiters had discovered them the first time the land had been logged, and the knowledge had been passed down through the generations; it was a place that Sluiter’s grandfather still took him to, a marvel one had to see to believe.
According to Sluiter, during his time on the run from the authorities in 1961, he sought refuge in these caverns for the length of that summer, when the homes he relied on in winter were occupied by their owners.
It was a perfect spot: approachable only by water, hidden by thick trees, sheltered from the rain. He swam back and forth across the lake to reach his makeshift shelter; he fished and trapped and scavenged for food.
One afternoon, said Sluiter, he woke in his cavern to the sound of what he recognized as human footsteps.
At first he feared capture. The police, he knew, were on his trail. But to his ears, it sounded as if only one man was approaching. And so, curious, he moved to the front of his cave, keeping close to the shadows to avoid being seen.
Eventually, a man came into view. He was carrying something that Sluiter couldn’t see, at first.
Eventually, it became clear: it was a child. A boy. Lifeless in the man’s arms.
The man knelt to the ground. Weeping, he laid the child before him, and began to dig.
Sluiter, silent, ten feet above them in his cavern, watched it all.
• • •
Judy stops. For a moment, the room is quiet, until someone asks the question she knows will be next.
“What did the man look like?” someone asks, finally, and all the heads in the room swivel in the direction of Goldman, the oldest investigator, who has called out from the back.
“Most of the description Sluiter gave was generic,” says Judy. “Tall, brown hair, middle-aged.”
She pauses. Considers her next words carefully. “But he did say that the man looked like a local, as opposed to someone in the family.”
Someone in the back speaks up. “What’d he mean by that? Something the man was wearing?”
“He didn’t explain,” says Judy.
Another hand goes up. “Why didn’t Sluiter tell anyone? After he was apprehended the first time?”
“He thought no one would believe him,” says Judy. “That he wasn’t the one who killed the boy in the first place. Later, when he heard about Bear’s disappearance in the news, he put two and two together, figured out who the boy was. But he had no incentive to talk.”
A pause.
“Well, do we?” asks Hayes. “Believe him?”
Judy does. But she won’t say it aloud—not yet.
“Why did he tell us now?” someone asks.
Hayes turns his gaze to Judy. “Investigator Luptack,” he says. “Any thoughts?”
Judy clears her throat. Is she actually expected to answer?
“Go ahead,” says Hayes.
“Well,” says Judy. “He said he trusted me.”
Someone in the room snorts. Someone coughs.
“All right, all right,” Hayes says. “The whole story sounds implausible. Correct. But there’s one thing to acknowledge: the boy would be an outlier for Jacob Sluiter. He’s different from any of Sluiter’s other known victims. He’s a sex predator, but his targets are women. Grown women. Young boys have never been his interest, that we know of. So let’s work this theory for a little bit. Say Sluiter didn’t kill Bear Van Laar. Say he’s telling the truth. Then who did? How did his body end up buried where it’s buried?”
LaRochelle, in the back, says: “Why not Carl Stoddard? He was a local. If what Sluiter’s saying is true, he’d fit the profile.”
Hayes pauses, diplomatic. “Maybe. Yes,” he says. “But I think it’s worth looking into other ideas, at this point, sir.”
“Such as?” says LaRochelle. Testy.
For a moment, everyone is silent.
Then Hayes says: “Has the family been notified, sir? Of Bear’s discovery?”
LaRochelle looks away. “They have.”
“May I ask how they reacted?”
LaRochelle frowns. “I spoke only to Bear’s father. He received the news—stoically, I would say. He’s gone back to Albany for the present, to relay the information to his wife in person.”
He looks distracted. Then abruptly, he straightens.
“Excuse me,” he says, and walks out of the cabin, tapping a pack of cigarettes into his palm as he goes.
Hayes catches Judy’s eye.
