“At night?” Tracy whispered, incredulously. And Barbara laughed.
“Do you know how many times I’ve climbed that hill?” she said. “I could do it in my sleep.”
“But how long does it take you to get there? And how do you see?” said Tracy.
“Half an hour. I run it. And I bring this.” Barbara glanced around. Then she plunged a hand between the top of her mattress and the bed frame. She produced a flashlight—her own, apparently, separate from the one they were to use on bathroom visits overnight.
• • •
Tracy’s theory, today, is that Barbara perhaps fell asleep there; and she wants to rule out this possibility. She believes she can climb up and down Hunt Mountain in an hour and a half. She’ll be back in time for her morning activity—hopefully with news of Barbara, or maybe even with Barbara herself. She’ll get in trouble, she knows, but she doesn’t care. Barbara is the only reason she likes camp, anyway.
From behind the Staff Quarters she sets off, with purpose, toward the closest woods: the thicker forest that stands between Camp Emerson and Route 29, hoping to remain unseen on her way.
No such luck: within twenty seconds she spies Lee Towson, one of the cooks. Very handsome. Said to be friends with Louise.
He’s carrying two bags of garbage, and as he walks he rocks his feet from heel to toe so carefully that he makes no noise at all. Tracy jumps, startled, when she sees him, and the movement draws his eye.
For a moment, they stand and stare at one another. Then Tracy holds up one finger to her lips, a pleading expression on her face, and Lee nods and continues on his way.
• • •
August in the Adirondacks does not feel like August to Tracy. On Long Island, she imagines, it’s swelteringly hot. Here, in the woods, it’s pleasant. It feels impossible to become thirsty: the air itself feels full of cool water, velvety on the skin. Tracy walks, invigorated, careful to stay just inside the tree line. She tries to keep the buildings of Camp Emerson visible to her right.
Five minutes go by in this way, and then she stops short. There ahead of her is the driveway that stretches from Route 29 to Self-Reliance. She’ll have to cross it to continue, but she can’t: a slow line of police cars is moving past her. She stands in the dim forest, waiting.
Four cars drive by, then five.
Tentatively, she peers out from behind a tree until it’s safe to cross the road. Then she enters the woods to the north.
• • •
Now, there is no edge to follow.
On her right, a long tract of forest stretches toward Self-Reliance; on her left, another one stretches toward Route 29. She can see the peak of Hunt Mountain through the top of some nearby trees. If she walks in a straight line, she’ll reach it in ten minutes.
Time passes. The ground descends into a little valley, and she loses sight of the mountain; but she tells herself that if she keeps the sun on her right, she’ll be fine. The problem is that it’s becoming difficult to tell. The woods themselves are becoming thicker, closing in. The undergrowth, sparse near the driveway, has become nearly impassable in places. Already, she has cuts on her shins and calves.
Up ahead, Tracy can see that the land will rise again, and this reassures her: it makes sense to her that there would be an incline on the approach to Hunt Mountain. Soon, surely, she’ll catch sight of the peak again.
She doesn’t even have a watch. Later, she will understand how foolish she was, how clearly disrespectful of those woods—to think she could enter them so cavalierly, without a watch or compass, without long pants or even water, disregarding every single thing that T.J. Hewitt has painstakingly taught them over the course of the summer so far. But at nearly thirteen, Tracy swings wildly between self-abasement and overconfidence. There is no middle ground.
Tracy begins counting in her head to determine how much time has passed. One-Mississippi, et cetera, until at least ten minutes have gone by with no sight of Hunt Mountain, and no sight of the sun.
Only then does Tracy let herself acknowledge what she’s done. The great mistake she’s made.
She sits down—too late now. She’s covered too much ground. Truly, she’s been lost for half a mile.
She sits down regardless, hearing in her mind the voice of that counselor, the greeter, the first person who ever spoke to her on this land.
She yells.
Judyta
1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975: Day One
Judyta Luptack, born and raised in Schenectady, was for many years never the first at anything. In her own family, she was third, behind two brothers, ahead of another. Academically, she was generally in the middle of the pack. When, in gym class, she was asked to run a race, she was usually toward the front. But she never won.
Therefore, when the Times Union published that article, she was met with an unfamiliar feeling. Was it pride? Not exactly. More like surprise.
“Nation’s First Class of Female State Troopers Graduates at Albany,” read the headline. And there below was a picture of the four of them: Cindy and Linda and Niecy and her—Judyta Luptack, 21, said the caption.
Her father turned to her mother. “Well, if one of them had to make the papers,” he said, “I’m glad it was for this.” And that was all that anyone said about it after that, except her brother Leonard, who began referring to her as The Nation’s First, instead of by her given name.
• • •
Five years has passed since that time, and Judy—now twenty-six—has done well. Each year, she has exceeded the benchmarks set for her. She makes good clear reports; good arrests. She is a go-getter, not a slug. (According to her former sergeant, all troopers fall into one of these two categories.) And last year, after some particularly impressive work, she was recommended for promotion to the New York State Bureau of Criminal Investigation, making her the first female investigator in the state.
• • •
Now The Nation’s First, having recently completed her requisite months of training with the BCI, rides alongside a senior investigator on the New York State Thruway. His name is Denny Hayes, and he seems—without ever directly mentioning it—to have appointed himself Judy’s mentor. As such, he has accompanied her each workday for the past two weeks. It does not escape her that she’s not the only new investigator in the BCI. But all the others are, of course, men.
In the passenger’s seat, Judy crosses and then uncrosses her legs, uncertain which better demonstrates a completely asexual nature. (She is not, in fact, asexual; but she understands that to be thought of as such would be convenient in her line of work.) At least, in plain clothes, she can wear pants now.
Next to her, Denny Hayes is whistling. He whistles a great deal. She recognizes his type: early forties, a father, a former athlete, someone well-liked in high school.
“The Van Laar Preserve,” says Denny, in between whistled tunes. “This’ll be interesting.”
This morning, they were on their way to conduct interviews relating to a larceny case in Long Lake when a call came over the radio: a missing thirteen-year-old girl at a remote compound in the mountains near the small town of Shattuck. Their car was the closest to Shattuck, so they’ll be the first BCI investigators to respond.
