“Sure,” says Louise. “Except I’m under arrest for something I didn’t do. That’s the only thing wrong with me.”

Denny’s expression hardens.

“Come on,” he says, and walks her into one of two back rooms, and places her at a table there, and puts the coffee down roughly. A little splashes out, scalds her hand. He tells her that a different investigator will be by to speak with her shortly. He has to return to the Preserve.

Then he closes and locks the door between them.

Alice

1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975: Day One

Alice sits up very straight, listening for that sound again. It was a girl’s voice, crying out. She couldn’t make out the words, but the tone of the voice made it clear that the girl was distressed.

It wasn’t Barbara. She’d recognize both of her children’s voices anywhere.

She makes no move. Closes her eyes, which sometimes helps her hear things better. She sits in her Adirondack chair, listening for the voice again.

“Alice.”

She’s been expecting the young ranger who’s been assigned to watch over her. But it isn’t the ranger who stands before her. It’s her husband, regarding her with something like disgust.

“Why do you look like that?”

“I heard a girl crying out,” says Alice. “I was listening.”

Peter looks at her, skeptical. “Barbara?”

“No. Not Barbara.”

“They did find another girl,” Peter concedes. “Barbara’s cabinmate. Apparently, she went looking for Barbara.”

Alice nods. Satisfied.

“Has anyone asked to interview you since the last time we spoke?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Unsteadily, Alice stands up from the chair. The depth of its seat makes her rock several times before she rises. Peter makes no move to help her. Watches her impassively instead.

“Captain LaRochelle is on his way from Albany,” he says. “Father personally requested him. We’ll be communicating only with him when he arrives.”

“Will he want to speak with me?” says Alice.

“No,” says Peter. “You’re too upset.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re too upset. You’ve taken to your bed again.”

She says nothing. She wishes for a pill.

“Go on,” he says. “I’ll help you up to the house.

Two pills. Dr. Lewis’s words echo in her ears, as always: on very bad days.

What is today, if not one of those?

She’ll take two, she thinks, when she reaches Self-Reliance.

IV

Visitors

Carl

1950s | 1961 | Winter 1973 | June 1975 | July 1975 | August 1975

When Carl Stoddard regained consciousness, he was laid out flat in the back of Dick Shattuck’s pickup truck, looking up at the sky. Beneath him, the truck bed was rumbling; above him, the world was racing. Overhanging tree branches blurred into a steady green. He blinked slowly, trying to imagine how it was that he had gotten to be here. Then he heard Maryanne’s voice.

“Thank God,” she was saying. “Thank God.”

She peered over him, her face upside-down, her head swaying each time there was a bump in the road.

•   •   •

Dr. Treadwell, pressing a gentle stethoscope to his bare chest, said it was an arrhythmia. His was a regional clinic, not equipped for much more than first-aid care and the occasional delivery of a baby whose mother couldn’t make it to Glens Falls. Dr. Treadwell, eighty now, knew his limitations, and they precluded a more formal diagnosis than that.

“You’ll have to go to the hospital, I’m afraid,” he said.

Carl glanced at Maryanne. Both of them, he knew, were thinking the same thing: the emergency room was a much more expensive proposition than a local doctor. They were still working to pay off the mountain of bills that resulted from Scotty’s care.

“Is it really an emergency?” said Carl. “Couldn’t I—couldn’t I call and make an appointment with someone? I’m not in any pain.”

He was, in fact, in a bit of pain—though only when he exerted himself.

“Carl,” said Maryanne.

Dr. Treadwell cleared his throat. He sat down. “Professionally, I can’t recommend you wait,” he said. “But if you were to, I would move as little as possible, rest in bed, drink plenty of water. I’d avoid cigarettes, coffee, and . . .” He looked at Maryanne. “Any activity at all that elevates the heart rate.”

•   •   •

At home, Maryanne walked him up the stairs to their bedroom. Turned on a light. Kept one hand on his back as he maneuvered into bed, still aware of some dull pain in his chest.

When he was settled, she sat down on the edge of the mattress. As always, he had the feeling she was reading his mind.

“It’s all right,” she said. “Carl Stoddard’s presence on those grounds won’t mean the difference between finding the boy and leaving him unfound.”