The Last to Vanish(70)

CHAPTER 18


THERE WERE THINGS YOU knew if you lived here. The types of things that had always made me feel like an insider, even if others didn’t quite see it that way: A weekly poker game was held in CJ’s Hideaway after closing on Wednesdays; you could borrow gear from the Edge without paying if you were a local and Jack Olivier was behind the counter, as long as you returned it in the same condition you found it; and the spare key to the Last Stop was kept in a lockbox tucked behind the light over the back door.

Cory had used it when he took me there off-hours, just the two of us, when he’d make me a drink and call it a date. He never told me the code, but he never made an attempt to hide it from me, either, and so I knew it was his parents’ anniversary: 0823.

There was only one piece of real evidence about the Fraternity Four, if you could even call it that—and it was in that tavern, nailed into the wall behind the bar. It had hung there, in plain sight, ever since the establishment changed its name to the Last Stop Tavern. The image had been replicated, digital copies sent to newspapers and websites, but there was only one original, and we had claim to it.

I stood on the other side of the block, in front of the abandoned entrance of the real estate office, where aerial views of available plots were taped to the glass from the inside. And then I slipped between storefronts, into the alley with the entrance to CJ’s Hideaway. A menu hung from the window, where the inside matched the alley itself—dim, like a cave, walls of wine bottles surrounded by dark brick and heavy wood.

The restaurant was closed at this hour, and the rest of the alley was deserted. Down at the other end was the back entrance to the Last Stop, and I headed that way.

I checked up and down the alley before standing on my toes to reach the box, wedged behind the back light fixture. The lock mechanism was slightly rusty, the numbers worn down, black showing under the silver etching. It looked like it hadn’t been used in a long time. But when I shook it, I heard the sound of metal on metal. I slid the code into place, and the lock flipped open, a single gold key the only thing inside.

The back entrance to the tavern was at the end of the dark and narrow hall with the restrooms. Beyond that, the space opened up to the bar and large dining area with the glass windows beyond, facing the street. I locked up behind me, listening for signs of anyone inside: the hum of the machinery in the kitchen on the other side of the wall to my right; the rattle as the air-conditioning pushed through a vent overhead. Nothing else.

I walked to the end of the hall, where the rest of the tavern remained well lit, even without the overhead lights, from the wall of glass windows lining the street. The sidewalk out front appeared deserted for the time being.

Even from across the room, the framed picture stood out. It had been secured behind a plastic covering, inside a wooden frame that had been screwed into the paneled wall just below the upper bar shelves. It wasn’t a large shot—maybe a five by seven—and there were four people in the frame, so it didn’t show a lot of details. I’d seen it myself, before I’d arrived—on the news programs after Alice Kelly had gone missing. But standing in front of it, the details came to life; the colors appeared more vivid, the people alive. I understood why people stopped to see it in person. Like Celeste said, there was no match for reality.

What this photo provided was a feeling. These four young men had been happy and carefree, and this was the last image of them. Brian, on the far right, was caught midlaugh with his eyes closed, no idea of what was coming for them. The two in the center: Toby and Jerome, were looking over at Brian, instead of the photographer, with expressions of bemusement. Only Neil was facing the camera head-on. It seemed like he was reaching out toward the camera—I could imagine an arm just below the frame, stretching forward—and his mouth was frozen partly open, like he was starting to say something.

Here, they could always be twenty-four and twenty-five. Immortalized. Here, they could still be anywhere, and you could imagine their entire lives stretched out before them.

If they had lived, they would be fifty, or turning fifty. They would be celebrating with family, or maybe with one another still. Sitting in front of them, it was so easy to imagine.

There wasn’t a lot of clarity in the picture, partly because of the size, and partly because of the smudging of fingerprints across the plastic layer over top, from visitors coming to pay their respects, sneaking behind the bar, offering up a toast.

Now I dragged a stool around to the other side of the bar, legs screeching against the treated concrete flooring, and climbed up. I used the bottom of my shirt to wipe off the prints as best I could—the closest I had ever been to them.

I could feel them, too. It was as if they were just here, had just been planning their trip. As if I would be able to turn around and see them at a table, watch the good-natured pats on each other’s backs, hear the gentle ribbing, the order of one more round before heading out.

Brian had that hat on, with the symbol of his old fraternity. Toby wore one, too, but it was on backward, his blond hair escaping out the sides, a breeze I could almost feel. Jerome’s muscled arm was slung around Toby’s shoulder, the green of his shirt blending perfectly into the background. Neil had sunglasses on, contoured to his head, the type used more for skiing, with reflective lenses, tinted slightly blue.

I leaned closer. A fifth person, that’s what Landon had believed. He’d been asking around about who took that picture, and now I couldn’t get that question out of my head.