The Leaving(62)

They glided over long grasses and through archways of mangroves. They made hairpin turns through channels, the boat spraying them with briny water here and there. It was giddy-making—the speed, the roar, the way the boat seemed to be defying some of the laws of psychics—and Lucas wished he were experiencing it as a tourist, not as himself.

Wooly cloud cover made for a chilly gray day. The girls had borrowed thick rain slickers that smelled of swamp. Lucas didn’t like the three of them in identical orange; it reminded him of how they’d all come back in the same clothes, like a uniform. Scarlett’s hair leaped fitfully in the wind and seemed to be darkening in color from the weight of mist.

A group of six white birds danced in front of the boat, and when they passed, Scarlett pointed at something and Lucas looked.

Another pink bird.

Like fake pink.

Pinker than flamingos.

Pinker than any pink he could recall.

He felt like he’d remember having been here, having been on a boat like this, having seen that shade of pink in flight.

He’d have framed it all in his viewfinder.

Photographed it.

His hands itched for his camera.

But it was in his bag, which had been stowed in the back row.

He’d been afraid to have it out, afraid it would get wet.

Or broken.

Now, regretted it.

Around a turn, the boat slid into a wider channel, and a dock appeared up ahead.

A house appeared next—like an old shack but big.

Then behind it a series of smaller structures—almost hut-like—connected by a series of rope bridges.

A sort of mini-village.

When the boat’s roar ceased and it pulled up to the dock, Chambers stood. He stepped out onto the dock, then turned to face them.

“Anything seem familiar?”

Heads shook.

“Well, let’s go look around,” Chambers said, holding out a hand to help Kristen off the boat. “We took the photos and personal effects away to bag them and tag them and dust for prints and run DNA, but you’ll be able to see those later.”

He led them to one of the structures, had to duck to go through the door. “This,” he said, “is where you slept.”

One room.

Five beds.

Not six.

Lucas walked down the center aisle.

He picked a bed, lay down on it.

The view out the window was nothing but sky.

What was Avery doing at that very moment?

Chambers said, “Anything?”

Lucas said, “No.”

“Anybody?” Chambers tried, almost sounding irritated.

“Sorry,” Adam said. “No.”

Sarah shook her head.

“Kristen?”

“Nothing.”

Everyone looked to Scarlett, who also shook her head.

“I don’t know what to say, guys,” Chambers said. “I was really hoping for some kind of epiphany for you all. I was hoping you’d get here and it would all flood back for you.”

“It’s just. It doesn’t make sense.” Lucas stood.

Chambers said, “It makes more sense than anything has in eleven years.” He turned to face them all. “This was the guy. This was the place. You were here.”

“Why only five?” Lucas asked. “Why wasn’t Max in any of the photos?”

“Maybe he was never here,” Chambers said. “Maybe his going missing was totally unrelated.”

Lucas didn’t like that idea.

Didn’t like what it meant for Avery and her family.

That they’d wasted eleven years on the wrong search, the wrong type of grieving and hope.

He didn’t want it to be true.

Didn’t want any of this to be happening.

He wanted to see the photos.

Maybe that was the whole point of it, the tattoo.

“There’s something you’re going to want to see.” Chambers ducked back out of the room. “Maybe it will convince you.”





AVERY



The tip line headquarters was in the capital building of Blandville.

Well, not really.

But yes, it was the kind of building you’d never notice if you hadn’t had reason to go there. In the kind of stretch of useless buildings that, if you were lucky, you’d never have any occasion to visit in your whole life.

Blandville Dry Cleaners.

Blandville Pizza.

Blandville Tax Accountant.

Blandville Florist.

Blandville Wines and Liquors.

The Blandville Tip Line’s storefront might have been a bank once, or insurance office, or campaign headquarters for the Blandville mayor. It looked temporary, malleable. Just tables and phones and laptops and a coffeemaker and a tall water cooler with a stout blue family of empty jugs beside it.

Avery had been introduced around and her mother had put on quite an impressive performance in her leading role as GRATEFUL MOTHER OF MISSING CHILD.

A round of applause.

Brava.

Standing O.

Avery hadn’t known that her mother had it in her, to pull out such a masterful performance. Maybe that was where she’d gotten her interest in theater and drama at school.

Last night, her mom had dropped to her knees and said, “Oh, thank god,” when the call had come that the body was not Max’s.