The Boy from the Woods(90)

Rola nodded.

There was still a half hour until noon. No reason to go inside yet. If the Maynards needed him, they’d know where to look. He headed back toward the path in the woods, the one that led to where Matthew had first sneaked away with Naomi. He couldn’t say why he came here. Mostly, he supposed, because he craved peace and quiet and the outdoors. The outdoors more than anything else. He didn’t want to be inside that damned library any longer than he had to.

He checked his phone and was surprised to see a message from the genealogy website. The message came from “PB,” the person who’d been listed as his “closest” relative. He debated just deleting it or at least leaving it unopened for now. It was probably nothing. Genealogy was a big hobby for many, connecting in a “fun and social way,” as the website put it, maybe asking questions so that you can fill in empty branches on your family tree.

Wilde had no interest in doing that. Then again, rudeness and willful ignorance weren’t his style either. Neither was procrastination.

He hit the message link and read PB’s message:

Hi. Sorry about not giving my name, but there are reasons I don’t feel comfortable letting people know my real identity. My background has too many holes in it and a lot of turmoil. You are the closest relative I’ve found on this site, and I wonder whether you have holes and turmoil too. If you do, I may have some answers.



Wilde read the message twice, then a third time.

Holes and turmoil. He didn’t need that right now either.

Wilde put away the phone. Then he looked up, past the branches stretching to the deep blue of the sky. His thoughts turned to Raymond Stark. When, he wondered, had Raymond last been outside like this? When had he last been surrounded by green and blue instead of institutional gray? Wilde reached into his back pocket. He unfolded the photograph of the Capitol Hill interns Saul Strauss had given him. He searched the faces again, finding Rusty Eggers, then Dash, then Delia.

The hell with it.

He hurried back into the Maynards’ side yard. He took the steps two at a time and burst into the library. Dash Maynard was staring at the computer screen, as though it were some crystal ball that might tell him the future. Delia paced.

“We’re glad you’re back,” she said.

He crossed the room. “Do you recognize this photograph?”

Wilde held it up so both could see it. He wanted to see if they’d react. They did—recoiling like vampires near a cross.

Dash snapped, “Why do you have that?”

Wilde pointed to Christopher Anson. “Do you recognize him?”

“What the hell is this?”

“His name was Christopher Anson.”

“We know,” Delia said. “But what the hell, Wilde. We’re waiting for a word from our son’s kidnapper. Don’t you get that?”

Wilde saw no reason to reply.

“Why are you raising this now?”

“Because whoever has your son clearly wants a very damaging tape.”

“Which we gave them,” Dash said.

“Arnie Poplin said he overheard you and Rusty Eggers talking about a murder.”

“Arnie Poplin is a lunatic,” Dash said with a dismissive wave.

Delia added, “You can’t possibly think we had something to do with what happened to Christopher.”

“Maybe not you two,” Wilde said.

“Rusty?” Delia shook her head. “No.”

“You don’t get how unreliable Arnie Poplin is,” Dash said. “When we fired him from the show, he grew resentful. You mix his crazy with the drugs and the bitterness—”

“I don’t understand,” Delia interrupted. “Who gave you that photograph?”

“Raymond Stark.”

Silence.

Wilde waited. He wanted to see whether either of them would go so far as to pretend that they didn’t recognize the name. They didn’t.

After a while, Dash said, “Oh my God.”

“What?”

“Is that what Raymond Stark is saying? Is that what he’s trying to pull now to get out of jail?”

Delia looked at her husband. “Could he be behind all this?”

“What?”

“Raymond Stark,” Dash said, turning back to Wilde. “Maybe some convict he met in prison is doing him a favor. They kidnap our son and claim it’s related to the killing of Christopher. They demand some tape that will prove his innocence.”

“Maybe,” Delia joined in, “Raymond Stark told someone the story and they are acting on their own.”

“Wilde,” Dash said, turning to him, “how did Raymond Stark reach out to you?”

That was when they heard the ding on the computer.

It was noon.

Delia refreshed the page and a message came up.

You can find Crash at 41°07'17.5"N 74°12'35.0"W.



Wilde felt his mouth go dry.

Delia pointed at the screen. “Are those—?”

“Coordinates,” Wilde said with a nod.

But not just any coordinates.

Someone was seriously fucking with him.

“I don’t understand,” Delia said. “Where is that?”

Wilde didn’t even have to bring up the map app on his phone. He knew where the coordinates would lead. “It’s in the woods, about three miles from here, up near the Ramapoughs. It’ll be fastest if I hike it. Give the coordinates to Rola. Tell her to get a car and meet me there.”