“You’re right. I’ve covered families that had to endure that. Do you know much about the center, by the way?”
“Not a whole lot. I got called up there a couple of times when I ran the force. A young priest drowned in the lake one morning, oh, probably fifteen years ago. Sad story. He apparently had a seizure while swimming.”
“Seems like the killer must have been pretty familiar with the place. Any theories?”
“You mean do I think it’s someone local? Off the record, could be. But we have a lot of repeat tourists, so it just as easily could be an out-of-towner who knows the lay of the land.”
“And what about the other victims—any thoughts there?”
“I’ve never seen the advantage of idle speculation. We need to let law enforcement do their job, and thanks to the resources at their disposal these days, we’ll know the identities soon enough.”
“Some people are saying it’s the two female campers who disappeared ten years ago.”
He smiled, but tightly this time, his full lips whitening.
“That would certainly provide well-deserved answers for their families. But like I said, I’m not one for theorizing before the facts are in. Besides, I need to let you get back to your omelet.”
“I appreciate you taking the time to come by. Do you happen to have a card with you?”
“I was just about to offer you one.”
He drew a wallet from his back pants pocket and produced a card before weaving back through the tables to his pals.
I finished my omelet, which was lukewarm by now and tasted like a rubber band. There was still an hour before I was due to meet Kayla, so I ordered a second coffee to go. I drove through the village to the southern tip of the lake, parked, and popped the lid off the cup.
It was sunny today and fairly warm, one of those Indiansummer days Alice had alluded to. The lake was especially gorgeous, a deeper, more stunning blue than even the sky or the mountains that rimmed its borders. Above me to the right were the restored remains of Fort William Henry, which the British surrendered during the French and Indian War, an event captured so vividly inTheLast of the Mohicans.
A horn blew, loud and long and guttural. I swiveled enough in my seat to see one of the big tourist steamboats, theMinne Ha Ha, push off from its dock, water gushing from the paddle wheel at the back.
Despite the scenic distractions, my conversation with Coulter stayed top of mind. Earlier in the week he’d seemed dismissive, and yet this morning he’d sounded like he wanted to pin me with the Rebel Alliance Medal of Bravery. The needle on my bullshit meter had bounced a couple of times while he was speaking—during those comments about the pointlessness of speculating—but maybe I was being unfair.
At exactly nine forty-five I set off for Queensbury, an area that, according to Google Maps, encircled the northern and eastern part of Glens Falls. I discovered ten minutes later that it wasn’t a classic town with a central business section but a sprawling area that at first glance seemed to consist of mostly theme parks, fast-food stands, and factory outlets. I found the dealership wedged between a CVS and a family-style Italian restaurant, on one of those four-lane roads that’s a feature of suburban sprawl.
I pulled into the lot a few minutes past ten. Though there didn’t appear to be any customers yet, I spotted a cluster ofsales guys through the plate-glass window, all decked out in spiffy cobalt-blue shirts.
One of them approached me as soon as I entered, but I told him I was looking for Kayla. The second I said her name, a young woman crossed the floor toward me, dressed in a black leather skirt, black jacket, and a white button-down shirt opened at the collar to offer a fetching sliver of cleavage.
“You’re Bailey?” she asked bluntly, and I’d barely nodded when she announced, “Let’s take this outside.”
I followed her through the doorway to the far side of the lot, where she finally turned and faced me. She was pretty, about thirty, with olive skin and dark, shoulder-length hair worn in waves. Even with her jacket on, I could tell she was in great shape, that she probably worked out regularly.
“Thanks for seeing me, Kay—”
“Did you know when we talked?” she demanded. “That they might have found Amy?”
“The press conference hadn’t even started when I first called you,” I replied, dodging the question. “And they don’t know for sure yet whether it’s Amy and Page.”
“It’s them, I know it. Please tell me heads will roll.”
“Whose heads?”
“The heads of the cops who didn’t take it seriously.”
“Was it the sheriff’s office?”
“Yes, and the state police. But the guy who always seemed to be in charge was from the Lake George police. Something Cutter.”
“You mean Coulter? Hank Coulter?”
