I slammed the drawer shut and backed away, my heart thudding.
Two of the six dresser drawers were missing. Two others were empty. But the left-hand center drawer held several old articles of clothing. They’d possibly been folded at one time, but had long since become a nest for rats, which had left their markings—and their droppings—everywhere.
The bottom right-hand drawer looked much the same, except that there, the rats had found a pile not of clothes, but of papers, once nominally protected by several school-style cardstock folders. The colors had faded to pale pink, very, very pale yellow, and what was once either blue or green, and rats had nibbled on the papers themselves, which appeared to be little more than printouts of old emails addressed to Silas, from a woman named Becky.
Not Connie. Becky.
They were about her son, a little boy named Denny.
My heart pounded as I read short messages that seemed to confirm at least some of what Eamon had said about Silas’s son.
Fifteen years ago, Denny got chickenpox, despite being vaccinated as a child. The doctor cost money, so Becky would be needing a little more this month.
Twelve years ago, Denny had unexpectedly outgrown all of his clothes over the span of a single summer, so in addition to the already late child support payment, she would be needing enough to cover several shirts and pairs of jeans bought at Walmart.
Ten years ago, Denny had decided to play Junior League baseball, and the fees and uniform costs were more than Becky could afford on her own, so she’d be needing extra in that month’s child support as well. There were more printouts. A lot more. Becky obviously kept Silas well updated on his son’s progress in life, at least as it related to her financial needs. But the rest of it was largely unreadable, after so long in the drawer.
And that was it. There were no pictures on the walls. No photo albums. No lockbox that might contain birth certificates, safety deposit keys, or someone’s hand-written last will and testament. There was nothing else in the entire room, other than the bed where I’d been restrained, except for—
I crossed the room one more time and picked up the top book from a stack of three, still sitting on the nightstand. Desperate, I flipped through brittle pages, some of which disintegrated beneath my fingers. There was nothing in the book. Not even a name scribbled inside the front corner, advising how one could return the novel to its owner.
The same was true of the second book, which was in slightly better condition, having been shielded from the elements by the top one.
The book on bottom was the sturdiest of the three, and I could make out the title on the copyright page.
Treasure Island.
I started to flip through, but the book opened on its own to a section near the middle, where something had been shoved between the pages. It was a note, or a card, or something printed on thick paper.
I plucked it free and turned it over, and—
I gasped, nearly choking on dust. My hand fumbled at my back pocket and finally freed my phone, but it took me several more seconds to remember how to use the camera flash as a flashlight.
The sudden bright light was harsh in the ambient darkness, and I squinted while my eyes adjusted. Then I aimed the circle of light at the rectangle of thick paper in my other hand. Silas stared out at me from the faded photo, younger in this frozen image than he’d been when I met him. He was smiling, and the crooked teeth I remembered as menacing seemed almost charming, reflecting legitimate joy.
But it wasn’t his face that had made me gasp, despite the shiver it sent through my spine. Despite the trauma it recalled.
In the photo, Silas had his left arm around a boy, no more than twelve or thirteen years old. Faded with age though it was, I recognized that boy’s face.
I knew the man he would become.
I slid the photo into my nylon pack, turned off my light, and called Vance as I trekked back through the woods toward my truck.
He answered on the second ring. “Charley?” He cleared his throat, and his next words were less gruff from sleep. “What’s wrong? Where are you?”
“Everythingis wrong. I’m leaving the cabin, and—”
“What cabin?”
“Silas’s old place. I found—”
“What the livingfuckare you doing out there in the middle of the night? Are you alone?”
“Yeah, but no one’s been here for years.”
“Yet I’m guessing you didn’t know that for sure, when you went out there?”
“I had a hunch. Anyone carrying on in Silas’s honor would have been an idiot to stay out here.”
