“You’re a Peeping Tom then too.”
“Ain’t there a statute of limitations?”
“On the sexual abuse back then, yes, unfortunately. Not on the rest.”
“I ain’t done anything,” Ike said, scratching his head and grumbling. “Go get me some food, you pig.”
Liver failure, the constable thought. It had given poor Brett visions, at the end. But some of those visions turned out to be true. Now Ike, Brett’s onetime drinking buddy and a former staff member at Brightwood, was eating up his visions and spitting them out, saying no, no, and no again.
The constable left to get the fish-and-chips. He felt troubled. He had already searched Ike’s cabin, with the then-drunk man’s permission. He had found no matching knife. He had found no evidence of any of the crimes.
34
The Columbia River was so impossibly big that Amanda could not take it all in at once. Windsurfers, out on a gusty spring day, rocked across the waves, so tiny they looked like flying dots.
From the city, they had driven up the gorge. From there, they crossed into high rocky lands that turned into vast farms combed with tractors, and tiny ranches in the distance that grew bigger as you got close. These became patchy pine hills, and soon theirs was the only car on the road. They passed a sign that saidprayer valley mustang rescue, and Amanda peered down a rocky road that seemed to lead nowhere. She could see what looked like wild horses grazing on the hills.
“Getting close now,” Larry said. They had made the drive in record time. It was barely afternoon.
Larry glanced at the map he had screenshotted—in case their phones went out, which they did—and followed the river road until the next turnoff, which was up a dirt road. He watched for potholes.
“I don’t see many people out here,” Amanda said, looking over the parched land.
“Drought chased most of them out. Not that there were many to begin with,” Larry said.
The trailer in the clearing looked run-down but cozy. Old sheets hung on a line outside, catching the breeze off the river. An ancient truck was parked in front, its wheels collapsed in the dirt. Behind it was another truck, this one in slightly better condition. It was still ticking and warm.
“He might have a visitor,” Larry said.
They approached, Larry’s hand under his jacket. There was laughter coming from inside the house. Something inside Amanda shifted.
Larry knocked, firmly, then stepped back into a defensive posture.
The door opened. The man was the custodian in the picture from long ago, but very aged. His eyes were dewlapped with skin, his ears mottled with sun. His hair had receded, showing a sun-damaged scalp. The last of his hair hung by his ears.
He looked down, curious, at the man at his door and the young woman by his side. His gaze lingered on Amanda.
“Who is it, Ralph?” A young man stepped into the doorway. His skin was tanned a deep honey brown, his blond hair bleached white at the tips. His dark blue eyes looked friendly.
Amanda felt her heart knock in her chest. It knocked so loud it was painful.
“Dennis,” she said.
They sat around the empty firepit outside, in green canvas lawn chairs that sagged, so their bottoms were nearly touching the earth.
Amanda could not stop staring at her brother. She felt she could spend the rest of her life just savoring this moment. You are alive, she thought. You are really alive.
“Maybe you can tell us what happened,” Larry said.
“Ralph saved me,” Dennis said. “He caught me after I went under,and dragged me to the beach. He hid me in his truck and went to the market and told everyone I had been swept away.”
“You planned this?” Larry asked.
Ralph shook his head. “I didn’t know what I was going to do until it happened. I remember thinking, I can’t take him back there. Not to her. I thought, I’ll lie. I’ll save him. I’ll say he drowned, and when it’s all over, I’ll take him far away. So that’s what I did. After I went to the market, I hid him in the woods behind my place and took care of him. When the constable closed the case, we left in the middle of the night. We never looked back.”
“How did you survive?” Larry asked.
“We stayed on the road, working the migrant farms. I told everyone Dennis was my nephew. Eventually, I got him a fake ID. We used it as the name on this place. We didn’t stop for the longest time.”
