Larry tried expanding the search terms. Maybe they hadn’t used the name of the center, he thought. He tried Eagle Cove, and then the local zip code.
There was nothing.
Finally, he went back ten years before Dennis died and began to search, laboriously, through each and every runaway child report along the coast, right up to the year the center closed.
Nehalem runaway, age twelve. That kid had been found a week later.
Seaside teen. Turned up in Portland.
His coffee was getting cold.
He tried again.
There was not a single runaway report ever filed for Brightwood.
Larry drove down to pick up Amanda at noon. By then most of the fog was blowing away, in thick white tatters across the blacktop. Charlie was outside the hotel, washing sand from the parking lot with a hose.
“Never-ending task,” Charlie said. “You know, I went to Disneyland once and found sand in my sheets?”
“It could have been the sand down there,” Larry said.
“No. It was this sand. It follows you.” He grinned, then went to turn off the hose. “Heard you’ve been asking around about Brightwood.”
“You know anything?”
“Not much. Was on the search party for the boy. Just sand. And sea.”
He spoke, as Larry was learning the natives did, as if the ocean was their enemy. Maybe it was. It was certainly not the picture-perfect postcard or backdrop that the rare tourist expected.
“You know, I had a girlfriend once, from the city. She settled down here. Lasted a few months. Left. Like they always do.”
“You expecting me to leave too?”
“Like I said, they always do.”
“Well, maybe I’ll stay.”
“You do that. We like having you around.” He made a sudden pistol-reach gesture, and grinned, going bang-bang with his narrow fingers. “You can shoot the bad guys for us.”
“That ship has long since sailed, my friend.”
Charlie grinned again, but this time it looked real, and sad.
“Shame about that boy. About all the boys who lived there. Always wondered what happened to them.”
Larry went to fetch Amanda. She came out of her hotel room, the bloom of youth in her cheeks. She looked very young, and Larry thought of her brother in the picture, and how they never had a chance to be together.
“Sorry I’m late,” she called, smiling. Charlie tipped an imaginary cap.
They found Constable Roberts at his desk, examining paperwork. He looked up and saw them, and a funny expression crossed his face. Then he was shaking their hands.
“We found a woman who knew Dennis,” Amanda said.
The constable looked pleased. “That’s nice. Around here?”
“She’s the cook at the nursing home.”
“Really? Have a seat.” He signaled at his desk.
