CAR DRIVES OVER RAVINE

One Dead, Cause Unknown

Last night at approximately 3:00 AM, a Ford Taurus driven by Stephen Beck of Green River, New Jersey, ran off a bridge in Mahwah, not far from the New York state border. Road conditions were slick due to the snowstorm, but officials have not yet made a ruling on what caused the accident. The sole witness to the accident, Melvin Bartola, a truck driver from Cheyenne, Wyoming-

I stopped reading. Suicide or accident. People had wondered which. Now I knew it was neither.

Brutus said, "What's wrong?"

"I don't know, man." Then, thinking about it, Tyrese added, "I don't want to go back."

Brutus didn't reply. Tyrese sneaked a glance at his old friend. They had started hanging out together in third grade. Brutus hadn't been much of a talker back then either. Probably too busy getting his ass whipped twice a day – home and school – until Brutus figured out the only way he was going to survive was to become the meanest son of a bitch on the block. He started taking a gun to school when he was eleven. He killed for the first time when he was fourteen.

"Ain't you tired of it, Brutus?"

Brutus shrugged. "All we know."

The truth sat there, heavy, unmoving, unblinking.

Tyrese's cell phone trilled. He picked it up and said, "Yo."

"Hello, Tyrese."

Tyrese didn't recognize the strange voice. "Who is this?"

"We met yesterday. In a white van."

His blood turned to ice. Bruce Lee, Tyrese thought. Oh, damn… "What do you want?"

"I have somebody here who wants to say hi."

There was a brief silence and then TJ said, "Daddy?"

Tyrese whipped off his sunglasses. His body went rigid. "TJ? You okay?"

But Eric Wu was back on the line. "I'm looking for Dr. Beck, Tyrese. TJ and I were hoping you could help me find him."

"I don't know where he is."

"Oh, that's a shame."

"Swear to God, I don't know."

"I see," Wu said. Then: "Hold on a moment, Tyrese, would you? I'd like you to hear something."

The wind blew, the trees danced, the purple-orange if sunset was starting to give way to a polished pewter. It frightened me how much the night air felt exactly the same as it had eight years ago, the last time I'd ventured near these hallowed grounds.

I wondered if Griffin Scope's people would think to keep an eye on Lake Charmaine. It didn't matter really. Elizabeth was too clever for that. I mentioned earlier that there used to be a summer camp here before Grandpa purchased the property. Elizabeth's clue – Dolphin – was the name of a cabin, the one where the oldest kids had slept, the one deepest in the woods, the one we rarely dared to visit.

The rental car climbed what had once been the camp's service entrance, though it barely existed anymore. From the main road you couldn't make it out, the high grass hiding it like the entrance to the Batcave. We still kept a chain across it, just in case, with a sign that read No Trespassing. The chain and sign were both still there, but the years of neglect showed. I stopped the car, unhooked the chain, wrapped it around the tree.

I slid back into the driver's seat and headed up to the old camp mess hall. Little of it remained. You could still see the rusted, overturned remnants of what had once been ovens and stoves. Some pots and pans littered the ground, but most had been buried over the years. I got out and smelled the sweet of the green. I tried not to think about my father, but in the clearing, when I was able to look down at the lake, at the way the moon's silver sparkled on the crisp surface, I heard the old ghost again and wondered, this time, if it wasn't crying out for revenge.

I hiked up the path, though that, too, was pretty much nonexistent. Odd that Elizabeth would pick here to meet. I mentioned before that she never liked to play in the ruins of the old summer camp. Linda and I, on the other hand, would marvel when we stumbled over sleeping bags or freshly emptied tin cans, wondering what sort of drifter had left them behind and if, maybe, the drifter was still nearby. Elizabeth, far smarter than either of us, didn't care for that game. Strange places and uncertainty scared her.

It took ten minutes to get there. The cabin was in remarkably good shape. The ceiling and walls were all still standing, though the wooden steps leading to the door were little more than splinters. The Dolphin sign was still there, hanging vertically on one nail. Vines and moss and a melange of vegetation I couldn't name had not been dissuaded by the structure; they burrowed in, surrounded it, slithered through holes and windows, consumed the cabin so that it now looked like a natural part of the landscape.

"You're back," a voice said, startling me.

A male voice.

I reacted without thought. I jumped to the side, fell on the ground, rolled, pulled out the Glock, and took aim. The man merely put his hands up in the air. I looked at him, keeping the Glock on him. He was not what I expected. His thick beard looked like a robin's nest after a crow attack. His hair was long and matted. His clothes were tattered camouflage. For a moment, I thought I was back in the city, faced with another homeless panhandler. But the bearings weren't right. The man stood straight and steady. He looked me dead in the eye.

"Who the hell are you?" I said.

"It's been a long time, David."

"I don't know you."

"Not really, no. But I know you." He gestured with his head toward the bunk behind me. "You and your sister. I used to watch you play up here."

"I don't understand."

He smiled. His teeth, all there, were blindingly white against the beard. "I'm the Boogeyman."

In the distance, I heard a family of geese squawk as they glided to a landing on the lake's surface. "What do you want?" I asked.

"Not a damn thing," he said, still smiling. "Can I put my hands down?"

I nodded. He dropped his hands. I lowered my weapon but kept it at the ready. I thought about what he'd said and asked, "How long have you been hiding up here?"

"On and off for" – he seemed to be doing some kind of calculation with his fingers – "thirty years." He grinned at the dumbstruck expression on my face. "Yeah, I've watched you since you were this high." He put his hand at knee level. "Saw you grow up and – " He paused. "Been a long time since you been up here, David."

"Who are you?"

"My name is Jeremiah Renway," he said.

I couldn't place the name.

"I've been hiding from the law."

"So why are you showing yourself now?"

He shrugged. "Guess I'm glad to see you."

"How do you know I won't tell the authorities on you?"

"I figure you owe me one."

"How's that?"

"I saved your life."

I felt the ground beneath me shift. "What?"

"Who do you think pulled you out of the water?" he asked.

I was dumbstruck.

"Who do you think dragged you into the house? Who do you think called the ambulance?"

My mouth opened, but no words came out.

"And" – his smile spread – "who do you think dug up those bodies so someone would find them?"

It took me a while to find my voice. "Why?" I managed to ask.

"Can't say for sure," he said. "See, I did something bad a long time ago. Guess I thought this was a chance at redemption or something."

"You mean you saw…?"

"Everything," Renway finished for me. "I saw them grab your missus. I saw them hit you with the bat. I saw them promise to pull you out if she told them where something was. I saw your missus hand them a key. I saw them laugh and force her into the car while you stayed underwater."

I swallowed. "Did you see them get shot?"

Renway smiled again. "We've chatted long enough, son. She's waiting for you now."