They took Will’s car. Lucy had greeted him at the door with the news that the Subaru was non-functional. She offered to pay for gas. He didn’t argue. Last night’s trip had been nearly a hundred miles all together and it being tourist season the oil companies had all cranked up the price of gasoline at the tanks. Oregon was already suffering from the highest gas prices in the country. Will felt fleetingly guilty for not even symbolically protesting Lucy’s generosity, but she didn’t appear to notice.
     Will steered onto the 205 freeway shortly after 5 o’clock. Right on time to make the opening speech/greeting which Lucy, reading out loud from the announcement, informed him was to begin at 6:00.
     Will could almost hear Lucy gritting her teeth as he maneuvered around a semi.
     “Sorry, Will, I’m a terrible passenger.”
     He knew exactly what she meant. He found everyone else’s driving intolerable. Neither of them spoke again until they were off the freeway and on to the Estacada Highway.
     “So how was it?” Lucy asked.
     “How was what?”
     “Connie’s soiree.”
     “Oh, that,” Will said.
     “Will, please don’t tell me it was boring,” Lucy said.
     “In a way it was rather mundane.” Will gave her a recount of the early part of the evening before he met Anne Crage. “I didn’t see anything of Emmy there. I’m more confused about Connie Crage than I was before I went. It’s quite obvious that he has all the paraphernalia, the costumes, masks, and the absinthe. But we knew all that. Is he capable of killing? Maybe, as much as anyone. He is certainly very strong. Emmy wouldn’t have been any match for him.”
     “But he didn’t seem to be hiding anything,” Lucy prompted.
     “No. He seemed genuinely friendly. Maybe his showing up at the Bartlett House that night was just insomnia, like he claimed. I don’t know.”
     “It’s always the ones you least suspect. That’s what all the neighbors say when the guy next door turns out to be a serial killer. ‘He was so nice. He took such good care of his yard,’” Lucy said. “I’m not willing to take Connie off our list just yet. I’ve got a feeling that he’s used to getting what he wants. Emmy was an obstacle.”
     “I can’t believe he’d be arrogant enough to kill her in a way that would point so directly at him. And then show up to watch the fire,” Will said.
     “But that fire must have been meant to hide the crime,” Lucy said.
     “I don’t think the fire had anything to do with her murder. And I have some ideas about that,” Will said. “I think Doug started the fire.”
     “Doug Bartlett? Are you insane?”
     “No, Lucy, but Doug may be. Perhaps not insane, but certainly disturbed. Also, I think he has a history of setting fires. It’s not anything that I can prove. But he shows up around fires and, as I understand it, pyromaniacs often watch the fires they set. They even save people from the places they torch because they don’t want to hurt anyone; they just want to burn things. Besides, there is a history of it in his family.”
     Will told her about Sarah Jane. “Remember the Bartlett family crypt? There’s a young woman–seventeen, I think–in that crypt. Guess how she died?” Will glanced over at Lucy. “Burning down one of Daddy’s bordellos.”
     “One aunt sets one fire and that’s a history? Seems a bit thin. Doug wasn’t even a glimmer when that happened, either. How could it affect him so much? Or are you claiming some genetic predisposition?”
     “Not that there couldn’t be genetic issues, but let’s just drop that for the time being. A story like that about someone in the family might have a pretty powerful impact on a young boy. And then there is the story of the violin. His father made him burn his mother’s violin. Doug loved her. He loved to hear her play and he knew what that violin meant to her.”
     “That poor boy,” Lucy said. “After all that and then his brother dies in Vietnam. Its no wonder he never married. It must be hard for him to risk loving someone. He cared about Emmy, though. I guess she was safe. He didn’t have to get real close, just be the wise old cousin.” Lucy paused, “But that business about the violin–wouldn’t that give him an aversion to fire rather than a fascination?”
     Will was silent for a while. What Lucy said made sense. But this sort of thing wasn’t necessarily logical, was it? It didn’t have to make sense. Nothing about Emmy’s death seemed to make any sense. Unless you bought the Police version. That was tidy. Colin killing Emmy for rejecting him. An age-old story and one a jury would find easy to believe. Will wasn’t sure at what point he had stopped considering Colin as a suspect, but he no longer believed the young man had anything to do with Emmy’s death.
     “Imagine, you’re Doug,” Will started, “You’ve got a tyrannical father, an unstable mother, and your brother, the only one you can count on, is sent away to military school. You live in this big house with these two unpredictable people. Then along comes the Columbus Day Storm and your mother tears out of the house and gets killed by a random tree branch. Maybe she was crazy, but maybe she loved you. You’re left alone with a cold and brutal man. And no matter how carefully your family tries to sweep the ashes under the carpet, you know about Aunt Sarah Jane. You know that she acted against the tyrant in her family.”
     “There is something satisfying about fire,” Lucy admitted. “It’s a creative force, in a way. It takes on a life of its own. It transforms everything it touches. Like alchemy.”
     “That’s pretty much the way Doug described it,” Will said.
     They had left behind the suburbs. Now the houses were scattered among fields or perched on hillsides. The Estacada highway edged the south side of the town, bypassing its business district. Beyond Estacada the farms grew further apart, the houses altogether less and less frequent, and the Clackamas river appeared beside them.
     “There’s the sign,” Will said. “Camp Horizons.” He turned left, up the hillside and they continued to climb between the firs for two or three miles before another sign pointed them onto an unpaved road.
     A cloud of dust preceded them down the gravel road obscuring the view. Will and Lucy hastily rolled up the windows. Will slowed the Triumph, dropping back to avoid the cloud. White plank fences lined the road, behind which grew rows of fir and spruce of varying sizes, neatly pruned.
     Lucy consulted the brochure in her lap. “The boys help defray the cost of their tenure at Camp Horizons by planting and tending Christmas Trees. They contribute to the table by caring for the camp vegetable garden and greenhouses. It is the philosophy of the founders….” Lucy stopped reading. They had arrived.
     “I didn’t think we were late,” Will said as he parked on the edge of the road behind the car that they had been following. “But it looks like the lot is full.” A man and a woman disembarked from the car ahead. She looked back at them. God, Will thought, Faith. He felt his face redden.
     Lucy was already out of the car. She leaned over the open door. “Are you coming?”
     He took his time. Made sure that Faith had her back turned before he got out of the car and locked it, fumbling with his keys. Lucy was watching him with a puzzled look on her face.
     “One would think you didn’t believe that your valuable car was safe here. Or do you have something worth keeping inside it?” she asked. She was standing in front of the car, watching, arms folded.
     He made a face. “What’s your rush?” He looked over Lucy’s shoulder. Faith and her companion had disappeared among the dozens of cars that filled the parking lot in front of a semi-circle of Camp buildings.
     Will and Lucy wove their way through the jumble of cars. A sign on the other side of the parking lot said “Welcome to Camp Horizons Open House” and pointed toward the center building, a low, rough-hewn log lodge. Will halted at the start of the path. Parked on either side of the trail ahead of him were two dark blue Suburban Utility Vehicles. What was it that Colin had told his lawyer? That his wasn’t the only vehicle near the Bartlett House that night. There was an SUV. A dark SUV. It came out from the street behind the house. At the same time, the thoughts so close together he didn’t know which came first, he was thinking one of these is Doug’s. I’ve been in it. The day of Emmy’s funeral.
     “He was there, Lucy. Doug was there,” Will said. “He drives a dark SUV like the one Colin saw that night.”
     “Excuse me, Will, but there are two dark SUVs parked here and there are one or two, or two thousand in Portland. Look at this lot. Fifty percent of the cars here are SUVs.”
     She was right, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was right, too.
     The lodge was a mess hall. The tables and benches were stacked along the walls to make room for the crowd of benefactors and parents. Someone was making an introductory speech.
     “He has been one of our strongest supporters, has given countless hours of his time, a personal investment that is even more valuable than the money he has generously donated. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our beloved friend, Councilman Theodore “Teddy” Milcheford.”
     “Thank you, Lillian. I’m a bit overwhelmed. I actually didn’t know that I would be called upon to speak today. But my good friends know that I seldom turn down an opportunity.” He flashed a disarming grin. “I just want to say that you’re going to hear a lot about Camp Horizons today, about what Doug Bartlett and Frank Alexander have created, how much good they do for the boys. And that’s all true. But I want to tell you this, that I’m a selfish man and I’m here for selfish reasons. Working with these troubled young men is the most gratifying thing I have ever done. I’m willing to give money, lots of money to support this camp so that I can continue to have this amazing experience. There are two things that make Teddy Milcheford a happy man. His family,” Teddy turned and waved at Chris, standing at the edge of the dais, “and Camp Horizons. You can’t have my family, but you’re welcome to make this camp your own.” Teddy backed away from the microphone to enthusiastic applause.
     Teddy Milcheford, Lucy thought, can lie better than anyone I know. How many people here, she wondered, know that his daughter, Madeline, has run away from home? That she’s disappeared without a trace? How could he stand in front of all these people and talk about his happy family? Lucy looked for Chris. She had stepped off the dais and was out of sight.
     ¬?After Teddy’s speech, Doug introduced members of the staff and a couple of the boys, one of whom gave a short, heartfelt speech about how grateful he was to have had the opportunity to have this life-changing experience. Lucy was moved by his sincerity. Doug introduced Frank Alexander who saluted. Will tugged Lucy’s sleeve, “That’s the ROTC guy Edwina said I should talk to.” From a distance, all that could be observed of Frank was that he wore olive drab chinos and a long-sleeved shirt a shade of drab lighter. What hair he had fringing his crown was white. He held his slender body erect and did not smile when he was introduced.
     “Our staff and residents have prepared a nice series of tours of the camp for you. Come on outside and fall in line behind one of us and find out how the camp functions on a daily basis,” Doug announced. Then he stepped off the dais and entered the crowd, which parted obligingly for him. He led the way to the door.
     Outside, Lucy looked for Connie. He wasn’t in any of the groups that had formed. Probably doesn’t wait in line for anything, she thought. Maybe he’s still inside. Lucy went back. She heard voices coming from the back of the hall. She had no idea what she would say or do if she found Connie in the kitchen, but she went anyway. There was a hallway running the width of the building, which separated the main hall from the kitchen. The hallway had an exit at either end. In front of her was a cutout for passing food trays between the two areas of the mess hall. It gave her an ample view of the kitchen beyond. It was only one voice she had heard. Teddy was in the kitchen with a cell phone pressed to his ear. His back was to her.
     “This is not a good thing,” he was saying. “Now you’re going to have to clean up the mess. I don’t want to know about it and I don’t want to hear about it later. You’re not having any trouble hearing me are you?” Teddy listened for a moment. “After dark and use the dock. And use your heads. What am I paying you for?”
     Lucy heard footsteps; the quiet thump of soft soled shoes. It was Chris, smiling tightly, looking tired. “Business or politics?” Chris asked, nodding her head toward Teddy. “Whichever, he never stops anymore.” She touched Lucy’s arm. “Glad to see you made it. Having fun?”
     “Hi, Chris. I came in here looking for Connie Crage. He didn’t seem to be outside,” Lucy said.
     “No, I don’t expect so. He knows this place as well as Teddy does. Probably as well as Doug. Can’t imagine he’d want to take a tour,” Chris said.
     Teddy came out of the kitchen, all smiles. “Hi, Lucy.” He gave her a hug.
     “Having trouble with the subordinates?” Lucy asked. “Some life or death situation they can’t handle?” Lucy noted a change in Teddy’s demeanor, a narrowing of his eyes. “It is hard to get good help these days with the low unemployment and all.” She rambled on even though Teddy appeared more than a little annoyed that she had eavesdropped on his conversation.
     Teddy didn’t reply. He turned his attention to Chris and said, “I’m going to have to leave early. I’ll arrange for you to ride back with Connie.” He put up his hand as if to halt any protest his wife might make, and said, “Why don’t you show Lucy around.” It sounded like an order.
     To Lucy’s surprise, Chris took her arm and led her out the nearest side door. “Chris?” Lucy asked.
     “Yes?”
     “How is Colin’s defense going? How do things look for him?”
     “If he would turn loose with where he was that night, we’d all feel better about it,” Chris said. “If Marta knows anything, she really needs to let us know. Do you think it would do me any good to contact her again?”
     “I don’t know.” Lucy did not want to elaborate. “Is there any substantial evidence against him?”
     “There is strong circumstantial evidence and the fact that he can’t place himself anywhere else is damaging. Ben’s doing the best he can, but time is running out. There is less than a month to trial. I don’t think he can get a postponement.”
     Lucy’s heart sank. Unless she or Will came up with something or Marta came clean, the young man stood a good chance of being convicted. She couldn’t imagine Colin in prison. “They won’t ask for…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.
     “The death penalty? I don’t think it’s likely. There isn’t anyone lobbying for it. Doug, as family, and you and Will, her friends, certainly aren’t pushing for it. I don’t see how it would be to the advantage of the DA’s office,” Chris said. “They want a conviction and the death penalty can be problematical depending on the jury and the evidence.”
     Silently, Lucy went through the list of suspects that she, Marta, and Will had compiled after dinner last week. There was Connie Crage, of course. He was why she had come here, after all. To see him, talk to him, get a feel for his capacity for murder. Nothing Will had said about the party made Connie any less suspicious as far as Lucy was concerned. And Kimmi certainly hadn’t been able to give him an alibi for the time of death. And he was there at the fire. Why? What about the others? Lucy’s thoughts went back to the list. Marta’s favorites, the cops, were dismissable. It just didn’t make sense. Will had brought up Teddy. Politics and money. It wouldn’t be the first time those two had combined to perpetrate evil.
     Chris was leaving Lucy to her thoughts as they walked among Camp Horizon’s buildings. Lucy hadn’t really paid much attention to where they were. She could smell fresh sawdust. A memory from childhood. Her father in his wood shop. In his hands, beautiful things emerged from the blank wood. How hard it was that he would not let her touch his tools. The old traditions only surfaced to frustrate her. Why couldn’t he have rejected the machismo instead of the language? Lucy stared in the open shop door and forced her thoughts back to the present. Could Teddy Milcheford kill? Yes. The answer was so quick it startled her. I’ve been a friend of these people for ten years and now I realize there isn’t anything in Teddy’s personality, underneath his charm, that convinces me that he would not have killed Emmy, if he thought she was going to ruin him. What might Emmy have known about Teddy that could have destroyed him?
     “Chris, where was Teddy that night?”
     Chris stiffened. She stared open-mouthed at Lucy. “You’re accusing Teddy? How dare you? I thought I knew you, Lucy. How could you stand there and accuse my husband of murder?” She was backing away from Lucy as if proximity might contaminate her.
     “Chris, I’m not accusing him. Please,” Lucy stepped toward her friend.
     “Don’t come near me. Just don’t.” Chris turned and walked stiffly away.
     Lucy’s heart collapsed. She had deeply offended Chris. But Chris’s reaction was extreme. “Where was he?” She called out to her friend’s back.
     “I don’t know,” Chris threw back. “I was in San Francisco looking for Maddy.”
     “I’m sorry, Chris. I’m sorry.” Lucy felt tears of frustration and loss wetting her cheeks. She was angry with herself for her ruthlessness, for hurting Chris when her friend was already suffering too much. Lucy needed to think. She turned around. The path she was on led into the woods. A short walk would help put things in perspective. There was plenty of time to look for a chance to talk to Connie Crage. After the fiasco with Chris, Lucy wanted to reorganize her thoughts before approaching the developer.
     A deep carpet of needles absorbed her footfalls. She walked leisurely, in no hurry to go back. It had been ten minutes, no more, and the woods had worked their magic. She felt calm. As the trees thinned into a clearing, the last thing she expected to see was Connie Crage, sitting on a rock not twenty feet away. For some time, Lucy stood very still, watching him. Then, without warning, Crage exploded from the rock, literally turning in the air. She could not run, even as he hurtled toward her, a strange animal growl erupting from his throat.
     Instinctively, she put her arms up in front of her face to ward off the blows she fully expected. He caught her wrists in a crushing grip. His breath was heavy and hot. Sweat poured out of his face. His hair was damp with it. It dripped from his nose. His eyes riveted her, boring fiercely into her own. She began to cry soundlessly. Her shoulders shook and tears ran. He seemed to come back to himself. His eyes changed abruptly and he dropped her wrists and put his arms around her. He held her, gently patting her back and smoothing her hair as if she were a frightened child.
     He was apologizing over and over. His voice gentle, remorseful. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s okay. You startled me. I just…I’m sorry. Please.”
     She didn’t need to be in his arms. She didn’t want to be in his arms. “Let me go.” Her words were muffled in his chest, but he heard her, released her. She stepped back, rubbery-legged, swaying. He reached to steady her. She knocked his hand away.
     “Why the hell were you sneaking up on me?” Angry now.
     “I wasn’t,” she said.
     “How long were you standing here watching me?” He turned away from her, walked to the rock, and sat down, facing her.
     She took a few steps toward him. “I was just taking a walk. But what if I was watching you. That doesn’t mean that you’ve got a right to scare the piss out of me.”
     “Did I?”
     “Did you what?”
     “Scare the piss out of you.” He grinned.
     She wasn’t ready to be friends. “No, I didn’t wet my pants, if that’s what you mean.”
     They said nothing for a while. She was regrouping, taking inventory. Nothing missing that she could detect. Probably some hair pigmentation. He seemed to be appraising her.
     “Are you all right?” he asked.
     Lucy nodded. “I’m a little shaky, but I’ll be okay.”
     “I’m Connie Crage,” he offered
     “Lucy Hidalgo.” She was close enough now to shake hands, but neither of them moved to do so.
     “Did I see you arrive with the professor?” Connie asked.
     “You’re pretty observant, or do you have some special interest in the women Will knows?” It wasn’t going to be pleasant. Might as well get to the point.
     He looked puzzled. “If you’re referring to Kimmi, I’ve known her in every sense of the word a hell of a lot longer than your pal the professor has.”
     “Will barely knows her. I was thinking more along the lines of Emmy D’Angelo,” Lucy said.
     “D’Ang…? Ah, the young woman who was killed.” Connie gave her a sharp look. “As I recall,” he said, icily, “I met her one time–in a very public place.”
     “She was trying to stop your project. How much money was at stake?” Lucy pressed on, digging at him. She was going to keep it up until he showed her some sign.
     Now, he frowned. “If you imagine that losing that one little old high-rise was going to break my company, you really don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”
     “Then what was it? What did Emmy do that she deserved to die?” Lucy hurled it at him.
     “I’m sure I don’t know. But I can assure you I had nothing to do with it.” Connie’s face was impassive. His voice even, untroubled. There was no penetrating his mind. He would yield nothing to her.
     Lucy sighed. Just one more try. “Why were you there that night?”
     “Look, Ms. Hidalgo, the police have questioned me. They’re satisfied. And oddly enough, they’re the ones who count,” Connie said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to join my friends.”
     “Please,” Lucy said. “There is just one more thing.” Would he answer her? He was already standing, brushing dirt and needles off the seat of his jeans. “It’s about Doug Bartlett.”
     She had his attention.
     “What about Doug? You’re not going to suggest that he had anything to do with the murder?”
     “No, no. Just this–could he have set the fire?”
     It crossed Connie’s face so quick she wasn’t sure. A flicker in his eyes, a flinch of muscles, something–she had touched something.
     “I should think,” Connie said after a moment, “That my good friend, Doug Bartlett, has better things to do than set fire to a house that’s going to be demolished.” But there was something in his look, a keenness. He was looking at her as if she might be the one who held some secret knowledge. “What makes you think he had anything to do with the fire?”
     “He’s a fire starter, isn’t he?” Lucy knew nothing of the kind. That was Will’s speculation.
     “That’s not common knowledge and it’s the past anyway,” Connie said, no longer meeting her eyes. A sadness, tiredness seemed to come over him.
     “Perhaps,” Lucy replied. She left Connie Crage in the clearing and went deeper into the woods.
     Will followed behind the tail end of Frank’s group only half listening to the spiel. The silence of the woods was so deep that he felt it as soon as he fell a few paces back from the group. He tried to imagine what it was like here two hundred years previous, when the trees were giants, hundreds of years old, and the forest was populated with countless species of animals, birds, insects, plants–mostly gone now. And yet these woods still held something wild and precious that spoke to Will.
     “Will Adelhardt?”
     He turned. Chris Langford was approaching, a tentative smile on her face.
     “Were you looking for me?” Will was surprised. He had barely been introduced to Chris, why would she be looking for him?
     “Oh, no. I was just walking. I thought I recognized you, that’s all.” She nodded toward the tour, which was disappearing around a bend in the trail. “Doesn’t look like you’re really interested in the tour, either.”
     Will shrugged. “I was hoping to talk to Frank.”
     “Why? I mean, not that it’s any of my business, but I wouldn’t put the two of you together in the area of interests,” Chris said. “Although, I wouldn’t have thought you and Doug Bartlett had much in common, besides Emmy D’Angelo, and yet I saw you together at the symphony.”
     “I didn’t see you. I hope it didn’t appear as if I was ignoring you,” Will said.
     “Certainly not. You were a couple of rows in front of me. I noticed you, that’s all.”
     They walked a few steps without speaking, and then Will stopped. He turned to face her. “Chris, you knew Doug growing up, right?”
     “Yes. We were neighbors, not exactly friends, but playmates.”
     “Was Doug’s mother really insane?” Will probed.
     Chris frowned. “I’m not a psychiatrist,” she said. “But, in my line of work you meet a lot of people with mental illness. What I remember of her–in my totally unprofessional opinion–she could have been bi-polar. She did odd things, sometimes.”
     “I understand she played a mean violin.”
     “Yeah. She was pretty good.”
     “Doug said his father forced him to burn….”
     “…to burn the violin? Is that what he said?” Chris looked off into the woods, a frown on her face.
     “That’s not how I remember it. Doug and I were in the same private grade school, Goose Hollow Academy. Mrs. Bartlett used to come to our school. She’d appear at the door of a classroom and Doug would just get up and leave. The teachers never said a word, just went on teaching.” Chris drew her eyebrows together and her general look of concern deepened. “I was a damn curious little girl. It’s a wonder I didn’t get in all kinds of trouble.” She met Will’s eyes briefly. ” I just had to find out what Doug and his mother were up to, so one day when she collected him from school, I waited until recess and slipped off. I knew they had to be at the Bartlett place. She never went anywhere else, except to get Doug at school every couple of months. So that’s where I went, to Bartlett House.” Pausing, Chris continued to gaze off into the woods, as though she was searching for something alive and tangible.
     Will leaned against a tree, listening to the silence. Now and then, a faraway shout reached them; otherwise, the only sounds were birds. A woodpecker nearby rat-a-tatted intermittently.
     “Nobody ever locked their doors. Especially people with servants. I went in the back door as though I’d been invited. I didn’t see anybody, but I heard that violin. I followed the sound upstairs to the second floor turret room. The doors were open. Doug was sitting on the window seat, hands in his lap, staring at his mother.” Chris folded her hands unconsciously demonstrating. “She was dressed in an evening dress. It had a sweetheart neckline.” Chris traced the shape on her own chest. “It was sky blue and she was so pale. Her eyes were closed. She’d forgotten. I remember thinking she forgot to do her hair. Because it was messy, like the wind had blown it.”
     Will waited while Chris fumbled in her pocket and brought out a pack of cigarettes. She offered one to him. He shook his head. She lit one and without apology and without asking if he minded.
     “I was listening to her, but part of me was listening for fear that someone would find me, that the old man would catch me when he came in. I heard him. He had a deep voice that boomed up the stairs. All he said was ‘get out of my way’. I ran for the nearest empty room.” Chris shuddered.
     “What happened?” Will was enthralled.
     “He came up the stairs, into that room. I heard Doug yell at him and old man Bartlett called him a momma’s boy. I think he hit him. Later, when I saw Doug, there was a red mark on his cheek and by the next day in school a bruise had developed. Anyway, I was peeking out of the door into the hallway and saw Daddy Bartlett with a fistful of Mrs. Bartlett’s hair, jerking her down the hall. Her face was all pinched up, but she didn’t make a sound. I was going to make my move to get out of there, as soon as they were far enough down the hall, but then Doug came running out of the turret with the violin in one hand. He disappeared down the stairs. Naturally, I followed. I was hell bent to get out of there. But I wanted to know what Doug was doing with his mother’s violin. I gave him a couple of minutes and then I took off in the same direction. I passed by him on my way through the back yard. I had almost reached the garden when I saw him off to the side in the place were the servants burned the trash. He had lit a fire with the remains of trash and was laying the violin in the flames.”
     Will said, “That’s interesting. Doug said his father smashed it and told him to burn it.”
     Chris shook her head. “The violin I saw was whole and the strings made a weird kind of music all on their own. It scared me. I don’t think Doug knew I was there. I ran past him and didn’t look back.”
     “I wonder why he lied to me,” Will said. And there was the other lie about not travelling to Europe. It seemed like such a pointless lie. Another incongruity in Doug’s puzzling character.
     “He’s probably remade the story. Maybe he felt guilty. His mother never came for him again. I overheard my parents say that she had a sort of breakdown. As I understand it, from that day until the Columbus Day Storm, Doug’s mother never left her room,” Chris said. She reached up her hand, wiping a tear off her cheek. She gave a surprised laugh. “Well, I don’t know why that story should make me cry.” Chris abruptly thrust out her hand. “Listen, I’ve enjoyed talking to you. Tell Lucy, I’m sorry about earlier.”
     “Sure, Chris,” Will replied, wondering about what “earlier” Chris was referring to, as he watched her leave down the path back toward the mess hall. Why had Doug told him that the violin was ruined before he burned it, and that his father had demanded that he do it? Like Chris said, the truth was no doubt too painful for Doug. He was just dealing with a traumatic memory, in the most rational way he could, Will thought.
     Will walked up the path to join the tour. He’d meant to keep an eye on Frank Alexander and hoped that he had not missed an opportunity to talk to him. Will caught up with the tour just as Frank was assuring the potential donors that Camp Horizons’ security was top-notch.
     “We search every boy upon arrival in camp. If any weapons, even a pocketknife, or any drugs are found, these are confiscated immediately and locked in a safe. We have an arrangement with the Sheriff to send someone out once a week to pick up all contraband. Now these boys are here to change their lives, to have another chance to prove to their parents and society that they can be relied on to become responsible young men and take their proper place. We have no tolerance for boys who get their friends to sneak contraband in here. They make that mistake and they’re out. They can take their chances with the courts.”
     Frank turned to one of the boys and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Now I want you folks to give Kevin here your attention. He is a fine example of the great strides a boy can make when he puts his mind to it. Kevin will be taking over the tour from here. Starting out with one of the dormitories.” Frank shook Kevin’s hand, waved at the group and headed back down the trail past Will.
     Will followed him at a discreet distance several yards back.
     Frank entered a building about the size of a fairly large suburban ranch house. It was a short stone’s throw from the mess hall and was connected to it by a curving concrete pathway. Above the door was a sign reading, “Camp Horizons Administration & Security”. On the left side of the door, a window revealed file cabinets and office furniture. Through the window on the other side, Will could see a couch and television. It looked like a living room and caused Will to pause before he entered. He checked the sign again to be sure that he wasn’t about to enter uninvited into someone’s home. Once inside, he was reassured by the “Reception” sign on the counter, and a very empty hallway with several closed doors. Except one. The first door on the left was open. Will took a chance that this was the business side of the building and approached the door. It was a sparse office, furnished for a man whose needs are few. There was a distinctly military flavor to the room. A gold-fringed American flag dominated one corner and behind the gunmetal gray desk several plaques hung in precise rows on the wall. An in/out tray was positioned in the top right corner on the desk’s lackluster formica surface. The “in” level of the tray was empty. Next to a framed photograph of Richard Nixon, the only other item on the desk was a photograph of Doug and Frank. The color was faded. Doug’s head came to Frank’s shoulder. They wore hip boots and vests with fly hooks sticking to the pockets. Several rainbow trout dangled from a line they held in front of them. They could have been a father and son on a fishing trip. Frank looked proud, Doug looked excited, the fish, decidedly dead.
     Frank was seated at the desk. His gaze at Will was unblinking. Out of the corner of his eye Will could see Frank’s baseball cap with the little flag pin hanging on a hook next to a windbreaker on the wall beside the door.
     Will cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Mr. Alexander. I’m Will Adelhardt, a friend of Doug’s. This is quite a place you’ve got here.”
     “Pleased to meet you. Come on in,” Frank stood and leaned across his desk to shake Will’s hand. “We’re pretty proud of what we’ve accomplished.”
     “I was listening to you out there,” Will said, “and it sounds like your system here is pretty sound. I was wondering, though, how you know none of the drugs or weapons ever go missing from the safe?”
     “Well, there’s the fact that only Doug and I have the combination. Then there’s the inventory. We keep a detailed log of all the contraband we confiscate.” Frank held up three fingers and counted off. “One, when we confiscate it; two, when it goes in the safe; and three, when we hand it over to law enforcement.”
     “And nothing has ever disappeared?”
     Before Frank could answer, a voice spoke behind Will. “Why do I get the feeling that you and your lady friend are investigating me?” It was Connie Crage filling the doorway. “What would anything in the safe have to do with that girl’s death?”
     Frank looked surprised. “What are you talking about, Crage?”
     “He knows what I’m talking about.” Connie said. “His friend just grilled me in the woods.”
     “Must have been frightening,” Will said.
     Connie grunted. “What about the drugs? You were asking Frank about the security of the safe. What are you getting at?”
     “Certain young men, boys, egocentric little bastards,” Will said, his tone mild in spite of the words, “seem to think they’ve got a right to satisfy their sexual urges on unconscious girls. Boys who aren’t used to being denied.”
     Will turned back to Frank. “What percentage of the drugs you confiscate are GHB, liquid ecstasy? Or some other date-rape drug?”
     “There’s some,” Frank admitted, “but not much. For the most part, it’s marijuana and heroin. Some cocaine.”
     “Any of the GHB ever come up missing?” Will asked.
     “Never.”
     The answer was quick. Too quick? Will let it go. He tried placating, “Sorry, I’m sure you’re right.”
     “Connie? You in here?” Someone called from the hallway.
     “Here.” Connie answered leaning into the hallway.
     “Did you bring the blueprints for the new building?”
     “Yeah, they’re in my car. I’ll be right with you.” Connie turned back to Will and Frank. He gave Will a piercing look, opened his mouth as if to say something, then abruptly turned and left.
     “I’m just getting to know Doug,” Will said, reopening the conversation with Frank. “He’s a real interesting man.” Will hoped he sounded neutral. “He’s told me a little about his childhood. I guess that’s what this camp is all about. Helping troubled boys like himself. The way you helped him.” How far can I go, Will wondered, before Frank realizes that I don’t have any real knowledge about Doug and his past.
      “Doug’s one of a kind,” Frank said. “You won’t find a better man. He’s a patriot and a gentleman in the finest sense of both.” Frank was warming to his subject. He waved Will to a chair and seated himself behind his desk. “You’re one hundred percent right. Doug is doing for others what I had the privilege to do for him. Doug’s childhood was hard. No point in going into that now. Another, lesser man, might feel sorry for himself. Not Doug. No sir. He went through his rough stretch and then he did the right thing. Made the right choices.”
     “He was in your ROTC unit at Portland State, in what, ‘69? Did he go in the service after that?” Will prompted Frank. Maybe he could lead him to the Eugene episode of Doug’s life.
     “Doug wasn’t able to serve. Broke his heart. The trouble he’d gotten into as a lad shouldn’t have stood in his way. If his father hadn’t interfered, Doug probably would have gone in. He wanted to be a Marine.” Frank passed a hand over his face, rubbed his chin. “Old man wanted to be sure he had a son to inherit, so he made certain none of the branches would take Doug.” Frank shook his head. It was obvious that he felt Doug had been badly served by his father.
     “He didn’t stay at PSU though. Did he find another way to serve his country?”
     “What do you mean?” Frank was suddenly alert.
     Will shrugged. “Nothing, really. I just ran across something when I was doing research. I checked it with a friend of mine.” Will’s heartbeat picked up pace. What could Frank do besides throw him out of his office? “Why was Doug using the name David Bowman at the University of Oregon?”
     Frank regarded Will for a long time, his arms folded across his small round paunch. He seemed to be contemplating just what sort of a man this was who had the temerity to come into his office and take advantage of his hospitality in order to ask disturbing questions. If I had any sense I’d leave, Will thought. He waited and finally Frank laid his forearms on his desk and leaned forward.
     “You say you’re a friend of Doug’s. I don’t know about that. But I don’t know as there is any harm, after all these years, in telling the truth.” Frank took a pipe from the stand on his desk, tobacco from his drawer and began to fill the pipe. “Like I said, Doug wanted to serve his country. He wanted to make sure that he did right by his brother, Wes.” Frank lit the pipe and drew the smoke with short strong puffs. “I didn’t know what name,” he continued, “that the boy took. After he went under, we didn’t have contact. All I know is what my source told me, that Doug’s intelligence was sound. That he took to the game like a fish to water.” Frank smiled proudly.
     Cointelpro.
     “Was he a provocateur?” Will asked. The FBI had used provocateurs to initiate and escalate violence, often creating crimes where no intent had existed. Had we wanted to burn down the ROTC office? Probably, Will thought. But he and everyone he knew was certain that it hadn’t been one of the war resistors. They had all thought it was the FBI, in its misguided attempt to ferret out communists and subversives.
     “Might have been,” Frank grinned broadly. “Is that what you think? Well, well. The son of a gun never told me.” He pointed the pipe stem at Will. “It’s the best way, you know, to break up these protest groups. The cowards.”
     Will concentrated on showing no reaction. “He was seen,” Will lied, “by a reliable witness, near the University of Oregon ROTC office the night it was torched.”
     “Now that is bullshit,” Frank said. “Doug had nothing to do with that. He’s worked hard to overcome his problem with fire. He wouldn’t have taken the chance.”
     A clanging bell interrupted their conversation.
     “Time for lockdown,” Frank said, standing up.

     On their way out, Lucy and Will met both Doug and Connie. The men were standing by their identical, dark blue Land Cruisers. Connie had blueprints spread over the hood of his vehicle. He was explaining some detail to a couple of other men.
     “Glad you could make it,” Doug said. He seemed distant, his eyes focused on something beyond them.
     Connie glanced up briefly, as Doug greeted them, but he appeared uninterested in either Lucy or Will and went back to the business at hand.
     “I’m impressed, Doug,” Will said.
     Doug nodded, absently.
     “Well, good evening, then.” Will looked back when they had gone a few steps. Doug had his hand on the door handle, but he wasn’t opening it. He was just staring at the window as if he saw something there that puzzled him.