“Not much, I’m afraid. I seem to recall visiting Eagle Cove to see that memorial. It’s been some time. A lot of articles under the bridge since.”
Amanda noticed one of the drawers was labeledStorms.
“If I have more about Dennis Owen, they will be in here.” He dug deeper into a drawer. “Nope. Nothing.”
“Oh,” Amanda said, disappointed.
“How about Brightwood?” Larry asked.
The man dug through another drawer. “It’s not the best system, I’ll admit. Sometimes I’ll file things under one name when they should be another.”
“There’s this thing called computers now,” Larry said.
“Well, I know. But then you run up against the scanning problem. Years of notes, and what about all the mini cassettes I used to record interviews? I don’t even think they make those recorders anymore. I keep one on hand, just in case I have to play an old tape. Maybe someday I’ll find the funds to get everything transcribed, but for now, this is what I’ve always done. Run a story, then dump the research into one of these drawers. Here. Found it.”
Dwight pulled out a folder labeledBrightwoodin spiky writing.
He overturned the folder on his desk. A paper-clipped stack of notes, on pages torn from a reporter’s notebook, fell out. And a single photograph.
He looked at the photo, then passed it to Amanda.
It showed a little boy standing next to a man, at a Fourth of July picnic. The man looked to be in his thirties but worn for his age. The boy was holding a scrap of gnawed watermelon rind and looking into the camera with an opaque expression. He had a shock of blond hair and dark blue eyes.
“Larry.”
Larry looked. He would have known it in an instant.
“It’s him,” she said. “My brother.”
“A woman visiting the memorial gave me that photograph,” Dwight said, reading from his notes. “I was going to run it, but when I visited the center, I was told I couldn’t, because of privacy issues.”
“Who is the man here, with Dennis?” Amanda asked.
“I think that’s the fella who went in after him, but I never got a name.”
“How come?” Larry asked.
“The same reason why the article was so damn short. The center couldn’t talk, because of confidentiality, and the constable wouldn’t talk either. None of the locals knew the boy.”
“Who gave you the picture?” Larry asked.
“Let’s see.” He studied the notes. “She was the cook there.”
“I wonder if she’s still around,” Amanda said, excited.
“She works at the nursing home now,” Dwight said. “Don’t know her personally, but she seems like good people. Let me get their address for you.”
He pulled a worn copy of the coastal directory out of a drawer. “We’re old-school down here,” he said, looking up. “Internet goes out so often, we need to play it safe. Anyway, I print this thing, so it’s only fair I put it to use.” He thumbed the pages, and Amanda noticed his hands were permanently etched with ink, his yellowish nails stained gray.
“Here you go.”
He passed over the nursing home’s address.
sweet serenity nursing home, read the cracked wooden sign outside the ramshackle ranch house with grooves worn into the wheelchair ramp to the front door. Amanda followed Larry up to the door.
They found the cook in the kitchen, sitting at a table, engrossed in an old copy ofSouthern Livingmagazine. When they came in, she quickly took off her reading glasses.
She listened, looking closely at Amanda.
