“Do you know who we haven’t tried?” Larry asked, turning up his collar. “The director. The constable mentioned her before. She would know about the runaway boys. And she would have known your brother too. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before.”
“I didn’t either.”
“Let’s see if the library is open. Lunch first?”
An hour later, they were sitting at a terminal in the Wheel Stone library, which was crowded with kids listening to a story on a threadbare carpet. The windows were moist with steam.
Larry and Amanda were looking at a screen. They had unearthed the name of the last director of Brightwood on a listing on an old state employee website, and from there, Larry had run a search.
“Looks like she was famous, in her own circles,” Larry said.
A number of articles had appeared. All had been published over twenty years before, in child welfare newsletters.
“Director Martha King Pioneers New Paths out of Pain,” read one.
“Forging Attachments, One Boy at a Time,” read another.
“Center Closing, Director Leaving for New Position.”
Larry clicked on that one.
“‘Martha King earned acclaim for her treatments for emotionally disturbed children,’” Amanda read out loud. “‘With the closure of the Axis Treatment Center, King is leaving to run a facility in Oregon. She says she’s looking forward to the change.’”
Larry looked at the date. It was two years before Dennis died.
10
Dennis was out front, helping Ralph rake the gravel driveway. They were supposed to be making the place look decent for the new director. The last one had retired, and a new one was coming.
The soft summer sun made everything incandescent. In the sun, the fading scars on Dennis’s arms almost disappeared. Dennis had turned seven last fall, and for the first time in his life, everything felt all right with the world.
A car appeared from down the road. They instantly knew it was the new director because the directors always drove nicer cars than anyone else.
The car pulled into the lot. The door opened, and Dennis watched as a woman uncoiled from her seat. She was tall and widely built, with a cloud of auburn hair and a crimson smile.
Martha King surveyed her new domain. She counted the narrow windows and saw, with satisfaction, the mowed front yard. Her eyes fell on the boy working. Why was he outside? She gazed at the custodian, who was staring at her with an open-mouthed look of fear and recognition.
Ralph looked down. He was choking in terror. He heard the distant sound of screaming, and it was inside him.
“I’m Martha King, the new director,” she said.
Ralph swallowed. He was trying to contain himself.
She didn’t recognize him, he realized.
“I’m, the, uh, custodian. Ma’am.”
“What is this boy doing outside?”
“He’s helping me, ma’am.”
“Alone? Not as part of a group? It sounds like someone is breaking a rule here. No fraternizing, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay, then, back inside.” She made a shooing motion with her hands. Her face was smiling, but her eyes were not. Dennis dropped the rake.
Change had come to Brightwood.
