The old trailer at the top of the cliff had been abandoned years before. The roof was starting to fall in, and the furniture inside had been soaked with sea mist. A heavy, almost physical smell of mold hung in the air.
“He must have left when the cook said,” Larry said as they inspected the place. He used a stick to pick up a mildewed shirt.
Amanda noted the couch, with ticking stolen by birds, and a nail on the wall where a painting had hung. That painting, of a serene tropical beach, was now on the floor, bleached with time.
“He didn’t take anything,” she said.
“This is what we call a skedaddle, in my business,” Larry said. He opened a desk drawer. It was empty. “Looks like he took his personal effects, though.”
Amanda went through drawers too. Any papers left had long since disintegrated or been chewed by mice. She picked up a Bible, then dropped it when she saw it was full of beetles. Larry smiled at her. A lot of people would have shrieked, but Amanda seemed remarkably unflappable.
“At least we have his last name,” she said.
“That we do.”
Larry stepped outside and held his phone up to check the service. Then he called the local post office and asked if there was any forwarding address. Far too long had passed, as he had guessed.
He hesitated, then pulled up a contact.
“Hey. Larry Palmer here. Yeah. Doing all right. You? Okay. I was hoping you could run a name for me. Ralph Higgins. Someplace in his fifties now. Lived on the Oregon Coast. I got an old address, for a trailer.”
Amanda stepped next to him, looking over the sea.
Larry listened. “Thanks,” he said. “Yeah. I’ll be in touch.
“That was a former colleague of mine,” he said to Amanda after hanging up.
“Did they find anything?”
“Nope. This was Ralph’s last known address. No death listing either.”
“What does that mean?”
“He could have died in the woods someplace. Or got buried in a pauper’s grave. It happens. There’s a lot of unidentified dead in this country. It’s also possible he went off the grid, or is homeless. My friend is going to keep checking to see if he turns up. I’ll do some research too.”
The waves smashed below them. Amanda breathed deeply.
“What do you think about the article idea, Larry?”
“It’s up to you. I don’t think it will hurt. It might even help, like he says. Flush out people who knew Dennis, or the center. But it’s up to you whether you want your business out there like that.”
“Would you be in it with me?”
“Ugh. I hate myself in pictures. I look like a gnome.”
Late that night, a man stood on a street in Wheel Stone. He was wearing a heavy jacket and a hat pulled down over his face, but noone would have seen him anyway. It was raining, and it was dark, and the fog was back, threatening beyond the rim of sea.
He was reading a fresh copy of the paper under a weak streetlight.
“Portland Woman Looking for Information on Long-Lost Brother.”
He read, knots forming in his stomach. “Amanda Dufresne came to the coast to say goodbye to her brother, Dennis Owen. But questions about his life have brought her back, in the hopes someone will remember the boy. Dennis Owen lived at the Brightwood center...”
There was a picture of Amanda, taken hastily outside the newspaper office. She was standing against the dirty white wall, her blond hair blowing in the wind. She looked very pretty, he thought. She had her hands bunched in her pockets. Larry was standing nearby, looking like a grizzled little bear.
“Anyone who knew Dennis, or has information about the center, is asked to contact Amanda. You can reach her by email at...”
He crushed the wet paper in his hand, then smoothed it out. He rolled it into a tube, and shoved the tube into the nearest trash can. Behind steamed windows, the town of Wheel Stone slept. He walked quickly up the street. A hot coal of anger burned inside him.
