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Camp Eagle River had operated for nearly forty years. Thousands of children had passed through its cabins. Hundreds of counselors and employees had worked there.
The records had not been organized.
Receipts were mixed with staff applications. Cabin assignments had been folded inside inspection reports. Several years of payroll records were held together with a rubber band that broke when Will touched it.
“This could take days,” Carson said.
“Then it takes days.”
“I was making an observation.”
“You sounded like you were complaining.”
“I complain with more emotion.”
Sheriff Tate pulled out a chair.
“I can help.”
“You have a town to protect.”
“I have deputies.”
“You also have people watching everything we do.”
He glanced toward the closed door.
“The Magnolia Ladies?”
“They interrogated us beside the welcome sign.”
“That was them being friendly.”
“I’m afraid to see hostile.”
“You should be.”
He opened the second box.
We divided the records by year.
The camp had closed nineteen years ago, one year after my visit to Eagle River. I began with the final five summers.
Carson searched the earlier records.
Will documented every page before we moved it.
Sheriff Tate created a list of incidents connected to the camp.
For nearly an hour, we found nothing.
No mention of the tree-and-river symbol beyond the camp letterhead.
No reports involving missing women.
No reason a serial killer in Dallas would point us toward an abandoned camp six miles outside a small Texas town.
I was reading a list of kitchen employees when the back-room door opened again.
