While he was in his cell, he was safe, and so were the other inmates.
Under his pale eyelids, he tracked the pinpoints of light and the ferries all lit up as they crossed Elliott Bay. Ever since Detective Madison had told him about David’s body, he had spent more time in 1985 than in the present. He had been so young when he had run into Timothy Gilman; he wondered what Gilman would have told him if he met him today. Everything, Cameron thought. He would have told him everything about the kidnapping, who paid him to take them, and why. It was, maybe, his one regret, that he had been too young and too inexperienced to do what needed to be done, and he had let Gilman die without getting each and every bit of truth out of him.
That one day, July 4, 1985, was the last time they had all been together at the same time and in the same place. It was, oddly, a comfort to go back to it; it was practically etched on his skin.
John Cameron, twelve, ran the length of the diving board and leapt, grabbing his knees close to his chest and yelling his delight for all the world to hear. He swam to the bottom—his ears let him feel the pressure—and looked up: the stone edges of the pool were distorted, and so were the people standing nearby. He tried to lie on the bottom: it was difficult, but he managed it, and for just an instant above him all was sky.
After a few moments his lungs begun to burn, and he followed the air bubbles back up; the surface of the water was full of light as he flicked the hair out of his eyes. He loved the Locke estate: acres and acres of woods it was safe to explore, and the parents let them roam as they pleased. Conrad Locke had started from nothing and married money, his father had said, which John hadn’t quite understood at the time, and he knew everyone from the local sheriff to the governor. But what mattered to John was that, once they were dry, the boys would go for a wander. And, please, God, let Bobby Locke stay by the pool, because it would be impolite for the three of them to tell him to get lost in his own backyard.
John got out of the pool and lay on the recliner and closed his eyes. Nearby he heard Nathan’s voice calling out to David.
They sneaked away from the pool area as soon as they could: John’s hair was drying in short little spikes, and Jimmy’s shorts were still damp over his trunks. They gave him a couple of “Wet pants!” jeers, though more out of preteen duty than serious ribbing, and they proceeded toward the dense woods behind the house.
“It’s not a house,” Bobby Locke had said in the tone that explained why nobody could stand him. “It’s a ranch.”
To which John, David, and Jimmy had rolled their eyes as far back as they would go. Now Bobby was inside with his cousins, busy with a video game.
“He’s in the ranch,” David had said, and they’d all laughed like hyenas without quite knowing why.
“What are you three little thugs laughing about?” Nathan had asked, and David had told him.
John thought Nathan was all right as older guys go—dorky but all right. One day he had been in high school; the next he was a grown-up with a starter beard and a summer job across the country. Still, David was the only one of them with a sibling, and that made Nathan okay—better than okay, in fact. The way John saw it, seven years was a good age difference: distant enough that the brothers wouldn’t compete for the same toys but close enough to tag along if Nathan was doing anything interesting. There had been Sonics games in the past, and fishing trips; in the last year, though, they had barely seen Nathan, and, anyway, they were old enough to go fishing at Jackson Pond by themselves.
The ground under their feet was hard and almost dusty in the July heat. The spruces gave some shade, and the boys meandered for a while without too much thought. Jimmy had a penknife, and he was using it to sharpen a stick, David pointed his new camera and snapped everything that moved, and John picked pebbles off the path and threw them into the bracken. They didn’t need to talk, and when Jimmy broke the silence, the others stopped and turned.
“I heard something the other day,” he said. “I don’t think my dad wanted me to hear it.”
That got their attention faster than any other opening line might have.
“He was on the phone, and I don’t know who he was talking to—could have been your dad”—he pointed at John—“or yours.” He pointed at David.
“What did he say?” David asked.
Jimmy looked around and lowered his voice: “He said, ‘I will pick up my bat and personally put a dent in their future if they ever come back to The Rock.’”
David and John looked at each other; those were serious words for Jimmy’s dad, who was the kindest, mildest guy you would ever have a chance to meet.