Authors: Chelsea Cain
“Lake No Negro,” Susan said.
Archie arched an eyebrow. “I don’t think they call it that anymore.”
“I used to go to parties out here in high school,” Susan said. “They had the best drugs.”
They were passing a newly constructed mall downtown. It had the façade of an alpine ski lodge, like something from the Swiss Pavilion at EpcotCenter. “The idle rich,” Archie said.
They drove for a while in silence with the windows rolled down. Eventually, Susan got anxious and turned the radio to the alternative rock station. She’d had a few iPods, but they were always getting stolen out of her car. That was Portland for you. Rife with pacifists and vegetarians, but if you parked your car on the street, chances were someone would jimmy the lock and sell your iPod on Craigslist.
They went over some railroad tracks and past the private drive that led to the Oswego Yacht Club, then over a quaint stone bridge. Ducks paddled on the lake. The neighborhood got more private and quiet at this point. The homes looked like beached houseboats with docks where motorboats bobbed expectantly. As they continued around the lake, the houses got bigger and the traffic more scarce. Everyone they passed smiled and waved. The houses looked like they’d been ordered from a Pottery Barn catalog and assembled from kits. The cars were all Land Rovers and Volvos and BMWs. A few Civics—but Susan was pretty sure they belonged to college-aged children home for summer break from Brown.
Archie directed her past a plastic yellow Herald mailbox, up a private lane to a pair of iron gates. “Stop here,” he said.
Susan couldn’t see the house, but the gates were pretty fucking impressive.
“Who lives here?” she asked.
“His name’s Jack Reynolds,” Archie said.
Susan raised her eyebrows. “He’s rich,” she said.
“He’s very rich,” Archie said. There was an intercom on a pole a car length in front of the iron gates. It looked like something you might order a burger from.
Archie took his seat belt off and leaned over Susan. His sudden intrusion into her space made her stomach hurt. His dark hair, flecked with gray, was inches from her face.
When you blush, the inside of your stomach turns red, too. “The Science of Emotions” had been Susan’s first story to make the front page of the Living section.
Archie punched a button labeled talk and said, “It’s Archie Sheridan.” There was no audible response, but a red light above the speaker turned green and the gates fanned open. Archie settled back in his seat.
“You can go in,” he said.
Susan coughed. “Right,” she said.
They drove through the gates and onto a bridge. It wasn’t a long bridge, just twenty feet or so, constructed with big rough-hewn stones.
“It’s an island,” Susan said. “They live on a fucking island.”
“Park here,” Archie said, indicating a paved parking area where four cars already sat. There was a silver Volvo, a pair of Priuses, and a pickup truck with the name of a landscape company on the side.
Susan parked next to the pickup.
There were a limited number of ways to get island-owning rich in Oregon. Susan guessed this guy had gotten out of high tech just in time. Or invented Polarfleece or something. Whatever he did, he did it well. She wondered if he’d ever been profiled in the Herald.
“This guy’s related to the kid you recognized in the photograph, how?” she asked.
“Twelve years ago, Gretchen killed his daughter,” Archie said. “The kid in the photograph is his son.”
“Do you come out here a lot?” Susan asked.
“I used to,” Archie said. “But it’s been a couple of years.”
Two years, Susan translated. Since Gretchen had taken him captive.
Archie opened his door and got out of the car. Susan did the same. She glanced around. “I guess I don’t need to lock it,” she said.
It was not a big island. Susan guessed it was about an acre, though she really wasn’t sure exactly how big an acre was. The house was old, or at least it looked old, like a movie-set version of a Tudor mansion. It was brick, with stucco and timber accents, and had steeply pitched roofs, tall windows, several chimneys, and pillared porches. Ye Olde New Money.
“There,” Archie said. But he wasn’t looking at the house. He was looking to the left of the house, where a dock extended into the lake, and a man in a suit was waving.
He didn’t look old enough to have a twenty-year-old kid. “Is that him?” Susan asked.
“That’s his lawyer,” Archie said.
As they got closer, Susan saw another man, hosing down the deck of a small sailboat. He was in his sixties, tan and handsome with longish gray hair and rugged symmetrical features. He was wearing cutoffs and an old T-shirt, and he was barefoot. He saw Archie and grinned.
“Hi, Jack,” Archie said. He turned to the lawyer. “Leo,” he said.
Leo held out a hand and Archie shook it. “It’s been too long,” Leo said. “We sent flowers to the hospital after Gretchen was caught.”
“I remember,” Archie said. “That was very thoughtful.” He nodded in Susan’s direction. “This is Susan Ward,” Archie said. “She’s a reporter for the Herald.”
“Journalist,” Susan said. “But what ever.”
Jack Reynolds winked at her. He looked sort of like a middle-aged George Hamilton. “Of course,” he said to Susan. “I read your stuff. You do good work.”
Susan felt her stomach turn red.
Jack hopped off the boat with the hose and walked over to a spigot and turned it off. “Took her for a spin around the lake,” he said. He looked up at the clear sky, framed by the ridge of evergreens around the lake. “Got to enjoy the weather while we can.”
“We need to talk about Jeremy,” Archie said.
Jack looped the hose around a nail that was driven into the dock railing. “Is he okay?” Jack asked.
Susan suddenly felt superfluous, like she was intruding on a private conversation. She took a tiny step back. And then, feeling self-conscious about that—she was a journalist, after all—she took a tiny step forward.
Archie shot her a look and then continued. “I think he might be involved with some people who have a dangerous interest in Gretchen Lowell.”
Jack finished winding the hose and turned around to look at Archie. The last of the water trapped in the hose leaked from the nozzle in a slow drip onto the dock.
“I’m sure you’ve been following the news,” Archie continued. He spoke matter-of-factly. “We identified the body that was discovered in the abandoned house in North Portland. It was a young man named Fintan English. We were just at his house, and I saw a picture of Jeremy there. It looks like English found some people on the Internet—fans of Gretchen—to remove his spleen, and that he died in the process.”
Jack glanced over at his lawyer. “We haven’t seen Jeremy in months,” he said.
The lawyer nodded his agreement.
Archie raised an eyebrow. “I assume you have the means to find him,” he said.
“Is he missing?” Susan asked. “Like Costa-Gavras missing?” They ignored her.
“How is Jeremy doing?” Archie asked.
The lawyer hesitated, looking over at Susan for a moment before he continued. “He’s still hung up on Gretchen, if that’s what you’re asking. If anything, it’s gotten worse,” he said. His gaze fell on the dock. “He carved a heart on his chest. When she escaped”—the lawyer looked out over the lake—“he celebrated.”