Long lost

8

"You seem determined to avoid using Lester Dant's name," the psychiatrist said.

I didn't answer.

"The FBI did a thorough background check," the psychiatrist continued. "They proved that he's not your brother."

My chest was so tight that I could hardly get the words out. "They think Dant crossed paths with my brother and learned what had happened to him as a child. He decided to switch places with Petey, possibly killed him."

I stared out a window toward a pine tree.

"But you don't believe it," the psychiatrist said.

"I can't."

" 'Can't'?" The psychiatrist evaluated the word.

The tightness spread to my throat. "If I accepted that Dant kidnapped my wife and son, I'd have to admit that, given his profile, he'd have done whatever he wanted to them and…" I couldn't bring myself to say "killed them." I kept staring through the window toward the pine tree. "But if Petey was using Dant as an alias…" My voice broke. "If Petey took them, there's a good chance they're still alive."

The psychiatrist sat forward. "Why do you think that?"

"I've tried to put myself in his place." The tree became a blur. "I've done my best to imagine what Petey must have felt when he came into my house. My loving family, my comfortable surroundings. Petey wouldn't have wanted merely to kill me for destroying his life. He'd have wanted my life, the one I'd made for myself."

I forced myself to continue. "I've analyzed the moment when Petey pushed me into the gorge. I've relived it again and again. I think Petey's plan was to wait until Jason wasn't around and then kill me, making it look like an accident. Then he intended to sympathize with Kate and Jason, to make himself indispensable, and eventually to take my place. The only problem was, Jason saw him push me."

I took a deep breath. "So the plan was ruined. What was Petey going to do? Kill Jason? Make that death look like an accident also? Try to take my place with Kate? No. Jason was an essential part of what Petey wanted. Not just my wife but my family. Obviously, he couldn't live in my house then, not without Jason telling the police what he'd seen. But Petey could steal my family. He could hide them someplace and screw my wife whenever he wanted. He could force my son to treat him like a father." I squeezed the words out. "At least they'd be alive. If Petey and Dant are the same person. If Petey took them. But if Dant's who the FBI claims he is, if he isn't Petey, he probably killed Jason right away and hid his body in the mountains. Then he made the best of a failed plan by looting the house and forcing Kate to go someplace with him, probably the Montana mountains, where he could rape her as much as he wanted before he got bored with her and-" I stopped, unable to admit Kate might be dead.

The psychiatrist narrowed her eyes as if I'd just described hell. But whether it was the hell that Kate and Jason suffered or whether it was the hell of what she considered my delusional mind, I couldn't know.

9

As I swallowed another antidepression pill, I heard the doorbell ring. The FBI with news, I hoped.

But when I opened the door, I frowned at children in costumes on my porch. Trick-or-treaters. It was Halloween, but I hadn't been aware. I didn't have candy. Not that they cared. They stumbled back as if I was the one in a scary costume. When I tried to explain, they ran from the porch.

I closed the door and shut off the light. Peering out a darkened window, I saw other costumed children, and as I hoped, they passed the house. I couldn't help remembering that Halloween was one of Jason's favorite holidays. How he'd loved to dress up as a space monster or a mad scientist. How I had loved to go out with him. But that wasn't going to happen now. It made me angry that I'd frightened the children. Was my face that twisted with loss? Were my eyes that dark with insanity?

The vial of pills remained in my hand. Cursing, I threw it across the living room. Depression gave way to fury. What was it that Petey had said when he'd first approached me and I'd thought that he was a fake, when I'd told him to get away before I beat the shit out of him? "Brad, you'd have a harder time outfighting me than when we were kids." We'll see, I thought. In that moment, as I heard someone on the street shout to warn children away from my porch, I vowed to stop waiting for the police and the FBI to do something. I had to stop hoping that something would happen. I had to make something happen.

10

"A theory of substitution?" Gader asked.

"Yes." I was so distraught that I stood in front of his desk instead of sitting. "We know that Petey lied."

"Dant."

"But what if the reason he was so convincing is that he based his lies on the truth? He was in Butte and Colorado Springs at the times he said, after all. He just wasn't doing what he claimed."

"What's that got to do with this theory of-"

"You told me that West Virginia doesn't have a town called Redemption."

"That's correct."

"But what about the rest of the country? Is there a town called Redemption anywhere? Or what about towns in West Virginia whose names have a religious co

Gader thought about it. "Possibly. It would help Dant to keep his stories straight."

"Could you check?"

Gader leaned back in his chair. His thin face looked even thi

"But what if it was only partly a lie?"

"It still won't help us find your wife and son. Every lead's been followed. The task force has been disbanded. All we can do is wait for Dant to surface."

"Petey." I strained to keep control. "Damn it, doesn't anything you learn about him take you one step closer to understanding his patterns and where he might go?"

"Sure," Gader said. "Of course." He stood and walked me to his frosted-glass door. "The theory of substitution," he said without conviction. "Certainly. I'll definitely do some checking. By all means, if you think of anything else, just let me know."

11

"Mr. Payne will see you now," the receptionist said.

I set down the three-month-old Newsweek, which might as well have been up-to-date, given how little I'd paid attention to what was happening in the world. Crossing the small waiting area, I entered an office that was spacious by comparison, although in my own company it would have been considered tiny.

It was austere: a wooden chair, a desk, a computer, another chair. And a fish tank into which a portly, bespectacled man tapped grains of food. His white hair contrasted with the healthy ruddiness of his cheeks. His sport coat was off. He wore yellow suspenders over a blue shirt.

"How are you this afternoon, Mr. De

Would you believe that I used to be a hundred-and-forty-pound bundle of anxiety? But ever since I got these fish, I've"-he spread his arms to his girth-"blossomed."

I had to smile a little.

"That's the spirit, Mr. De