Page 49 of Love Always

“I’ll leave it up front by the cash register. When do you update your statement?” It feels good to be talking about something else.

“I don’t know. That detective—”

“Detective Carlson?”

“Yeah. He said he’d call today sometime, so I guess he’ll come here?”

Stuffing the burrito in my pocket, I also grab some napkins. “I’d like to be around when that happens. If you don’t mind.”

“That’s fine, but why?”

“It can be hard. And I want to hear the kind of questions he asks you.”

“But aren’t you going to be looking for that boy who’s missing?”

“Sophia from the Boston office was able to track credit card payments. He’s done a big circle going South to Freeport then inland and as of last night he was back up north, in Camden. I think he’s hiding.”

Laurel’s eyes suddenly grew wide as she independently hits on Jackson’s theory. “Do you think he—”

I shake my head quickly. “No, I don’t. It’s not off the table and anything is possible, but in my experience, he is not the perp. He disappeared before she went missing, which means he could have been there, could have seen something, and it scared him and he ran. The question is why would he split on his parents in the first place.”

Laurel actually smiles. “Split? Are you from the ’60s?”

΅

Finding homeless people this time of year in vacation spots takes some skill. In California, along the coast and non-mountainous areas, the homeless are either stationary or nomadic within specific areas because the weather is pretty much stable—at least in southern California. Here though, Bryce is telling me, it’s a whole other story.

“There’s a lot of cabins in the woods, chicken coops too, and people who will take an old propane stove, steal a container from the gas station and try to heat any old crappy spot. Even fishing shacks out on the ponds get co-opted for shelter. In short, your guess is as good as mine.”

“Are there warming tents?” It is really cold this morning, probably mid-thirties.

“Not this early in the season. Haven’t heard of any.”

“What about homes that have been empty because of fire or condemned units?”

Bryce gives a short nod and I know immediately where we could start.

΅

The two-story colonial sits quietly just south of Camden, north of Rockland on a dirt road off Route 1. It’s majestic for just a moment and then the reality of boarded up windows and a roof torn open like a wound makes clear this building has been ravaged by fire. We walk around the perimeter, check inside. Bryce even pulls open the bulkhead and goes down into the basement. There is absolutely no one here, and it is clear no one has been here. There are no human nests of food debris, clothing, plastic bags, needles or bottles. We drive down to the docks and question a few retailers and fishermen, flash Chris’s picture around and are met with dozens of shaking heads. No, no one has seen him. We check more buildings. We find people, many of them needing real help and one old man I call community action to come and assist. But no one has seen Chris Proctor.

It’s nearly noon and we’re pulling up on Main Street. I have a sudden hunch. “I’m going to check out the library.”

Bryce looks confused.

“He could spend the night. Libraries are warm, there’s bathrooms, and he can access computers. Makes sense. He comes from money. He’s going to want to squat someplace comfortable.”

The Camden library sits on the side of the hill and spans two levels. The upstairs is flush with the upper part of the street and a beautiful lower level is nestled underneath, opening to the street below. The structure makes excellent use of the hill it sits on. The librarian I approach is a slender fellow with a pencil thin moustache, bald, and hands with blue veins knotted across the top. Leaning into my phone to take a good look at the picture, he puts an index finger on the bridge of his glasses and pushes up.

“I did see him, this morning. I actually had to chase him out of here.”

I say nothing. People feel more pressure to keep talking if you remain quiet. He took the bait.

“I unlocked the doors, checked the book return box. It’s always filled with DVDs now,” this seemed to genuinely anger him. “Not books. Then I went to unlock the bathrooms and he was in one of them.” He looked at me almost pleading. “The family bathroom. I told him to leave.”

“Just like that? I mean he’s a kid.”

The man looks uncomfortable. “I know, but he was in here overnight. Who knows what he could have done.”