Page 50 of Love Always

This is the thing about homeless people. Everyone suspects them of so much more damage than they can do. “So what did he do?”

The man shakes his head. “Nothing, really. He did have this,” he reaches across and picks up a thin book on The Secrets of Camden. “He wanted to look at a map before he left, which is odd. Young men his age often don’t know how to even read a map.”

He points to a large, topographical map behind his desk.

“That map? He was looking at that map?”

The man nods. “Mount Battie.”

“Where’s that?”

The librarian gives me a quivering look. “It’s part of the Camden State National Park. It’s a big mountain with a pretty good trail system. At the top there’s this tower that looks like a castle turret. Everybody likes to go up there for whatever godforsaken reason and take pictures.”

“Do you have to hike it?”

“No, you can drive it too, but that kid was on foot. I’m sure he was going to hike it.”

By the time I find Bryce he’s ordered two giant sandwiches on sourdough bread filled with pesto, turkey, tomatoes, and lettuce.

“Just in time,” I say, silencing my watch alarm and then wrapping the sandwich up in paper like a sleeve and taking a big bite. “We’re going up Mount Battie.”

Bryce drives, heading up Route 1. After explaining to the ranger at the entrance what we’re doing, working a missing person’s case, she waves us through.

The drive up takes no time at all and there seems to be nobody in the parking lot at the base, by the trailhead, on the road going up, or even in the parking lot when we get to the top.

“Why is it so empty? Even Weaver’s was pretty empty this morning.”

Bryce turns off the engine. “Leaf peeping season is over. Fourth week of October. We’re done.”

We walk up the low embankment to the summit. The view that reaches our eyes is breathtaking: there’s a span of brilliant blue water, a large island right in Camden Bay, and smaller islands to the left. Even through the high clouds the sun makes the sea sparkle. Below, tiny cars move and boats, mostly motorized, are coming and going from the Bay. It looks like a picture book.

“I didn’t see anyone hiking, did you?” Bryce scours the area.

“No, but this is a structure, one of the few left. I think we need to check it out.”

We pass a visitors’ board kiosk with pictures and names of all the islands and mountains. The tower, which sits just past the kiosk, is about twenty-five feet high, and maybe ten feet wide. It looks like a turret blown off of a castle. I glance at the plaque. It was erected in 1921 to honor the men and women of Camden who helped the war effort during WWI. Stuck at the top of the mountain, it’s flat on top like a castle chess piece. There’s a set of concrete spiral stairs and a steel handrail.

“Chris,” I call. “Chris Proctor?”

Ducking my head in, I check the stairs. Nothing. Bryce carefully walks the perimeter and joins me in about a minute. “I don’t see footprints coming up made this morning. I don’t see any going down, either. But this is asphalt too.”

“Okay,” I say, speaking a little louder. “I hope he realizes how worried his parents are.”

Bryce looks confused, and I point up the stairs.

He gets it. Slowly, quietly, he starts his climb.

“Let’s take one more look around and then head back to the car,” I say as if we’re leaving together. If he’s here, the only way out of the castle is over the top with probably a lethal drop, or back down the stairs. It’s best he doesn’t think we’re coming up.

It turns out my subterfuge is unnecessary.

Bryce’s call is urgent, desperate, and sudden.

“Jesus Christ! Mateus, meet me at the bottom.”

Moving as fast as I can, I turn and trot back in time to meet Bryce, his huge form filling up the stairwell. Over his back is the body of Chris Proctor. The boy is so thin and long, his feet nearly hit Bryce’s knees.

Once clear of the staircase, Bryce lays him on his back. The boy is breathing shallow, quick breaths. His thin chest quivers under a sheer T-shirt. His arms are bare, his lips blue. I roll him to his side quickly in case he vomits.