Even though the papers hadn’t identified her by name, I remembered that Amber had called her Alexa Davidson. From there, it was easy enough to search the academy’s archived press releases and discover that a Seattle couple named Ari and Elizabeth Davidson had given a million-dollar gift to the school five years earlier. Now I could see why the headmaster had been so eager to turn the investigation over to the Franklin County Sheriff’s Department.
The only other photograph of Adam Langstrom predated the picture on the registry. It had been taken at his sentencing. He was dressed in an ill-fitting suit, and his tie was askew, as if it were a noose he had managed to loosen. I couldn’t see his right ear to see if it was missing its lobe. What struck me most about the picture was the expression on his face. So often defendants in court appear ashamed and already defeated; either that or emotionless and temporarily brain-dead. But Langstrom was glaring straight into the lens, as if he wanted to vault across the room and strangle the photographer with his own camera strap.
Langstrom’s anger was as familiar as the color of his eyes. I had seen it too many times in my father’s face and, sometimes, in my own bathroom mirror.
The cell phone buzzed on the desk. I took another sip of bourbon before I answered.
“Stacey?” I said.
“Graham told me you’d called.” Her voice sounded nasal, her sinuses clogged, as if she was suffering from a bad cold. “What’s going on, Mike? I’m too frostbitten for phone sex, if that’s what you want.”
“I was worried about you.”
“What? Why?”
“You were late getting back to the office. And I saw from the weather radar that it’s snowing even harder up there than it is down here.”
She paused. “Your voice sounds funny.”
I couldn’t lie to her. “I’ve had a couple of shots.”
“What happened?”
“I had a visitor earlier. This woman named Amber Langstrom tracked me down at the house. She says she knew my dad.” My voice sounded like someone else’s in my ears. “She says I have a brother, Stacey.”
I pressed the phone against my ear. I heard nothing for a long time.
She spoke slowly. “You have a brother?”
“She says his name is Adam. And he just got out of prison for statutory rape, and now he’s missing.”
“You need to back up,” Stacey said “Start from the beginning.”
I remembered how Amber had taken yoga breaths. I closed my eyes, breathed in and then out, and began my tale. I am sure I rambled. Bourbon on an empty stomach hadn’t been the best idea. But Stacey was good at keeping me on point.
When I had finished, she said, “Can you e-mail me his picture? I want to see if he looks like you.”
“It might be fuzzy, since it’ll be a picture of a picture.”
“That’s all right. Do you believe this Amber woman is telling the truth?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. It’s possible. My dad slept with plenty of women. And Amber seems like his type.”
“What type is that?”
“Ready, willing, and able.”
Not to mention hot as hell, I thought. But that detail didn’t seem like one I should share with my girlfriend.
“Then you’ve got to help her find this Adam guy,” Stacey said. “Aren’t you curious to meet him?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“My life was perfectly fine before I knew he existed.”
“Perfectly fine? Who are you kidding?” she said with a laugh. She really did sound stuffed up. “You might have a half brother, Mike. You’ll never forgive yourself if something ends up happening and you never get to meet him.”
I pushed the bottle away. “I’ve been down that road before, Stace. It didn’t end well.”
“You’re not the same person you were when all that shit happened at Rum Pond.”
“Exactly. I’m not that person anymore.”
“At least make some calls for the poor woman.”
“Who would I call?”
“Start with Gary Pulsifer,” she said. “Find out how he knows this Amber Langstrom. Then ask him what the hell he was thinking, sending her to look for you.”
Those were good questions. But I wanted to talk about something else, anything else.
I tried to picture Stacey on the other end of the line. In my imagination, her dark hair was wind-tousled and her lips and cheeks were rosy from the cold. Like her mother, she had uncanny green eyes that were both beautiful and unsettling, as if she were descended from some supernatural race of beings gifted with the powers of telepathy and clairvoyance. I smiled at the face I saw in my mind’s eye.
“So how are things going up there in Moose Vegas?” I asked.
“Winter just started. The moose still have full coats and haven’t been sucked dry yet by the ticks. Ask me again in April.”
“I’m not going to have to wait that long to see you, am I?”
“That depends on the moose.”
“You sound like you have a cold.”
“It’s just the sniffles.”
“So are you still too frozen for phone sex?”
She laughed that rowdy laugh of hers. “I’m thawing,” she said. “But I’d better lock my door if you’re going to start talking dirty.”