"Oh, sure, the fire," Chief Kitrick says. "I heard about that. Fact is, I even vaguely remember seeing the flames up there on the bluff that night, despite how little I was. The whole town was lit like day. A terrible thing, all those women dying like that."
"Yes." You swallow. "Terrible. And then the Gunthers left, and so did the doctor. Why?"
Chief Kitrick shrugs. "Your guess is as good as… Maybe the Gunthers didn't want to rebuild. Maybe they thought it was time for a change."
"No, I think they left because the fire happened in November and the authorities started asking questions about why all those women, and only women, were in that boarding house after the tourist season was over. I think the Gunthers and the doctor became so afraid that they left town to make it hard for the authorities to question them. They wanted to discourage an investigation that might have led to charges being filed."
"Think all you want. There's no way to prove it. But I can tell you this. As I grew up, I'd sometimes hear people talking about the Gunthers, and everything the townsfolk said was always about how nice the Gunthers were, how generous. Sure, Redwood Point was once a popular resort, but that was just during the tourist season. The rest of the year, the thirties, the Depression, this town would have starved if not for that boarding house. That place was always busy year round, and the Gunthers always spent plenty of money here. So many guests. They ate a lot of food, and the Gunthers bought it locally, and they always hired local help. Cooks. Maids. Ladies in town to do washing and ironing. Caretakers to manage the grounds and make sure everything was repaired and looked good. This town owed a lot to the Gunthers, and after they left, well, that's when things started going to hell. Redwood Point couldn't support itself on the tourists alone. The merchants couldn't afford to maintain their shops as nice as before. The town began looking dingy. Not as many tourists came. Fewer and… Well, you can see where we ended. At one time, though, this town depended on the Gunthers, and you won't find anyone speaking ill about them."
"Exactly. That's what bothers me."
"I don't understand."
"All those pregnant women coming to that boarding house," you say. "All year round. All through the thirties into the early forties. Even if the Gunthers hadn't hired local servants, the town couldn't have helped but notice that something was wrong about that boarding house. The people here knew what was going on. Couples arriving childless but leaving with a baby. The whole town – even the chief of police – had to be aware that the Gunthers were selling babies."
"Now stop right there." Chief Kitrick stands, his eyes glinting with fury. "The chief of police back then was my father, and I won't let you talk about him like that."
You raise your hands in disgust. "The scheme couldn't have worked unless the chief of police turned his back. The Gunthers probably bribed him. But then the fire ruined everything. Because it attracted outsiders. Fire investigators. The county medical examiner. Maybe the state police. And when they started asking questions about the nursery, the Gunthers and the doctor got out of town."
"I told you I won't listen to you insult my father! Bribes? Why, my father never – "
"Sure," you say. "A pillar of the community. Just like everybody else."
"Get out!"
"Right. As soon as you tell me one more thing. June Engle. Is she still alive? Is she still here in town?"
"I never heard of her," Chief Kitrick growls.
"Right."
Chief Kitrick glares from the open door to his office. You get in your car, drive up the bumpy street, make a U-turn, and pass him. The chief glares harder. In your rearview mirror, you see his diminishing angry profile. You reduce speed and steer toward the left as if taking the upward jolting road out of town. But with a cautious glance toward the chief, you see him stride in nervous victory along the sidewalk. You see him open the door to the bar, and the moment you're out of sight around the corner, you stop.
The clouds are darker, thicker, lower. The wind increases, keening. Sporadic raindrops speckle your windshield. You step from the car, button your jacket, and squint through the biting wind toward the broken skeleton of the pier. The old man you met two days ago no longer slumps on his rickety chair, but just before you turned the corner, movement on your right – through a dusty window in a shack near the pier – attracted your attention. You approach the shack, the door to which faces the seething ocean, but you don't have a chance to knock before the wobbly door creaks open. The old man, wearing a frayed rumpled sweater, cocks his head, frowning, a home-made cigarette dangling from his lips.
You reach for your wallet. "I spoke to you the other day, remember?"
"Yep."
You take a hundred-dollar bill from your wallet. The old man's bloodshot eyes widen. Beyond him, on a table in the shack, you notice a half-dozen empty beer bottles. "Want to earn some quick easy money?"
"Depends."
"June Engle."
"So?"
"Ever heard of her?"
"Yep."
"Is she still alive?"
"Yep."
"Here in town?"
"Yep."
"Where can I find her?"
"This time of day?"
What the old man tells you makes your hand shake when you hand him the money. Shivering but not from the wind, you return to your car. You make sure to take an indirect route to where the old man sent you, lest the chief glance out the tavern window and see you driving past.
"At the synagogue," the old man told you. "Or what used to be the… Ain't that what they call it? A synagogue?"
The sporadic raindrops become a drizzle. A chilling dampness permeates the car, despite its blasting heater. At the far end of town, above the beach, you come to a dismal, single-story, flat-roofed structure. The redwood walls are cracked and warped. The windows are covered with peeling plywood. Waist-high weeds surround it. Heart pounding, you step from the car, ignore the wind that whips drizzle against you, and frown at a narrow path through the weeds that takes you to the front door. A slab of plywood, the door hangs by one hinge and almost falls as you enter.
You face a small vestibule. Sand has drifted in. An animal has made a nest in a corner. Cobwebs hang from the ceiling. The pungent odor of mold attacks your nostrils. Hebraic letters on a wall are so faded that you can't read them. But mostly what you notice is the path through the sand and dust on the floor toward the entrance to the temple.
The peak of your skull feels naked. Instinctively you look around in search of a yarmulke. But after so many years, there aren't any. Removing a handkerchief from your pocket, you place it on your head, open the door to the temple, and find yourself paralyzed, astonished by what you see.
The temple – or what used to be the temple – is barren of furniture. The back wall has an alcove where a curtain once concealed the torah. Before the alcove, an old woman kneels, her withered hips on her bony knees, a handkerchief tied around her head. She murmurs, hands fidgeting as if she holds something before her.
At last you're able to move. Inching forward, pausing beside her, you see the surprising incongruous object she clutches: a rosary. Tears trickle down her cheeks. As close as you are, you still have to strain to distinguish what she murmurs.