“There are three major theories about who did it,” Carson said. “Let’s do the least likely first. . . .”

DRUG DEAL

“The police first suspected that it was a drug deal gone wrong. Eric Wilde was the camp pot dealer, and the four of them were out in the woods that night picking up the weekly supply for the camp. So people thought—illegal activity in the woods, must have something to do with it. Also, Eric was found in a different location than the others. Sabrina, Todd, and Diane were in the box. Eric was almost at the camp.”

“But this one is dumb,” Stevie said. “They found all the pot at the crime scene, so the sale had gone through. There’s no reason for anyone to get killed over a little bit of pot that no one even bothered to take.”

“Agree,” Carson said. “Basically, no one really thinks this had anything to do with it, but it was an easy explanation, especially then. Pot in the woods ending in multiple murders? Sure, why not. Now, the next one is more compelling and was the most popular theory for a long time. . . .”

THE WOODSMAN

“So the 1970s were kind of the golden age of serial killers. There were loads of them. There was one known to operate in the area at the time called the Woodsman. The first murder was in 1973, in New Hampshire. Then there were two in Massachusetts, one each in 1974 and 1976, and two in upstate New York in 1975. There were two more cases, in 1979 and 1980, both back in New Hampshire. The Woodsman stabbed his victims and left them in the woods, covered in sticks and debris, with their hands and feet bound in red cording. In all the cases, the word Surprise was written somewhere near the scene, usually on a tree. So it looks like the Woodsman, right? Now, here’s the thing . . . the Woodsman’s crimes were in the news. The local paper even covered the story in 1976.”

Carson brought up a photocopy of an old newspaper article entitled “Woodland Killer Strikes Near Hawley.”

“This murder happened about a forty-five-minute drive from here, so it was local enough. It’s a real seventies kind of story. A nineteen-year-old girl named Becky O’Keefe was a free spirit who was spending the summer camping in the Berkshires. Her friends last saw her when she left to hitchhike to get to another campsite to meet a guy. She was found two days later. This newspaper article says that her legs and wrists were bound in red cord, and that the word Surprise was written on a tree. This is pretty much exactly how the bodies in the box in the woods were found. But the police kept some details out of the press: in all the Woodsman killings, the bodies were bound with torn pieces of silky red fabric ripped into pieces, and all the messages were written in chalk. So it seemed obvious from the start that someone was copying the details in the paper. This killer used white paint and red nylon cord.”

“So it was a copycat,” Stevie said. “Did they find out anything about the paint or the cord?”

“The white paint was found to be a common type that you could buy at almost any hardware store in the northeastern United States. The cord was a little more interesting. . . .”

A close-up photograph of a piece of red cord on a white background came up on the screen. There was a ruler under the cord, showing that this section was six inches long.

“This particular cord was sold in sporting goods stores, and it was commonly used in water-related sports in the area. Fishermen used it to secure boats and supplies. The camp used it to tie up canoes. The police tried to run down all recent purchases of the cord, but the best guess is that someone probably lifted it from a boat or a supply shed. It would have been easy enough to get.”

“Can’t they test for DNA?” Janelle said.

“Here’s where things in this case get ridiculous—the police got rid of most of the clothing the victims were wearing.”

“What?” Nate said.

“It’s amazing, but it’s true. They still have Eric’s T-shirt, but all the rest? Someone just . . . got rid of them. They tested the shirt and came up with a profile, but it didn’t match the Woodsman samples. Could have been the killer’s. Could have been anyone’s. There was nothing usable on the cord.”

“Didn’t they test the town or anything?” Nate asked. “Don’t they do that, take samples from everyone?”

“What they found wasn’t good enough to test everyone against. And now we come to the third. . . .”

REVENGE

“Revenge,” Nate read in a low voice. “Revennnnnge.”

He brought up a photo of a smiling young boy.

“The previous December,” Carson said, “in 1977, an eleven-year-old named Michael Penhale was struck and killed by a car. No one was ever arrested or charged. It was written off as a hit-and-run. But it seemed to be common knowledge in town that Michael was run over by Todd Cooper. His brother, Paul, was friends with the victims and worked at the camp. The neighbors said that the Penhale family was home on the night of the murders, and Paul Penhale had someone who could place him at the camp that night. That person was Shawn Greenvale, Sabrina Abbott’s ex-boyfriend. Sabrina had broken up with him a few weeks before. Some people speculated that either Paul or Shawn might have wanted to kill Todd or Sabrina, respectively, but they were also seen by Susan Marks, the head of camp. Also, nothing ties them to the case except for the fact that Todd probably hit Michael Penhale, and Sabrina broke up with Shawn. And that is pretty much that. The case was so badly handled from the start that it was dead in the water.”

Carson hit the remote again, and the screen glided up to the ceiling, rolling itself snugly back to sleep. The lights came up like a sunrise.

“Our goal this summer,” he said, “is to make some headway into a case that’s been dormant for decades. It may seem difficult, but we have a lot going for us. I own the camp, so we can turn it upside down if we want. Lots of people who were alive then are still here in town. We have the internet. And we have Stevie. We have an early start tomorrow. I’ll come get you guys at, say, seven?”

When Carson left, the three friends sat in their respective beanbags for a moment in silence.

“The murder camp thing is a little less fun now,” Nate finally said.

5

STEVIE TRIED TO FOCUS HER NEWLY OPENED EYES ON THE THING hanging from the ceiling. What the hell was she looking at?

Oh right. The trapeze.

Stevie had spent the night in a pile of beanbags on the floor of the main room. There were several guest bedrooms in the Bounce House, but she had fallen asleep here while talking to Nate and decided to stay. She would have been content to stay there for a while longer, floating on the foam or beads, drifting in and out of sleep, but Janelle was up and moving, and it sounded like Nate was in the shower. She pushed herself up and began getting ready for the day.

Carson appeared several minutes early, not bothering to knock as he came into the barn.

“Lots to do today,” he said. “First, we’ll drive through the town so I can show you all around. Then we’ll go to the camp, get you settled in, give you the whole tour.”

The drive from Carson’s compound to the town was a sedate one. Every house had a front porch, often a screened one. Everywhere you looked there were flags, flower planters, green lawns, and shady spaces. This was the kind of town where everyone seemed to have a tire swing. There was one incredibly sharp turn along a wooded stretch, which then led them past a full-size blue billboard that read LIBERTY HIGH, HOME OF THE MIGHTY OWLS.