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Shirley Bowes walked through briars and along hiking trails holding a wooden Y-shaped stick, letting it pull her this way and that. The stick tilted down and vibrated a little when she was supposedly on the right track. It looked to Rhonda like the stick was
leading the poor old lady with the sensible shoes in circles. And right at her heels was Pat, Trudy Florucci in tow. And the cameras all around them clicked and flashed.

Trudy was looking a little the worse for wear. There were whispers that it was Trudy’s own fault that Ernie was gone. What kind of mother left her six-year-old daughter alone in the car like that? Rhonda knew that Katy’s mom was providing some kind of pills for Trudy.Something for her nerves, Katy had whispered. But it seemed that Trudy was taking more and more of them, and by the time they searched the park, she was all but staggering and drooling. At one point, Shirley was leading a small group up a rocky hill and Trudy lost her footing, twisting an ankle. She lay in the leaf litter, sobbing. Pat called for Warren to come and take her back to base camp, which consisted of a few tables set up with coffee, sandwiches, and maps next to the ranger station—and, of course, camera crews. Warren was having trouble guiding Trudy by himself, and called for Rhonda to come help.

Trudy’s only protest was to narrow her eyes at Rhonda and say, “You!”

“I’m here to help,” Rhonda said.

“You want to help?” Trudy gave a bitter laugh. “You wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“Please, Miss Florucci, I…”

“Mrs.Florucci,” Trudy corrected in a drug-slurred voice. “My husband, my husband, Sal, he lost his right arm in an accident just last year. He killed himself six months ago. He was a granite cutter, and his arm was crushed by a piece of rock.

“For weeks after the accident Sal woke up in the night swearing he could still feel his arm:It feels tingly, like it’s asleep, he’d tell me. I’d turn on the light and he’d stare at the stump like he couldn’t believe his own eyes.”

Rhonda nodded, didn’t know what to say. Trudy leaned into her, hobbling on one foot, Warren at her right side.

“At night, when I sleep, sometimes I dream none of this has happened, and Ernie’s right there beside me. I wake up and lie still, sure I can feel Ernie tucked safely under my arm, spooned up against me. I cansmell her, almost taste her.” Trudy looked to Rhonda, her eyes full of rage once more. “And then I turn on the light.”

They were nearly back to base camp now, and television cameras were pointed at them.

“Are you hurt, Trudy?” one of the reporters called.

“Have they found anything yet?” another asked.

Trudy hung her head, and Warren stepped protectively in front of her. “Give her some space, for God’s sake,” he snapped.

“You can dream all you want,” Trudy whispered, her breath hot in Rhonda’s ear. “But at some point, someone’s gonna turn on the goddamn light.”

THE HILLSIDES WEREsearched all day and no sign of Ernie was found. Then, the next morning, a volunteer fireman discovered a pile of bones hidden in a cluster of rocks. The forensic team was called in and quickly identified the fragmented bones as animal: deer, most likely. The fireman had discovered the den of a coyote. The news cameras filmed a shaky Trudy with Pat clinging hard to her arm like she was keeping Trudy from floating away. The volunteers went home at the end of the day, everyone convinced that Ernie Florucci, wherever she may be, was not in the state forest.

RHONDA AND WARRENwent back to Pat’s to check if any new information had come in. The phones were being manned by a grouchy old Cecil, who had a bad hip and couldn’t join the search team at the state park.

“Not a damn thing. Phone didn’t ring once. The most exciting
part of my day was when that little Katy brought me these goddamn brownies.” He gestured spitefully at the tray of goodies. “I ate about half of them—whichI’m not supposed to, with my sugar. Doc put me on pills, maybe I’ll just take an extra tonight.” He sighed, ruminating on his misfortune for a moment. “Oh, and she dropped this off for you.” He handed over a manila envelope withWARREN & RHONDA scrawled on the outside in pink marker.

“Damn shame you didn’t find anything in the forest. Watching it on the news at noon, I felt almost as bad for Patty as for Trudy. She’s taking it real hard.”

Warren nodded. “She’s doing all she can.”

“You know, I was on the fire department back when Rebecca was killed,” Cecil said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “I was one of the first on the scene. I’m the one who grabbed Patty and took her away. She didn’t need to see her sister all messed up like a bunch of dog food.”

“Rebecca?” Rhonda asked. Nothing about this story was familiar to her.

“My mom’s and Pat’s little sister,” Warren explained. Rhonda remembered the photograph in Pat’s office, the littlest girl on the end, her hair in ribbons.

“Hit by a logging truck back in ’73. I’m no headshrinker, but know what I think?” Cecil asked. “I think Patty’s always blamed herself. I mean, she was the only one at home that day with Rebecca. She was supposed to be keeping an eye on her. But little girls can be as slippery as snakes—weren’t her fault and nobody ever said it were. Just the same, all these years later, here’s a chance to save another little girl. And she jumps on it. Throws herself into it like it’s her life’s calling. Right?”

Warren nodded.

Two lost girls,Rhonda was thinking.

Cecil got up to leave. “She was holding one of Rebecca’s little
shoes when I found her. A white sneaker stained with blood. Wouldn’t let it go.” He pulled on an old VFD baseball cap. “Damn shame,” he mumbled. They thanked Cecil and watched him go.

“I can’t believe I never heard the story of Rebecca,” Rhonda said.

“It was a long time ago,” Warren said. “And one of those things people don’t talk about, like cancer or something. I barely know the story myself and it was my own family.”

Rhonda nodded, thinking of the secrets in her family.

“So, what do you think?” Warren asked. “Is it worth sticking around or should we go for beer?” He opened the envelope from Katy and shook it to let the paper fall out.

“I vote for beer. It’s been a hell of a long day and it’s not like the phones have been ringing off the hook.”

She glanced down at the paper on the table. It was a color photocopy of Ernie’s drawing of Rabbit Island. Attached to it was a sticky note:Worried the original might get confiscated, so I made a copy. Thought you might want one too. I still say it’s some kind of park with a stone garden or something. K.

Warren turned the drawing to face him, and Rhonda was looking at it upside down, and only seeing it from this unfamiliar perspective did she recognize Rabbit Island for what it was.

“The beer’s going to have to wait,” Rhonda said. “Come on, we’re going for a ride.”

JUNE 12, 1993

PETER HAD HISscripts printed and everyone was ready to go. He decided they would start at the beginning: with Peter Pan arriving in the nursery and taking the children away. Little Jamie O’Shea was playing Michael, and his brother Malcolm played John. The O’Sheas were quiet, red-haired boys from the end of the street, who had to be coached constantly to say their lines louder.

“What?” Peter yelled after one of them had spoken. “Speak up, John! Speak up, Michael! Or I’ll feed you to the crocodile!”

But the problem was, they had no crocodile. Not yet. The lost boys, Indians, and pirates were all younger kids, summer kids whose folks owned cottages on the lake. They came back year after year, making their way to the woods to shyly ask Peter if they could try out for the play. Anyone who tried out got a part, even if it meant having to write in a new character.

The summer kids couldn’t make it to every rehearsal, because
their families took them swimming, boating, and fishing. None of these kids wanted the role of the crocodile. All the girls wanted Tiger Lily or Tinker Bell, but some were made pirates, others lost boys and Indians. The littlest girl of all, Natalie, played Tinker Bell in her pink bathing suit with wire wings draped in gauze.

Peter was perched in the window of the nursery, about to make his entrance, when, suddenly, Jamie O’Shea screamed.

“What is it now?” Peter demanded.

“A bee stung me!” Jamie yelled. “Ow! It got me again!”

Then Malcolm joined in: “OW!” And grabbed his butt.

Peter jumped down from the window into the nursery and looked around. “I don’t see any bees.”

Rhonda got up from the cot she was lying on and looked around, agreeing. There were no bees. Not so much as a mosquito or a blackfly.

“None of the stinging buggers here, matey,” called Lizzy, watching from the deck of her pirate ship that was actually the hood of Clem’s old car. A couple of the younger pirates sat in the backseat, sharing a bag of chocolate-covered peanuts. There were half a dozen other kids milling around, dressed as Indians and lost boys, waiting for Peter and the Darling children to fly off to Neverland so they could do the next scene. Panic sets in quickly among the bored.

Jamie slapped frantically at his neck, screaming, “Bees!” as he ran in circles around the stage.

“There must be a nest,” Malcolm cried to the group of kids assembled. “Everyone run!”

And before Peter could stop them, there went his entire cast, with the exception of Rhonda and Lizzy, running wildly through the woods, screaming about killer bees.

Then came the laugh from the top of the trees. They looked up and there was Greta Clark, BB gun in hand, legs wrapped around the top of a white pine.

“Greta!” Peter shouted. “You could have put someone’s eye out with that thing!”

“Buzz, buzz, buzz!” she shouted back.

Greta lived in a trailer near the lake with her kooky mother, Laura Lee Clark, who claimed to have been in just about every movie made in the seventies. There was never any confirmation of what might have happened to Greta’s father, who might or might not have been Warren Beatty, according to Laura Lee.

Greta Clark was twelve and carried a homemade bow and arrows and a BB gun that she used to shoot squirrels. She wore a red felt cowboy hat meant for a kid much smaller than her, and it just perched on the very top of her head, the chin strap pulled tight to keep it in place.

Greta fought mean and dirty. She would challenge a kid to a bicycle race, and halfway through, his front wheel would come loose or his tire would go flat because of a tiny pebble jammed up inside the valve. During a fistfight (of which there had been many over the years), she would throw sand in her opponent’s face, or, if he was a boy, grab his privates and squeeze as hard as she could until he lay moaning and puking in the dirt, kicking like a bug stuck on its back.

There was also a rumor at school that she was a lesbo.

“Your play sucks shit!” Greta called down.

“I think we should kick her ass,” said Lizzy. She was perched on the roof of the car, waving her coat hanger hook through the air, wooden sword drawn. She had on black satin pants tucked into an old pair of her father’s motorcycle boots. They were way too big for her feet, so she wore them with lots of pairs of socks. She had a ruffled white shirt with a wide lapel and an old red velvet jacket that she’d sewn some gold trim to. On her head was the big splurge, an actual black pirate hat from the costume shop up in Burlington.

Peter shook his head. “We’ve gotta get to Clem’s birthday
party anyway. We’ll round up everyone tomorrow and have a real rehearsal.” He jumped off the stage and started to walk down the path to Rhonda’s house.

“You’re not gonna do anything?” Lizzy asked when the girls caught up with him.

“What, you mean to Greta?” Peter asked.

“Well, yeah! She just ruined our first rehearsal,” Lizzy said.

“What am I supposed to do, climb the tree and drag her down?”

“Something like that,” Lizzy said. “I’ll let her have it with my hook!” She waved her coat hanger hook through the air menacingly.

“Nah,” said Peter. “The best thing we can do is ignore her. She just wants attention.”

Lizzy leaned into Rhonda and said, “Maybe she’s harassing us ’cause she’s got a crush on you!”

“No,” Rhonda said. “It’syou she wants. She must have heard you singing ‘Achy Breaky Heart’ and fell head over heels!”

They both cackled.

“But you know I was singing for you, Wendy,” Lizzy said.

“Oh Captain Hook,” Rhonda swooned, “you’re so romantic.” She grabbed Lizzy’s hand and coat hanger hook, dancing a few steps until the hook came off in her hands, which prompted Lizzy to sing a few lines of the old Patsy Cline song “I Fall to Pieces” in her booming pirate voice. She finished with a high kick, and one of her huge motorcycle boots went flying off, crashing through a stand of striped maple. Both girls convulsed with laughter again.

“Would you guys grow up?” said Peter, glancing back over his shoulder at the figure high up in the tree.

THE GRILL WAScrammed with burgers and hot dogs, and the picnic table was laid out with potato and pasta salads and a sheet
cake that saidHAPPY BIRTHDAY CLEM in Justine’s careful script. There were two bowls of punch, one of them for the kids, and the other one was having another cup of dark rum added by Aggie, who insisted it was still too weak.