CHAPTER 52

THE WEATHER AS WE drove southwest from Jackson to Idaho was foul, creating the worst road conditions I’d ever seen: Snow. Sleet. Ice. Winds gusting to fifty.

We made it out of the Tetons without much trouble, but once we reached Idaho, it was a whiteout again. We crawled into Idaho Falls at two in the morning, got a hotel, and slept through the rest of the storm.

When we set out again, the roads were slick and treacherous all the way north to Leadore. It was nearly four in the afternoon when we finally made it to Salmon and five when we reached North Fork, where Verizon said Bree had last used her cell phone.

My wife and my best friend had been out of touch for more than forty-four hours when we parked in front of the Danvers Country Store and went inside. An enormous man, easily six foot eight and three hundred pounds, was stocking shelves.

We all introduced ourselves, and I showed him pictures of Bree and Sampson, said cell phone records indicated Bree’s phone had last been used in the store’s parking lot.

“Must have been lucky,” Big Ed said. “Cell service is horrible.”

“Have you seen them?”

“Not me,” Big Ed Danvers said. “My wife, Lucille, did. She’s got early-onset Alzheimer’s and about had a nervous breakdown after they left. She’s still got the lows. She’s upstairs.”

Mahoney said, “Can we speak to her, sir? It’s important. Both John and Bree went missing after they were here.”

Big Ed hesitated. “You going to make her sadder?”

I said, “I sure hope not, sir. That is absolutely not our intent.”

Ned said, “We believe she can help us.”

He led us through a door, up a flight of stairs, and into a large apartment. Mrs. Danvers was in her pajamas and robe, curled up on a sofa, watching a movie.

Big Ed said, “These folks are with the FBI, Lucille. They want to know about the two who came the other day to ask about the twins. I’ll be downstairs.”

We sat down. Mrs. Danvers looked like she’d rather be thrown out in the snow than talk to us, but she sat up. “What about them?” she asked. “Those folk weren’t real?”

I said, “They were real, Lucille. Bree is my wife. John is a close friend. They are both detectives. And the last place we know where they were was here two nights ago.”

“Oh,” she said. “There was a horrible storm going on.”

“We know, but there are no accident reports,” Mahoney said. “Mrs. Danvers, can you tell me what you talked about that night?”

She showed us the copies of photographs of her twin boys with their new family. “They said Ryan was dead.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

“They showed me a picture they said was him as a man and I remembered him. They wanted to know about when he was here.”

“He came here?”

“Yes. I mean, I thought it was him,” Mrs. Danvers said, then appeared confused. “I thought he bought all my jam, but I looked and looked in our records. I couldn’t find Ryan Malcomb in the credit cards on Labor Day …”

Mrs. Danvers fell silent, staring at the floor, worrying the sleeve of her robe. Mahoney was about to say something, but I waved him off.

“You wonder,” she said finally, “about genetics and all and what gets passed on even before life has happened. You know what I mean?”

Ned said, “Not really, ma’am.”

“William Malcomb? My late boyfriend and father of the twins? His family had a history of mental illness. His uncle Tate ended up in the ward for the criminally insane at the state hospital after he killed a family up in Bonners Ferry.”

“You think a gene for that was passed to the twins?” I asked.

“Like I said, you wonder.”

“Ma’am, if it’s any consolation, I’m a criminal psychologist, and there’s no evidence that there’s a gene like that.”

“Oh,” she said, brightening a little. “Well, that’s good. I …” Mrs. Danvers looked confused again.

“Ma’am, did my wife and friend say where they were going next?”

“Salmon? I mean, I think that’s what they said.”

Ned got up and I did too, feeling sorry for her and feeling like we were spinning our wheels.

“Thank you, Mrs. Danvers,” I said. “We’ll be going now.”