“How far are we?” McAdams asked.
“About twenty minutes,” Decker said.
“Pretty though.” McAdams looked around. “New York makes pretty good Riesling and gewürztraminer. I once thought about buying a winery. Then I decided it made more sense to buy the wine rather than make it.”
“It’s one of those romantic but impractical notions,” Decker said.
“Yeah, any kind of agriculture is hard work.” McAdams checked his phone. “No word from anyone in Greenbury. You’d think they’d have found something by now.”
The wineries soon gave way to empty fields of dry grass. “They should be getting more dogs in the late afternoon.”
“That’ll only work if there’s a scent to follow.”
“Maybe the dogs can pick something up in the woods,” Decker said. “We have to be able to rule out an accident. He could have tripped and hurt himself. It was dark last night.”
“Yes, of course. How far away are we now?”
“Around ten minutes.” Decker smiled. “You’re like a little kid, Harvard. ‘Are we there yet?’ You have bars now. Go fiddle with your phone.”
“I hate to say this but I have to take a piss.”
“Bad?”
“Sooner than later.”
“Want me to pull over?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?” Decker was surprised, but he eased the car to the curb when he saw a copse of oak trees. “I would think pissing outside would be below your pay grade.”
“Certainly, I wouldn’t do it in the city, although no one would say anything if I did. But here in the middle of nowhere?” He opened the door. “I’m still a guy, boss. I revel in the marvels of outdoor plumbing.”
Built in an open field, the residential facility sat on acreage that held shale reserves. The area had once been used for fracking until it was outlawed by the state in 2014. While the terrain wasn’t thickly forested, there was plenty of nature nearby. Decker wondered why the home would choose to bus its residents two hours away for a simple hike in the woods.
The drive up to the entrance led to a guardhouse and a gate. After giving their names to a uniformed man with a black mustache, Decker and McAdams were allowed to continue inside the premises. The parklike space was a deep green lawn, the blades dripping from a recent watering. There were benches placed at strategic spots—near flower gardens or under big shady oaks—but no one was out. It could be the warm weather or it could be that the home wanted to keep a closer eye on its residents.
The compound was anything but institutional. It was a series of low-profile, one-story structures with red-tiled roofs and pink stucco walls more at home in Miami or Los Angeles. The landscape between the buildings consisted of rose beds woven with flagstone pavers. To the left of the driveway was a parking lot. Decker found a space marked visitors and angled into the slot.
The two men got out and walked over to double glass doors. They were buzzed into a reception area. The woman behind the desk looked to be in her fifties, with short, straight, salt-and-pepper hair and a pleasant smile. Her name tag said she was Linda Kravitz, and she asked how she could help. Decker showed identification. “We’re here to see Dr. Lewis.”
She looked up from Decker’s billfold. “Horrible business. Where is poor Bertram?”
“We’ve got an entire community out there looking for him, Ms. Kravitz.”
“Nothing like this has ever happened before. It’s so distressing.”
“Did you know Bertram?” Decker asked.
“Oh sure. I know all the residents.”
“How many are there?” McAdams asked.
“Currently? Fifty-nine.”
“What is Bertram like?” Decker asked.
“A quiet, well-behaved man. He was new here. Well, not new. A little over a year. I only say new because some of our residents have been here for years.”
“Was he a transfer from some other residential home?”
Linda looked sheepish. “I really shouldn’t be talking about him without permission.”
Decker was persistent. “I’m just wondering if it’s possible that he went back to where he lived before. Would you know his previous residence? It might save everyone time and heartache.”
“But how would he get there?”
“I don’t know, ma’am, but it’s a simple phone call.”
“I’ll leave that up to Dr. Lewis. Anyway, you can ask him directly.” She turned to the phone on her desk and picked up the receiver. Talking softly, she hung up and said, “He’ll be with you in a few minutes.” She pointed to several plastic chairs bolted to the floor. “Please have a seat.”
They sat.
McAdams’s eyes followed a pathway to an open space that looked like a lounge. He caught a glimpse of a room filled with couches, chairs, tables set with games, a piano, and the ever-present flat-screen TV. The space seemed to extend beyond his field of vision, but from where he could see, there wasn’t a soul.
“Where is everyone?” he whispered to Decker.
“Good question.”
A moment later a man came into the reception area, introducing himself with an outstretched hand. “Lionel Lewis.” A quick shake. “Please come this way.” He walked quickly, glancing behind his shoulder. “This has been just dreadful. How could this have happened?”
“That seems to be the question on everyone’s mind,” Decker said.
Lewis muttered something unintelligible. He was tall, high-waisted, and long-limbed. Dark, worried eyes peered out from a long face with prominent cheekbones. His complexion was a warm sepia and his dark hair was cut close to his scalp. He wore navy slacks and a white, button-down shirt rolled up at the sleeves and open at the neck.
He led them past the lounge, through another hallway, and into a generous-size office filled with natural light from windows that looked out to the still-empty lawn. The furnishings were spare—a desk, a desk chair, and more plastic chairs for guests—but floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were packed with academic texts on health management and hospital administration. There were also books on educational psychology and special education. Any leftover wall space was taken up by diplomas, professional licenses, and certificates of excellence. Lewis was a Harvard graduate. If Decker had to guess an age, Lewis looked to be in his mid-forties.
“Please sit.” Lewis pointed to the plastic chairs. His face was very somber.
After the men sat down, McAdams asked, “What house?”
“Excuse me?” Lewis looked confused. McAdams cocked a thumb in the direction of the diploma. “Oh, Lowell.”
“I was in the Quad. Cabot.”
“When did you graduate?”
“Six years ago.”
“Ah.” Lewis looked at his diplomas. “As you can see, I was there for a while after graduation.”
“He just graduated Harvard Law,” Decker said.
“Really.” Lewis nodded. “Nice place to be. I wish I was there now . . . anywhere but here.” His eyes met Decker’s. “And you’ve had no luck whatsoever?”
“I haven’t heard anything.” Decker paused. “We were wondering. The lawn outside is empty. The lounge is empty. Where is everyone?”