She answered after two rings.
"Arthur?"
"I received something."
"What kind of something?"
"A letter."
"Threatening?"
"Possibly."
"Read it to me."
I did.
When I finished, Emily remained silent.
Then she asked:
"Where did David make his last phone call?"
I closed my eyes.
"At the old telephone exchange near Route 17."
"Are you sure?"
"According to the original records, yes."
"That building was demolished years ago."
"I know."
"Arthur, listen carefully. This could be someone trying to lure you into a trap."
"That's what I thought."
"Then why are you considering going?"
I looked at David's photograph on the mantelpiece.
"Because the letter knows something that wasn't included in the public investigation."
Emily sighed.
"Don't go alone."
"I won't."
"And Arthur?"
"Yes?"
"If this is connected to the old case, there's a possibility that someone inside our investigation team is compromised."
I stared at the letter.
The thought had crossed my mind.
But hearing Emily say it aloud made the possibility far more frightening.
"How much do you know about the people who helped bring down Blackridge?" I asked.
"Enough to trust some of them."
"Some?"
"Nobody is beyond scrutiny, Arthur."
I nodded.
"Then let's find out who sent this letter."
The old telephone exchange stood near a stretch of abandoned railway land approximately four miles outside Millbrook.
It had been demolished years earlier, but the concrete foundation remained.
A few rusted cables still emerged from the ground.
I arrived shortly after sunset.
The sky was darkening, and a cold wind moved across the empty field.
I parked my truck near a row of trees.
Before leaving, I checked the small recording device attached beneath my jacket.
Emily had insisted that I carry it.
She had also arranged for two agents to remain within driving distance, although they would not approach unless I gave them a signal.
I stepped out.
The place was silent.
Then I noticed something.
A small white envelope had been placed beneath a broken concrete block.
I picked it up.
Inside was a photograph.
It showed David standing beside a young woman.
They were smiling.
I recognized David immediately.
But I didn't recognize the woman.
On the back, someone had written:
She was never your son's girlfriend.
I frowned.
What was that supposed to mean?
I turned the photograph over again.
The woman was wearing a necklace.
A small silver pendant shaped like a compass.
I had seen that necklace before.
Not on David's girlfriend.
On Eleanor.
My wife had owned an identical pendant.
I felt a strange pressure in my chest.
I looked around the empty field.
"Who's there?"
No answer.
Then a voice came from behind the remains of the old building.
"Mr. Bennett."
A man stepped into view.
He was thin, perhaps in his late sixties, wearing a dark coat and carrying a walking stick.
I recognized him.
Not immediately.
But after several seconds, the truth struck me.
It was George Patterson.
The former police lieutenant who had worked on David's original investigation.
The same man who had supposedly retired seventeen years ago.
The same man whose name appeared in Eleanor's notebook.
I stared at him.
"You're supposed to be dead."
He gave a tired smile.
"That's what they wanted everyone to believe."
"Who?"
"Blackridge."
I took a step toward him.
"Why did you disappear?"
"Because I knew what happened to David."
My throat tightened.
"Then tell me."
Patterson looked toward the road.
"Not here."
"You've had seventeen years."
"I know."
"Why now?"
He looked directly at me.
"Because the person who killed your son has just been released from prison."
I felt the world become strangely quiet.
"Who?"
Patterson opened his mouth.
Before he could answer, headlights appeared at the far end of the road.
A vehicle was approaching.
Patterson's expression changed.
"We have to move."
"Who is that?"
"Someone who should never have known I was coming."
The vehicle stopped.
Two men stepped out.
One shouted:
"Lieutenant Patterson! Don't move!"
Patterson grabbed my arm.
"Run, Arthur!"
We moved toward the trees.
A loud crack split the air.
I heard something strike the concrete behind us.
Another shot followed.
Patterson stumbled.
I caught him before he fell.
"Are you hit?"
He shook his head.
"Keep moving."
We reached the edge of the railway land and disappeared into the darkness.
For nearly ten minutes, we moved through the trees without speaking.
Finally, Patterson collapsed against an old fence.
He was breathing heavily.
I crouched beside him.
"Tell me who killed my son."
He looked at me.
Then he whispered:
"Your son was alive for nearly six hours after the crash."
I stared at him.
"What?"
"The official report said he died at the scene. That was a lie."
My hands began to tremble.
"Where was he?"
Patterson closed his eyes.
"At the hospital."
I felt something inside me break.
For seventeen years, I had believed David died alone on a dark highway.
Now I was being told he had survived.
That he had been taken somewhere.
That someone had hidden the truth from me.
"Why wasn't I told?"
Patterson looked away.
"Because he wasn't supposed to survive."
I helped Patterson into my truck and drove toward an isolated medical clinic outside Ashford.
He refused to go to a hospital.
He said too many people knew where he was, and he did not trust the local medical system.
Once we were inside the clinic, a retired physician examined him.