All the Colors of the Dark — Chapter 102

102

His name was Walter Strike. He walked with a cane and limp and told Patch of his ancestors, Revolutionary War patriots and a secessionist government that spoke of fierce independence.

The backdrop of mountains rolled toward Virginia, a vein so ornery Patch felt the fight in the man as they walked beneath the patterned shade of palmetto.

“I used to think we didn’t need anyone,” Walter said.

Patch smoothed his hair beneath his cap and buried his hands deep in his pockets.

“Cops can’t do enough. My Eloise was fifteen, and they acted like that was of age. Like she wasn’t a child at all.”

They passed a woman with four children tangling around her, speaking a language fast and loud and sweet.

“Gullah,” Walter said, nodded to the lady and smiled at the children.

“Friends say she took off with one of them, but I know she wouldn’t.”

Patch listened intently to these stories, trying to build Grace from their memories and always missing necessary materials.

“My wife still jumps out of bed when we hear a car slow at night. Like she expects her to roll in, maybe a little drunk, rattle the cabinets as she fixes a sandwich like she used to. Play my Johnny Cash records and start wailing.” He laughed.

They spent the afternoon at Middleton Place, an Ashley River Plantation, the gardens so elegant Patch wondered how anything bad could have ever happened there. Walter told him of the day she vanished, how the cops followed a trail so long it led to black water swamps.

They slowed by a gazebo, stood well back as a couple posed for photographs, the bride flushed in her simple white gown.

Neither said it. Walter’s daughter, Eloise, was likely dead. He would not get to stand at her wedding and watch her smile, give her hand to someone, see his wife’s tears.

“I have a son, Coop, and he lost his way when Eloise…he works in a library now. He lives quiet, because the world lost its sound and taste and… It’s a hard thing to do.”

The day faded out and the last Carolina wren sang.

“What?” Patch said, quiet like he was afraid.

“Say goodbye. How many people have you seen just like me?”

Patch thought of the noticeboards in his old basement. The faces. The map dotted at Wild Basin, Kitt Peak, Chesapeake. And so on. He knew the first names of two dozen charity workers that dedicated their lives to

finding the missing.

“Too many,” Walter said.

“Not enough.”

The man extended a hand, held on a little longer and pulled Patch close.

“I know you’ve been told this before and will likely hear it again. You get a single shot…doesn’t seem fair, but aim right and it’s enough. I won’t ever forget you coming to see me, just to hear someone speak her name awhile has been everything. If you learn from the times you go wrong, you can revel in the times you don’t.”

OceanofPDF.com