Eugene is not on his houseboat when I arrive. Captain is, asleep across the threshold with the confidence of a dog whose security arrangements consist entirely of being in the way.
A note is clipped to the rail: Back shortly. He has water. Do not feed him.
I lower the bag of scones as though Eugene might be watching.
He comes along the dock carrying a small parcel and sees me reading the note.
“That’s for the tourists,” he says. “He persuades them he’s starving.”
“Does it work?”
“Look at him.”
Captain opens one eye and makes no effort to dispute the charge.
I give Eugene the detective’s message. He says tomorrow afternoon is fine; his telephone has been charging below deck because it loses power if he leaves the screen on. He writes the appointment on the back of an envelope and puts it beneath his mug.
That is the errand complete. I should go. Instead I ask whether he has seen the community post.
“Patricia called me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Did you write it?”
“No.”
“Then tell me what you’re sorry for.”
I sit on the bench opposite him. I tell him I described his car sighting to Dale. I tell him I repeated it to Marina. I tell him the post treats him as an eyewitness to something he did not see.
He listens without giving me the absolution I am trying not to request.
“You thought he did it,” he says.
“I still think he may have. But I made what you saw sound stronger than it was.”
Eugene looks toward the hill. “People did that with Hank’s story. Thomas walked away. Everyone repeated it until the walking was something they’d all witnessed.”
I cannot look at the house from here without imagining Thomas being carried instead.
“I’ve told Davenport where I repeated things.”
“Good.”
“Will you still give the statement?”
“Yes. It will be what I saw.”
He opens the parcel. Inside is a bundle of photographs Patricia has sent, held between pieces of cardboard. Thomas at a workbench. Thomas on a boat. Thomas with a girl I assume is Patricia, both of them squinting into sunlight.
“She wants a photograph ready,” Eugene says. “For when we find him.”
He says when without asking me to support it. I am glad. I have no promise to give him.
“Can I help choose?”
“Tell me which looks like a person. Not a missing notice.”
We lay the photographs on the bench. In one, Thomas is eating an ice cream with his chin lifted to save a drop. It has already landed on his shirt. He looks delighted by his own failure.
“That one,” I say.
Eugene studies it. “He’d hate it.”
“Then maybe not.”
“No. He’d complain. That’s different.”
His smile lasts until footsteps sound on the gangplank. Hank stands at the rail holding a paper carrier from the bar. His apron is still tied at his waist.
“I brought supper,” he says.
Eugene does not move.
Hank looks at the photographs, then at me. “I can come back.”
“No,” Eugene says. “If you’re here, be here.”
I begin gathering the photographs, but Eugene puts a hand on the edge of one.
“Leave those.”
Hank remains standing. Captain gets up to investigate the food, receives no encouragement, and lies down again with a wounded sigh.
“I told the detective,” Hank says. “About the garden. All of it.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell her you looked at me the next morning and said he must have gone to cool off?”
Hank closes his eyes. “Yes.”
“Did you tell her I asked you to help search and you did? That you walked beside me calling his name?”
The harbor moves against the hull. Somewhere behind us a rope taps a mast, regular and light.
“I didn’t know where they put him,” Hank says.
“You knew he wouldn’t answer.”
Hank sets the carrier on the deck. His hands are empty now, and he looks as though he has no idea what to do with them.
“Yes.”
I keep still. There is nothing I can offer this conversation. No bread, no tea, no sensible question that will reduce the years between them.
“Dale said I’d be charged,” Hank says. “I was frightened.”
“Of what would happen to you.”
“Yes.”
Eugene picks up the ice-cream photograph. He does not show it to Hank.
“Did he ask for help?”
Hank’s mouth opens, then closes. “He was breathing. I didn’t hear words.”
“You could have called.”
“I could have.”
The answer is bare enough that I see Eugene flinch. Perhaps an excuse would have given him something to push against. There is nothing to fight in that admission except the fact itself.
Hank takes a folded page from his pocket.
“These are the names of everyone I remember at the party. Some are dead. I’ve marked the ones I don’t know how to find. I gave the detective a copy.”
Eugene accepts the page.
“That’s useful,” he says.
Hank nods. He waits one second too long.
“It isn’t forgiveness,” Eugene adds.
“I know.”
“Don’t ask me for that while we’re still looking for him.”
Hank unties his apron, folds it over his arm, and leaves. He forgets the supper. Neither of us calls him back for it.
After the gangplank stops moving, Eugene sets the list beside tomorrow’s appointment.
“People want the telling to make it finished,” he says.
“I think Hank wants to help.”
“He can. I’m letting him.”
The distinction settles more slowly than it should. I have been measuring progress by whether people feel lighter. Eugene has given Hank work instead. Perhaps it is the more honest kindness.
We put the photographs away. He keeps the ice-cream picture out to show Patricia on their next call.
“Will you drive me tomorrow?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“I can take the bus. I just don’t want to spend the ride home wondering what everyone thinks.”
“I’ll drive.”
He opens the scone bag at last. There are two, and a small broken end wrapped separately. He reads the note again, then gives the end to Captain.
“Witness protection,” he tells the dog.
I laugh. Eugene does not, but his mouth shifts at one corner.
On the walk home I call Davenport to confirm the appointment. I tell her Hank was there and spoke to Eugene about the old death. She asks whether they discussed the car sighting. They did not. I tell her I apologized for repeating Eugene’s account too strongly.
“What did he say?”
“That he’ll tell you what he saw.”
“Good.”
No praise for me. No invitation to investigate further. Tomorrow I am a driver, and Eugene is the witness. For the first time, I am relieved to have a job with clear edges.
At Hawthorn House, Agnes is waiting beside the back door with two bowls of stew. I tell her about Hank, carefully, leaving out what belongs to Eugene.
“Will they ever be friends again?” she asks.
“I don’t know.”
She hands me a bowl. “Then we won’t tell them they should be.”
We eat at the table. The chair where Dale used to sit remains empty, but neither of us looks at it until Clover jumps up and begins washing a paw.