Installment 7

Jake let his mind wander on the ride back from the Waterford Retirement Home. He went over again and again the story Michael had shared. Was it really what Walter wanted to tell him - - that he knew what happened to Bobby Loomis? Jake had few answers, and the trail seemed to be cold. He didn’t want to draw attention to it by digging for information about an unsolved case that no one wanted to remember.

Jake took to staying in Walter’s spacious house rather than his cramped cabin. Most nights, Jake didn’t sleep, but when he did, his dreams were filled with three boys, skeletons, and questions. As he walked down the hallway one day, Jake caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His face was ashen, with splotches of red surrounding his eyes. Walter had let his secret destroy a part of himself. Now it had become a burden for Jake. Suddenly, frustrated, Jake punched the mirror, feeling detached as he watched the glass shatter and his knuckles bleed. He wanted the glittering pieces on the ground to turn into a telltale clue, allowing him to uncover the truth. He wanted a piece of parchment to fall from the mirror. He wanted the blood on his hand to become an epiphany. The throbbing pain coming from his hand brought Jake back to reality.

With bandaged hand, Jake cleaned up the broken glass, feeling utterly defeated. He walked back to the kitchen and reached for the address book in which he had found Michael Glosham’s name. Jake was hoping to find something odd or inconsistent. After looking at every entry and finding no meaning, Jake closed the book, resting his bandaged hand on the back cover. Jake could feel an odd ridge – was it from the bandages? He looked down at his hand: no. It was from the book. He moved his fingers along, trying to trace the shape. He flipped the back of the book open, and noticed that the last pages had been glued over the back cover, sealing something inside.

Jake tore at the book, his fingernails clawing like a hungry animal. There was a flash and a metallic sound as an object fell from the book and hit the floor. Jake picked it up and found himself holding a key. The numbers “307” had been pressed into the top of the key. Jake’s mind raced: what was the key for? An apartment, a post office box, a safe? He reached for the address book once more, looking at the now torn last pages. On the page that had been pressed against the key was one last entry in Walter’s handwriting. Bank of Silverdale, Box 307. The trail, like a twisted fuse, had been ignited once more.