Chapter 23
Au Sable Forks emerged from the forest like a town that time had forgotten, its main street lined with buildings that spoke to better economic days when logging and manufacturing sustained communities throughout the Adirondacks.
The architecture mixed practical nineteenth century construction with mid-twentieth century additions creating a patchwork of survival rather than planning.
Hand-painted signs advertised businesses that served local needs—a hardware store, a diner, a pharmacy that doubled as the post office—while empty storefronts suggested a population that had been shrinking for decades.
Mia drove slowly through the center of town, noting the way residents moved with the unhurried pace of people who lived where everyone knew everyone else's business.
An elderly man in flannel and work boots waved from his position on a bench outside the hardware store, the gesture carrying the automatic friendliness of small-town life.
A woman pushing a stroller paused to chat with another woman loading groceries into a pickup truck.
The mountains loomed closer here than in High Peaks, creating a sense of enclosure that felt both protective and limiting. Pine forests pressed against the town's edges. This was the kind of place where people came to escape complications, but also where complications had a way of following them.
The lot contained the usual collection of vehicles in various stages of repair, pickup trucks with their hoods propped open, a sedan missing its front bumper, and a motorcycle partially disassembled on a workbench visible through one of the open garage doors.
Mia parked beside a blue sedan that had seen better decades and walked toward the building, noting the sounds of work in progress—the pneumatic hiss of air tools, the clang of metal on metal, and the radio playing classic rock at a volume designed to compete with mechanical noise.
The afternoon sun slanted through the open garage doors, creating patches of warmth.
The place stank of motor oil and gasoline.
Two vehicles were raised on lifts inside the garage, their undersides exposed for maintenance. She could make out someone working beneath one of them, blue coveralls visible in the shadows created by the vehicle above.
"Be right with you," a voice called out, followed by the sound of someone wrestling with a stubborn bolt.
A young man in his twenties emerged from beneath the vehicle, wiping oil from his hands with a rag.
He possessed the kind of rugged handsomeness that came from physical work and outdoor living, with dark hair and features that clearly marked him as Danny Walsh's son.
His coveralls bore the name "Connor" embroidered above the left pocket.
"Help you?" Connor asked, approaching with the courtesy of someone accustomed to dealing with strangers who might be customers, creditors, or complications.
"Connor Walsh?" Mia asked, extending her hand in greeting.
"That would be me."
"Mia Sutherland. I'm from High Peaks. I was hoping to speak with you about the Hale murder case."
Connor's expression shifted from professional politeness to wariness, his posture changing in ways that suggested the topic remained sensitive despite the passage of years. "You some kind of private investigator?"
Mia chuckled. "No."
"With the police department?"
"No."
"Then I have nothing to say to you," Connor said, turning away to return to his work beneath the lifted vehicle.
"You saw a second vehicle the night of the murders, is that correct?"
Connor stopped and looked back, his expression carrying a mixture of frustration and resignation. "It doesn't matter."
"It does to me."
"No, I mean it doesn't matter. No one believed me back then, and they sure as hell wouldn't believe me now. Besides, it's been too long. Had they checked with the DMV back then, maybe they could have found it, but..." He gestured helplessly. "Look, I'm busy."
"Just five minutes of your time, and I promise I'll be out of your hair."
Connor studied her for several seconds, seeming to weigh the wisdom of reopening old wounds against the possibility that someone might finally listen to what he'd been trying to say for a decade. Finally, he nodded.
"Make it quick."
He led her toward the back of the garage, past workbenches cluttered with automotive parts and tools that represented decades of accumulated equipment.
The lunch room occupied a small space that had probably been an office in the building's previous incarnation.
Everything bore a thin layer of motor oil and grease that seemed to permeate every surface in the building.
Chairs, table, even the coffee maker that sat on a counter beside a microwave had seen better years.
Connor poured himself coffee then offered her a cup, which she declined. He lit a cigarette, then cleared newspapers from one of the chairs to make space for her to sit. The papers were several days old, their headlines already ancient history in the accelerated news cycle.
"Take me back to that night," Mia said, pulling out her notepad. "How old you were, what you saw, the timing. Anything you can remember."
Connor slumped into his chair and took a long drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing red in the fluorescent light of the small room. Smoke drifted toward a ceiling fan that moved the air without actually improving it.
"I was twelve, out on my bike. I used to do a circuit of the neighborhood every evening after dinner. My parents fought a lot back then, and riding gave me an excuse to get out of the house when things got loud."
"You remember seeing Rebecca and Jacob that night?"
"Yeah. Jacob was home doing homework at the kitchen table—I could see him through the window when I rode past around seven. Rebecca came back maybe an hour or two later. I can't remember exactly, but it was getting dark."
Connor paused to ash his cigarette into a coffee cup that served as an ashtray.
"Anyway, I'd seen this dark blue Honda Civic with tinted windows driving around the neighborhood.
It stood out because it drove past Rebecca's house one way, then turned around and came back the other way, then did it again.
I might have figured the driver was lost, except I'd seen the same car in the neighborhood several times before. "
"Roughly how many times?"
"I don't know. Four, maybe five times over a matter of weeks. It would always drive slowly past Rebecca's house. A few times it parked on the street outside, never in the driveway. Just sitting there with the engine running."
Connor took another drag from his cigarette, his eyes distant.
"That night, I saw it driving toward Rebecca's house while I was heading the other direction.
I noted it but didn't think much about it—like I said, I'd seen it before.
But when I rode back maybe twenty minutes later, I noticed it was actually in the driveway. "
"In Rebecca's driveway?"
"Yeah. First time I'd seen it there instead of just on the street. When I circled back again, it pulled out at extreme speed. I swear it would have hit me if I hadn't stopped my bike. I was pissed off, so I gave the driver the finger."
"And then what happened?"
"The window came down, and some guy yelled a curse word at me, then drove off. Nearly clipped me as he accelerated away."
"So you saw the driver?"
"No, it was too dark to make out features. But it was definitely a male voice."
"And you're sure it wasn't a black truck?"
Connor laughed, but the sound carried bitterness rather than humor.
"The black truck story. See, this is where everything went off the rails.
After the police showed up later that night to investigate the murders, I told my mother I'd seen a dark blue Honda Civic in Rebecca's driveway. She told the cops about it."
"What happened when the police questioned you?"
"They came over the next day and interviewed me in front of my parents. They suggested maybe I was confused and that I'd mistaken the Honda for a black truck. But I hadn’t. I know what I saw. I know the difference between a truck and a car."
Connor's expression grew more frustrated as he continued.
"Even my father argued with them about it.
But it didn't help that my dad was a heavy drinker back then and the cops were often called to our house.
You know, domestic disturbances. He hit my mother once that I know of.
So he wasn't considered the most reliable witness, and I guess they figured I wasn't either. "
"Did they investigate your sighting at all?"
"I think they thought I was trying to insert myself into their investigation to get attention.
I wasn't. I know what I saw." Connor stubbed out his cigarette with more force than necessary.
"After the cops left, no mention of a dark blue Honda ever appeared in the newspaper.
All the focus went to the black truck because of some photo they released.
They basically dismissed what I had to say. "
"What did your father think about that?"
"He warned me to drop it. Said I was never to mention the Honda again, that talking about it was embarrassing and only brought unwanted attention to our family. So I did."
Mia made notes while processing the implications of Connor's account. A second vehicle at the scene suggested either multiple perpetrators or someone who'd witnessed the crime and fled. Either possibility opened investigative avenues that had been ignored for a decade.
"Do you think the person who yelled at you could have been Travis Rudd?"
Connor shrugged. "I heard his name come up during the investigation, but I never saw him clearly enough to identify anyone. Didn't he leave town or something after the murders?"
"He disappeared, yes." Mia looked up from her notes. "Do you remember anything about the license plate?"
"No, sorry. It was too dark, and everything happened too fast."