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Yet he has the nerve to act offended that I’m suspicious of him,Ezra Hawthorne, the entire institute. I shuffle on the grass, angry and impatient. Fritz notices and says, “I liked Billy. He and his family were good neighbors for several years. And think about it, son: If I did kill Billy—which I absolutely did not—would it make sense to dispose of his body at the place where I worked? The place I ran?”
I concede that it makes zero sense.
“The same thing applies to Ezra Hawthorne. Who, by the way, was ninety-four at the time. It would have been impossible for him to cut open a tent, kidnap a boy, kill him, and hide his body in the lake.”
“Maybe he had help,” I say.
“Would it lessen your suspicion if I told you Mr. Hawthorne was also deeply upset by the boy’s disappearance?”
“No,” I say. “Seeing how they didn’t know each other.”
“Oh, but they did. They had quite a lengthy conversation.”
“About what?” I say, even though, considering Billy’s interests, I have a pretty good idea.
“Communicating with the dead.”
Fritz’s cigarette smoke still hangs in the air, lingering. By now it’s drifted all the way to woods—a gray cloud curling through the trees.
“That was Mr. Hawthorne’s other main interest, by the way,” Fritz says. “And another subject of much research at the institute. I never experienced any of it firsthand. But Mr. Hawthorne and a few others claimed to have made contact with spirits many times, through several different means.”
I’m hit with a head-to-toe jolt.
It turns out Billy had been right.
At the Hawthorne Institute, they did indeed talk to ghosts.
Friday, July 15, 1994
3:05 p.m.
Fritz Van de Veer isn’t a believer in the things studied at the Hawthorne Institute. But he’s not a disbeliever, either. In general, Fritz subscribes to the chaos theory, which, at its most basic level, can be boiled down to “Shit happens.”
That, he thinks, makes him the ideal person to run a place like the institute. When things happen for seemingly no particular reason, he doesn’t try to figure out the why of it all. He just rolls up his sleeves, takes care of the situation, and gets paid handsomely for his troubles.
For instance, when Joyce Marsh was surprised by a bunch of guys test-driving an ancient ritual with a pig’s heart, he followed institute protocol, made sure she signed the necessary NDA, and sent her packing.
And when his ten-year-old neighbor is found stuck in the gates of the Hawthorne family mausoleum, he orders the boy brought inside to see if he’s okay, do a little damage control, and, hopefully, avoid a potential lawsuit.
“So, Billy,” he says. “I was told you were here with some other kids. Is that true?”
“No, sir,” Billy says, a lie Fritz grudgingly respects. The ability tokeep secrets is a trait he admires. Still, he’d prefer it if the boy gave at least some indication of how many there had been—and what they had been up to.
“What were you doing out there—all by yourself?”
“Just exploring.”
“Exploring?” Fritz says. “That’s all?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what about yesterday?”
Billy looks up, surprised Fritz knows about that. He shouldn’t be. Of course Fritz was informed about it.
“There’s no harm in exploration,” he tells Billy. “That’s the whole purpose of this place. Exploring the unknown. But next time, instead of sneaking onto the property, just ask me and I’ll show you around.”
The boy’s eyes brighten, his fear replaced by eagerness. “Can you show me now?”