“Honestly, Mr. Archer, there are things that I remember as clear as day. Him dragging that old Fender guitar with him everywhere, knocking it against doorframes and car doors. He had an old strap, never a case for it, and just slung it over his shoulder. An old boyfriend of mine had given it to him—the thing was already battered when he’d gotten it and it didn’t get any better. Beautiful guitar, too; it’s a shame. Peter hated getting his hair cut, hated wearing shoes as a kid, and until he left us…” The last word hung on her. “… well, he was always barefoot. He had beautiful feet. I know that’s a strange memory, but it’s one of the things I remember about him that final summer, tan and running around barefoot, getting stung by bees with that beautiful tumble of long, shaggy dirty-blond hair, just like his father. Every week, I recall me telling him to get a haircut, even giving him money for it, which of course he pocketed, but then he and Jason Barnes would spend it on records. I also remember trying to look young enough to be his sister and never being a good enough mother to him. Those are things I remember, Mr. Archer.”

“Did he have a girlfriend?”

“He had a harem.” She laughed and it turned into coughing, the deep, wet cough from unhealthy lungs. “Even my girlfriends liked him. I think one even dated him, but they kept that kind of thing away from me.” Her voice was straining at the end, and she erupted into another series of coughs.

“Anyone special?”

“Not that I recall, Mr. Archer,” she said, clearing her throat. “Maybe. Certainly no one came to my door after he went missing claiming to be the love of his life or anything like that. I even wished at one point that someone would. It was sad he’d died with no one. Only Jason Barnes.” She laughed. “Those two boys loved each other like brothers. I’m not sure there was room in Peter’s life for anything other than his dream. And sweet Jesus could my boy play that guitar.”

“The band.”

“The band. Always the band. And they’d have made it, too.” She paused. “Had he lived long enough.” With that, the phone clicked and the line went dead.

Chapter 21

Paris

July 3, 2005