“So what do you think?” I asked, because I was very curious to know if Darrell had come to any conclusions yet. “This must be a copycat, right?”

He put on his stolid deputy’s face again. “I don’t know. Maybe. If it’s the same killer, where has he been for six years? And why come back now? The only thing I do know is that none of these crimes were committed by a mythical beast.”

I could have given him a different take on that, but I didn’t tell him what I was thinking.

Inside the house, we found Gordon Brink’s son, Jay, in a bedroom on the top floor. This was three stories above the main floor master suite that Gordon and Erica shared. The huge house felt oddly empty and quiet—so much space for only three people—and I thought it had to be strange for a boy from the city to be stuck here in the middle of nowhere. The bedroom was large, but clean and uncluttered, which surprised me from a teenager. I assumed that Jay shared his father’s organized legal mind. On the other hand, the posters on the log walls—all neatly hung and absolutely level—revealed a rebellious spirit and a bookish intelligence. I saw punk bands like the Flesh Eaters and Dead Kennedys, alongside portraits of Oscar Wilde and D. H. Lawrence. He had half a dozen bookshelves crammed with classics like Moby Dick and Leaves of Grass that would have put other seventeen-year-old boys to sleep.

Jay lay on top of the carefully made king-size bed when we arrived. He had his hands behind his head and was staring at the ceiling, and he was dressed in a flannel shirt and corduroys, with bare feet. He didn’t acknowledge us, although he obviously knew who we were and why we were there. He was a handsome kid, thick reddish-brown hair, a prominent nose and close-shaved face, with intense dark eyes. He was tall but not particularly muscular or athletic. He’d just lost his father, but I didn’t see any indication on his face that he’d been crying.

Darrell went to the large bedroom windows, stared outside for a while, and then turned back to Gordon Brink’s son. “Jay, I’m Deputy Darrell Curtis. This is Deputy Rebecca Todd. We’re very sorry about your father.”

The teenager didn’t look away from the ceiling. “Thanks.”

“You and I met last week,” I reminded him. “I came over here when your stepmother called about the bucket of blood.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Jay replied. “Do you think whoever did that also killed Gordon?”

“It’s too early to know.”