‘Who?’ Mila asks. She pulls into the Snack Shack and stops.
‘The out-of-state hunter who wasn’t mauled by a bear. She never stayed at the shelter. There’s no reason to think she was an addict,’ I say. ‘And the cops think the murders are connected.’
I tell her about my interview with the rookie cop. Mila throws back her head and laughs.
‘What an idiot! He told you all that?’ she says as she gets out of the car.
‘Yeah,’ I say, coming around the car and walking next to her into the Snack Shack. ‘But what do I know? Maybe the connection between Sandy and Chelsea is drugs. Just because Chelsea didn’t stay at the shelter doesn’t mean she wasn’t an addict.’
‘And she came from hundreds of miles away to camp out in the woods in camouflage gear to score drugs?’ Mila asks doubtfully.
We get in line for a scoop. ‘I don’t know,’ I mumble. ‘But I’ve heard there’s more than deer out in those woods.’
I should shut up. I should just let it go, and get my ice cream, and ask Mila about her social life. But I don’t.
‘Have you ever heard of Dr Goodnight?’
Mila’s face doesn’t move. She doesn’t look at me. She stays calm and keeps her eyes trained on the people in front of us.
‘Shut up,’ she says in a neutral voice.
She tosses her lovely hair over her shoulder, but only so she can look at the people lining up behind us to check and see if they’re listening. When she finally makes her way back around to look at me, she gives me the bored, belaboured smile of someone waiting impatiently for ice cream.
‘We’ll talk after we sit,’ she says, like she’s telling me what flavour she’s going to order.
I get my usual butterscotch sundae. Mila orders a chocolate brownie frappé. She’s out of money again, so I pay. We look for a booth but have to settle for a spot outside so we can be alone.
‘So who is he?’ I ask.
Mila pulls her ice-cream-sleeved straw out of the glass and wraps her tongue around it, stripping off the sweet coating. She rubs the ice cream around her mouth, thinking.
‘I first heard about him through Aura-Blue, actually,’ she says. ‘Her grandfather has been chasing him for years, but it’s been so long now, no one really knows if he exists or not.’
‘Oh, right. Serial killers are his hobby, or something like that,’ I say. I shiver. The wind off the water is cold. ‘Why was her grandfather after him?’ I ask, recalling that Aura-Blue’s grandfather was the sheriff here.
‘Because he’s the biggest supplier of drugs for a hundred miles, supposedly,’ she says quietly.
‘Why do they call him . . .’ Her eyes flash at me in warning, so I drop my voice and lean across the table towards her. I have to know. ‘Why do they call him Dr Goodnight?’ I whisper.
She shifts and looks around. ‘Because he’s a genius. He can make any kind of drug you want from used refrigerator coolant and tree bark. And it’s good shit, too. It’s, like, medical-grade meth and fentanyl. Everyone says he used to be a doctor.’
Her figure telescopes away from me as I sink. It can’t be.
I’ve seen news shows on TV that go into detail about how our National Park system is so underfunded that many illegal drug growers have set up shop in remote places that park rangers just don’t have the resources to manage. I mean, I’m not a troglodyte. I watch Vice and 60 Minutes. But how many geniuses with deep knowledge of medicine and/or herbal drug making could possibly be running around the same few miles of National Forest?
But, no. I just can’t accept that Bo’s father is Dr Goodnight. I can’t accept that he’s got a meth lab hidden in one of the tree-house dormitories where his philosophy-professor wife and six hippie children live. It goes against everything Bo has told me
about his father. And himself.
Except for the fact that Bo admitted his dad did commit a crime. A big one. If the FBI is after him, it’s probably one of four things: terrorism, kidnapping, tax evasion, or murder. I shake my head, barely stopping myself from yelling at Mila. As if she were personally indicting Bo and his whole family.
‘But why the Goodnight part?’ I ask, digging for some incongruous information, some detail that would make it impossible for Bo’s father to be tied up in this mess.
Mila’s voice drops so low I can barely hear her.
‘Because he enjoys putting people to sleep. Most of the time, he just spikes the heroin with too much fentanyl, killing randomly just to kill people, but sometimes he likes to watch. He needs to watch. He’s a psychopath.’
I sit back in my chair and study her. Hoping that any second now, she’s going to look up, laugh, and tear into me for falling for something so melodramatic. But she doesn’t. In fact, she looks terrified.