Tristen Alan “Buddy” Myers
Birth: July 17, 1996; Last seen October 5, 2000
Prologue
September 1995: I had recently moved to Bella Vista, California, where I lived in a small house on two-and-a-half acre lot; it was not a cozy neighborhood — it was one where a close neighbor was at least an eighth of a mile away, and the lot backed up to 103 undeveloped acres of brush.
Adding to the sense of isolation was the fact that the road we lived on had a nominal speed limit of 45 mph. The only drivers who observed that limit were me and the school bus driver, but the cars whizzing past added to the sense of being cut off from the rest of the world and somehow being unable to catch up.
I did not know many of our neighbors, and those I knew lived several city blocks from me, so I was startled late one afternoon to hear a knock at my door.
I had been making dinner when there was a sharp rap at the front door. For the most part, my family and I went in and out the back door, so I ignored it, expecting whomever was there to come around to the back. But when the rapping continued, I set aside my work.
When I opened the door. I had expected to see one of my sons, but to my surprise, I was greeted by an elderly woman I had never seen before.
