"If he was like Aleck Curry—I'd—I'd have killed him," he said.
Simon drew in a deep, slow breath.
"And that is just what happened, Peter. Donald killed him. He didn't mean to do it. It was an accident. But it happened. And the other man deserved it. He was better dead than alive. But it made a murderer of Donald, and they hang murderers. So the older man cared for the woman and the baby for three years, while Donald hid himself in the forests. Then—Helen died. And Donald came back and took the boy, and for years after that the law didn't know where he was, and they were happy together, and would always have been happy if the law hadn't found him again, and——"
Simon's voice choked. His arm hugged Peter until it hurt. And then he finished, almost whispering the last words, "Peter, I know it's all true, because the older man's name was Simon McQuarrie—and I'm Simon McQuarrie—and—the boy's name—was Peter."
It was out. He bowed his grizzled cheek to the boy's face and fought hard to choke back the thickening in his throat. It seemed a long time to him that Peter did not move or speak. But he could feel the tremble of the boy's body, and he knew that Peter understood.
"So he won't come back," he said, trying to bring a note of comfort into his strained voice. "At least not for a long time, Peter. And he wants you to live with me. That's what he wrote on the paper you brought in the bottle."
Still Peter did not speak. He was staring through the door, and it was hard for Simon to find more words.
"We'll take good care of you here, Peter."
Then Peter spoke.
"Dad won't come back tonight or tomorrow?"