While the entirety of the force was skeptical, Keroth continued to push the investigation in that direction, insisting repeatedly that ‘It’s always the family.’
As the case developed, however, Sergeant Beth Connors, of Riverdell Police Department, acting on an anonymous tip, whisked Detective Thorn and newcomer Todd Love off to Portland, where the tip led them to the discovery of Maylynn Brotcher. Comment has not been made on Thorn’s involvement in the case, but authorities have confirmed that he was not involved in the investigation of his father.
Maylynn, 8, was found in a storage unit (the number, combination, and access code of which were provided by an anonymous tipper) in Portland. When found, she fearfully asked if they (Sgt. Connors, Det. Thorn, and Det. Love) were with ‘the red-haired man’. Certainly she could be thinking of anybody, but upon further inquiry, Maylynn accurately described Detective Keroth, and subsequently picked his photo out from over 25 samples of similarly built and red-haired men.
Detective Keroth (though certainly not Detective any longer) attempted to flee when Maylynn was freed, but thanks to a swift BOLO executed by state and federal law enforcement, possibly including assistance from departments all the way up to the FBI, he was found southbound in a state of delirious rage.
Keroth is to stand trial for murder, coercion, rape, child abuse and molestation, kidnapping, and both possession and distribution of child pornography. Note that the list of charges is preliminary, and that others may be added upon further investigation and interrogation.
Tempting as it is to write an entire piece about Keroth’s dismal future, I feel more obligated to cover the hero of the story:
Oh no.
Maylynn Brotcher.
Oh thank god.
Maylynn’s mother graciously agreed to a supervised interview, of both herself and Maylynn, under the condition that she be able to withdraw at any time, pending her emotional stability; an understandable stipulation.
Maylynn (or May, as she likes to be called), has always lived the wildly imaginative, rambunctious life of a child.
“She’s always coming up with new games to play with her friends, and they actually look pretty fun,” dotes Mrs. Brotcher. “Nothing can stop her, and she knows it. God help us when she becomes a teenager.”
While Mrs. Brotcher’s outlook on May’s emotional state is cautiously optimistic, there’s a visible hesitance to smile and laugh. It’s hard to gauge whether this event has been more traumatic for May or her mother. Even still, the pair of them are a picture of fortitude, the Great Wall of China weathering all but time.
Upon meeting May, I had difficulty believing that she was the same girl who had been held captive and abused for a week; if her state of childlike curiosity and creativity were damaged by the encounter, it was all but unnoticeable, as she spent much of our time together telling stories—not of violence and perversion, but of geeky hares and big, beautiful willow trees with magical leaves used for healing.
While certainly not the interview I was anticipating, I suppose that, in any case, a child making it through what she did and talking about hares and willows is the best outcome we could have hoped for.
Thirty-Two
I set the paper down on the coffee table, amidst various dirty dishes, used napkins, and a now empty tissue box, a mess that rarely, if ever, plagues my apartment. In this emotional storm, there’s no room for my compulsory cleanliness or obsessive housekeeping. Having been one of Riverdell’s residents who don’t subscribe to its daily newspaper, I had to buy a copy from the coffee shop.
The sound of the paper hitting the table wakes Todd up. It’s just as well; his coffee will be cold soon. He sits up, rubs his eyes, and spots the paper immediately. I give him a nod and he snatches it up, drawing a quick gasp at the small, black and white photo of May on the front. As he reads, I watch his face go from attentive to solemn to mild surprise, then tears well up in his eyes. He sets it on the table more gently than I did.
“Very tastefully written,” he says after a moment.
“We know a guy,” I say. I hand him his highlander grog. He takes a sip and tilts his head back, as though his head contains an antenna that will tap into the various emotions and dynamics at play. Frankly, I’d be surprised if it were anything but a jumbled mess of static anyway; this isn’t a tranquil frequency.
The news spreads with frightening speed, even for a town as small as ours. However, that which burns bright burns fast, and a settled complacency washes over the town once again within a week.
As for the remnants of Keroth’s minion storm, the police had several people come forth, confessing to acting under the coercion of Keroth. They named some other names, the volunteer minions, and they were rounded up with impressive haste. Beth took it upon herself to make sure that they were all accounted for.
I spend most of my free time with Todd during the rumor-processing period, making use of my mandatory (enforced by Beth) bereavement leave. If any of my extensive knowledge of fictional literature is to hold true, this is meant to be the length of time in which we fall into a passionate, inescapable romance. What we’re actually doing is so foreign to me that I don’t know where to begin to compare or contrast.
We talk a lot, cook, and have meals together. Sharing a dry, sarcastic sense of humor, we laugh a lot, which offers a modicum of healing that I didn’t know I needed. Sometimes we put on ambient music and read together, simply enjoying each other’s company.
Eventually I pack up my apartment; I spend the majority of my time at Todd’s house, anyway. The bits of my past that I elect to promote to my future are few: some CDs that make me think of college, my dog, a few blankets, my clothes and toiletries. Everything else I give either to Beth or to the one homeless guy in town (a kind older gentleman affectionately referred to by Riverdell’s residents as Ol’ Pappy).
It’s then that the days start to make sense on their own. Prior to Todd, it was always that I had to thrust order upon the days, weeks, months. Sometimes down to hours, minutes, even seconds. My mind had an unmalleable mold for each day, and only with the application of my arbitrary rule system could I shape each day as it was supposed to be.
Now there’s an overwhelming right-ness to my life, a remarkable lack of resistance, like I can finally use the triangular block for the triangular hole. At first I thought that it was my life that had been resisting me, but in time, I realized that it was I who was resistant to the goings-on of my life. While difficult, relinquishing control of the universe to the universe is oddly cathartic and extremely relieving.
Epilogue
Keroth is in jail. He pleaded guilty to all charges, in the face of mountains of evidence (true and otherwise). I’m surprised that he made no attempt to place the blame of my father’s murder back on me, but perhaps he simply didn’t want to deal with the hassle of the trial. After all, he’ll never have a sip of all-American Freedom again.
The breezes of March, in contrast with the weeks prior, bathe us in natural, floral, woody scents—the kinds that Wal-Mart brand candles and laundry detergents attempt to imitate. Warmth is on the horizon, and every now and then, one may spot an entire family at the park without a single coat.
Todd and I have slipped into a groove, a cozy routine with just enough variety to keep things from getting boring. He’ll tend the flowers, I’ll do the dishes, he’ll sort the laundry, I’ll pick up the mail: a bill, forwarded from my old address, a magazine (America’s Most Hopeful Couple Torn Apart! Juicy Details on p. 27 …), a letter addressed to me, in a careful childish scrawl. There’s one for Todd, too.
I discard the magazine, place the bill on the counter (in an askew manner that would repulse my former obsessive-compulsive tendencies) with Todd’s letter, and am about to tear open my own, when someone knocks at the door.
Though the mess involving Keroth and his lot are now four months old, I remind myself with regularity to maintain precautions. After all, if I am still on someone’s hit list, they may simply be wai
ting for me to drop my guard, and four months hardly constitutes a long wait for such an event.
Careful to retain the quiet, I set the envelope on top of the others and approach the door. A look through the keyhole reveals only the back of a woman, with dark hair all the way down to her waist. Her age is difficult to discern from this angle, and her hands are at her front, invisible to me. Her body language is not that of an aggressor. I open the door and she turns to face me.
“Jeremy,” she says, her chocolate-brown eyes magnified by a layer of tears.
“I go by Remy, Mom,” I say. “You knew that even before you left.”
“Remy. Sweet, handsome boy.” She ignores my jab.
“Not anymore, Mom. Handsome, maybe. Not a boy, not sweet.”
I expect a too-sweet, motherly response, but she apparently deems it sufficient to stand and look at me for a time.
“Can I come inside?” she asks.
I hesitate. Allowing her through this literal door will no doubt permit her passage through many figurative doors, all previously held together with elaborate, tricky locks tempered with the blazing heat of childhood abandonment and adolescent angst.
But curiosity and a newfound compassion get the better of me. I step inward and she follows, shutting the door behind her.
As soon as we’re both seated, she transforms into an inquisitive firehose, blasting me with questions organized in what ends up being a high-pitched squeal in one impressively long breath:“OhmyGOODnesit’sbeensolonghowareyouhowareyouhandlingthingswhatareyoudoingwithyourselfareyoueatingproperlywhosehouseisthisisitthatcuteguyareyoutwoaTHINGthatswonderfulandIkindofsuspectedasmuchwhenyouwereyoungerthewayyouusedtoplaydressupwithTrina—”
“Mom.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve missed so much.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“Mine. I know. A hundred percent mine. I should have taken you with me, I should have. I know. But I thought he might come after us, and if he did, he would have killed us all. If I ran alone, I could escape, and only I would be in danger. Did he ever come after me? Did he try to find me?”
“I don’t know, Mom. Not that I know of.”
I seem to have picked up right where we left off, me seething with exasperation toward her.
“I went to New Zealand,” she offers.
“Nice there?”
“Well, yes. But I didn’t go because it was nice. I went because I didn’t think he’d be able to find me there.”
“And now you’re back because …?” I don’t mean for it to sound as rude as it does, but seeing the effect it has on her, I don’t retract it. Apparently I’m bitter.
“Because of your father, of course,” she says. “J—Remy, I didn’t want to leave. As a mother, that’s the most difficult thing that I’ve ever done. But I had to, Remy, I just had to. I was in a dark, dark place. If I didn’t escape that way, I was going to escape … another way.”
“Welcome home, Mom. Speaking of which, how did you hear?”
“When I left, I took my address book with me, and I’ve been in contact with Ms. Black. You remember her, your old babysitter?”
Huh. Co-conspirators.
“Yeah. I just spoke with her a few months ago. She gave me pumpkin cookies.”
“Well anyway, she told me as soon as it happened. I wasn’t sure whether or not I would come back. I mean, obviously we can’t just go back to the way things were, you and I—”
“Correct.”
“—but maybe we can start? Maybe I can be here for you now?” She’s crying now.
“Mom, I need you to understand this, so listen closely, with the intention of understanding. I’m not mad at you. I know why you did what you did. I know why you never contacted us until now. But this is a hell of a change. We haven’t seen or heard from you in years, and now, you just show up at my door. Probably you don’t expect to jump into my life right away, and that’s an appropriate assumption. If we’re going to have any sort of relationship, we need to build from the ground up.”
She nods through my whole speech, sprinkling tears on the coffee table and her gray skirt. I offer her a tissue, which she then uses to blot her eyes dry.
“Oh, call this guy,” I say. I hand her the business card of one Peter Sharp. “He’ll have some good news for you.”
I walk her to the doorway. There’s much more communication to be had between the two of us, but none is for today.
Solemnly, she straightens her back and extends her hand for me to shake, bearing a smile that’s been through filter after filter after mask after mask. I know it all too well.
I hug her and she issues a small squeak as she squeezes her son for the first time in years.
I watch her get into her car and drive off, then close the door. Though drained, part of my mind is still abuzz with curiosity about the letters that Todd and I received, and I tap into the reserve of energy I set aside for that task. I pluck up the envelope once more and tear it open.
Inside, a sheet of lined paper reads:
Dear Mr Detective Thorn,
I am so glad you found me. You and Sargent Beth and Detective Todd are my heros. I did an assignment at school about who my hero was and guess who I chose. That’s right I chose you three. I asked my mom if I could right you letters and she said yes. So thank you for helping me and driving me to the town and carrying me to the car and driving me to the police station and calling my mom. It was very scary but you made me not scared. It is so cool I know real life detectives like on tv. You are like an angels. I hope you had a good Christmas and thanksgiving and got lots of candy, also I hope the bad guy stays in prison for a million years. Anyway I need to go so thank you again. Bye.
Love,
May
Orion is a winter constellation, and every spring, I internally mourn his passing out of the night sky. But this spring, for the first time, I think I’ll be fine without his nightly visits.
About the Author
Michael Lilly was born in Provo, Utah. He has lived in that area his whole life, and splits his time between reading and writing books, cooking, hiking, martial arts, and being around his family. He has six siblings who, along with his parents, fostered and encouraged his interest in writing, and he is grateful for his closeness with them. Mike loves to travel and see new places, and carries a passion for other languages and cultures.
Follow the author:
Twitter: @AuthorMLilly
Facebook: @MikeLillyAuthor
Instagram: @mjlilly92
[Darkthorn 01.0] Pond Scum Page 26