“Sounds pretty great. And as far as I know, you can hang up a shingle without legal repercussions.” He winked. “Oh: the girl Renée was also known as Honeychile. Does that ring a bell?”
“‘Honeychile,’ yes!” She made a split-second decision to be candid, or as candid as she could, because she didn’t want to get tripped up if Owen had something else up his sleeve. “I do remember, it was such a cute and unusual name. She came—when was it, a few weeks ago?—and I’m afraid it didn’t turn out very well.” Her nose wrinkled when she said the last, as if hinting at bad behavior. “She’s quite young, no?”
“Fourteen.”
“Well, I have no idea how she found my little workshop. I’m prone to bursts of enthusiasm—I go around town putting up flyers and they wind up being read by all sorts of people . . .”
“Do you remember if she came alone?”
“I don’t believe she did,” said Annie, cocking her head in recollection. “I’m pretty sure she came with a friend.”
“And what happened?”
“May I be frank?”
“Please.”
“I thought she was . . . unstable. You know, I’m a pretty good, quick read on folks, especially children—though I never had any of my own. And this girl wanted to just barge in. Since the class was already in session—well, I thought it would be disruptive, and unfair to the others. And . . . she didn’t have the tuition.” An anxious look mottled her features. “I only charge ten dollars, Owen, I hope that’s all right?”
“That’s fine,” he said, smiling.
“It’s really just to cover rent at the church and pay for cookies and lemonade. And coffee!” she amended, to make things sound more adult.
“You should raise your prices! The sheriff gives you full authority.”
“I hate turning away anyone who wants to write.” She literally wrung her hands. “I felt sorry for that child . . . but from what you told me, I’m rather glad I didn’t let her in. God knows what might have happened.”
“Well, thank you, Annie. And sorry again to bust in on you.”
“Don’t be silly. And please give my love to your better half.”
“One more thing,” he said, fishing something from his pocket. “We found this in Renée’s room. Have you seen it before?”
She took it from his hands and blanched. It was the Guide.
“She doodled on it—your name’s right there, see? ‘Annie Ballendine.’ And another name—there. It says ‘Dabba Doo.’ Maybe she’s a Flintstones fan.”
“Might it be her diary?” she said, playing the naïf.
“I don’t think so. As you can see, it’s printed out. Which would be unusual for a diary.”
“Well, it is a puzzle, isn’t it . . . Maybe it’s some writing that she was planning to share at my class? A fantasy story or something? Oh dear. Now I feel worse for not letting her in.”
“What’s strange is that she wrote ‘Winston’ on the cover. Though it seems to be in a different handwriting . . .”
“Winston?”
“The name of a boy who was murdered a few weeks ago.” There was, of course, no reason for him to discuss Honeychile’s connection to the discovery of Winston’s body.
“Another murder? Lord, Owen! What’s happening to the world? You’re not saying she had anything to do with—”
“I’m not saying that at all. But she did kill a boy at school. There’s no question about that.”
She looked at the Guide and read “Winston” out loud. “It is odd. It is very, very odd.”
“Thank you for your time, Annie. And good luck with your students.”
* * *
• • •
Zelda, not Honeychile, was mostly responsible for Annie’s decision to change venues—it never bode well for an outsider to know the location of a Meeting. And in the end, she’d been correct; it was Zelda who made it possible for the sheriff to connect the dots that led him to the Porter. If he had actually shown up while a Meeting was in session, the consequences could have been catastrophic.
Ten minutes after Owen departed, at seven on the dot, Willow Wylde knocked on the door. Because he was in law enforcement, she assumed that he knew the sheriff, but had no idea of their long history and close ties. She was going to tell him about the unexpected visit, then thought better of it when she saw his face.
She’d been telling him that the Meeting would be a “great adventure”—but he looked scared to death.
RELAPSE
1.
Three new landlords sat on folding chairs, primly waiting, when the Porter walked in with Willow in tow.
All had been on the train, of course, but Annie never got the chance to visit their cabins—another detail belonging to the “haywire” file, for in the past such a transgression would have been inconceivable. It grieved her because she so prized those precious first encounters with the frightened, fidgety children, when she dispensed treats and soothed them as best she could. It was the time she felt most like a mother. And how dreadful that they would leave empty-handed tonight, without her having had the chance to prepare their Guides! It was simply unheard of. She always knew who was on the way, taking great pleasure and care to inscribe their names on the pamphlets’ covers. The Subalterns were forced to step in for her, personally delivering the address of the Cross of Glory Lutheran Church to each. And there was another strange thing: once the children left the train, it usually took anywhere from a few days to a full week for their landlords to appear at the Meeting—but these three arrived on the very same day they had become tenants.
When it came to characterizing the shock and gravity of recent events, the word haywire fell woefully short.
Annie shook it off and struggled to focus on the task at hand. She was passing the baton to a new Porter, just as her mentor had done with her, and was determined not to let the children or Willow down. No, that simply wasn’t an option. But there was something Annie couldn’t shake, evoking what her head called “the black panic”—with a vertiginous shudder, she realized that Dabba Doo and Violet weren’t in the room. (Troy and Maya were merely late, which had happened twice before and raised no red flags.) As she linked their absence to the information the sheriff had provided about “Winston,” it was suddenly all of a theme and her worst fears were confirmed.
Last night, during feverish sleep, she caught a glimpse of tiny Violet on the train—running from her, not toward her. But how? It wasn’t possible! The children weren’t allowed to board again until they’d had their moment of balance. Violet shared at the Meeting that she felt her moment was nearing (“You better get my birthday cake ready, Porter!”), but it hadn’t yet happened . . . though could it have? Could it be that “haywire” made the Porter miss it? As the passenger compartments rounded a bend, she saw the pajama’d little girl wrench herself from the Subalterns’ restraining arms and then leap into an abyss with a bone-rattling yowl. Her dark braids, weirdly lit by moonlight, gave only the briefest hint of how far she was falling. Like a somnambulist—or the heroine of a horror film—Annie perilously began to make her way toward the window that Violet had jumped from. As her pace quickened, the Porter dashed past the cabins of the frightened children who so desperately waited for her to come to them—the very ones in this room tonight—but there wasn’t time . . . And why were all of the windows of the corridor wide-open? They gaped like the throats of dead birds. The Subalterns were gone now and the light in the corridor sickeningly flickered. As she ran, Annie stepped on a trail of sticky things, a bumpy carpet leading all the way to where Violet had vanished.
When she took off her shoes, she saw them in the cold, stroboscopic light, stuck like cleats to her soles—crushed green gummy bears.
* * *
• • •
Annie’s presence was of course an enormous comfort, anchoring Willow as he floated in the
half dream, half nightmare of the Meeting. (He was startled to see everyone wrapped in a blue haze.) She introduced him as a “special friend.” He didn’t catch anyone’s name; he could hardly remember his own. She knew he was in distress and occasionally reached over to pat his knee, as if to say, You’re doing just fine. She apologized to the newbies for not having brought their Guides (a “snafu,” she said) and promised to hand them out at the next Meeting. The room was dark, save the glimmering candles that Annie asked Bumble to light, in her wish to soothe the Guideless freshmen.
After ten minutes passed, Lydia and Daniel slipped in, nodding cursory apologies to the Porter for their tardiness. They took their seats and scanned the candlelit room, registering surprise at so many new bodies (including the one sitting next to Annie). The half-light blurred the faces, but they were still able to make note of the absence of old colleagues:
Violet, Dabba Doo and Winston.
As the Meeting came to a close, Lydia wondered if Annie had done as promised, before they’d arrived—if she had told the group she was dying. She decided that the Porter probably hadn’t; there were too many new ones and it would have frightened them. All stood and held hands, while the first-timers nervously took their cues from Annie, Lydia and Daniel. As he joined in the recitation, Willow noted with irony that it was the first time the Lord’s Prayer had given him succor. When it was done, Annie smiled and said, “More shall be revealed,” before adding, “And all will be most very well!”
When the sentry turned the lights on, Willow, Daniel and Lydia locked eyes. Lydia gasped, “No!” and fainted; Daniel propped her up so she wouldn’t fall. Willow, dumbfounded, muttered, “How? How?” Annie watched it unfold and then shooed the others from the room.
“You can’t be!” said Lydia, as she roused, clambering from dream to dream. She turned to Annie, pleading, “He can’t be dead!”
Daniel, still possessing the cool nerves of a combat veteran, shook Willow’s trembling hand. “Welcome! What’s your name?”
“Willow Wylde,” he said by rote, in a complete state of shock.
“Not your landlord name,” said Daniel. “Your child name.”
“He doesn’t have one,” said Annie, in slow realization that the three somehow knew one another outside the Meeting.
“I don’t understand,” said Daniel, confounded.
“He’s going to be your new teacher.”
“But what do you mean?” said Lydia.
“Willow is the new Porter. He’ll be taking my place.”
Daniel screwed his eyes at the detective for a good, long look. “Now I know who you are,” he stuttered. “Now I remember . . . I knew that I knew you!” He took a deep breath and declared, “You were a friend of our father’s.” He turned to Lydia and said, “He’s Pace Wylde’s dad.”
“Pace?” said Lydia. She looked like she might faint again.
“Pace! Our babysitter . . .”
Willow could hear Daniel’s words but nothing made sense; like a corrupted hard drive, his brain had frozen. Lydia dropped to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably as she clung to his legs. Willow turned to Annie, in helpless supplication. “I don’t understand! Please! Help me—”
“Well,” she said calmly. “They seem to know your name—but you don’t know theirs.” She helped Lydia to her feet. “It is my honor to introduce you,” said the Porter, not fully cognizant of the havoc that her words were about to cause, “to Troy and Maya Rummer.”
It was Willow’s turn to collapse.
The siblings came together, helping him to a chair. Daniel brought a cup of lemonade while Lydia knelt beside him. As his consciousness flagged and rallied, he weakly smiled.
Then Daniel knelt too, and brother and sister each took one of his hands in a crowded pietà.
2.
Willow told them to meet him at the Early World Diner.
They got there first. After half an hour, Daniel began to think their boss might not show—that the shock of the revelation was likely too much and he had probably jumped ship. He understatedly added that if the detective didn’t come on board, “it’s going to open a fairly serious can of worms.”
Then Willow walked in, shifty-eyed and ashen. He sat down almost reluctantly; for a few minutes no one spoke.
“First of all, I am never going to call you by those names,” he said at last. “Maya and Troy—that’s the last time you’ll hear me say them.”
“Fair enough,” said Lydia, in sympathy.
“We get it,” said Daniel.
Compared with Willow, they were old hands at the game, and they knew he had some serious catching up to do. They were actually surprised that he was doing so well—um, considering.
“Secondly, I have some questions. Forget the big questions—I can’t even go there. I’ll lose my fucking mind.”
“We hear you,” said Daniel.
“Don’t humor me,” said Willow brusquely. He composed himself and was about to speak when the waitress approached. They ordered coffees. When she left, he said, “What part of you is Lydia and Daniel—and what part is . . . those kids?” The absurdity of the question made him bridle halfway through the asking; he was grinning like a dyspeptic clown.
“Well, sometimes it’s hard to say,” said Lydia.
“Try me!” he said cynically.
“And by the way,” she said. “The Porter—Annie calls us ‘landlords.’ Lydia and Daniel are the landlords of Maya and Troy.”
“That’s the lingo,” said Daniel.
“And Maya and Troy are the ‘tenants,’” she added.
“Whatever,” said Willow.
“As to your question,” said Daniel. “Sometimes it’s more one than the other. Landlords and tenants switch off. But at a certain point the tenants take over. At least they’re supposed to.”
“Sometimes I feel more like Maya—is it okay to say the name?”
“Say it all you want! I’m just not going to say it.”
“Fair enough,” said Daniel.
“And stop saying ‘fair enough’!” he barked. “I hate that.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Sometimes I feel more like ‘Maya’ than ‘Lydia.’ What my brother—what Daniel was saying is that we do feel all those little-kid kind of feelings, but we’re still the main—we’re still the adults. Daniel and Lydia are the adults in the car, and Troy and Maya are the ones along for the ride.” She turned to Daniel and said, “Does that make sense?”
“Absolutely. It wasn’t like that at first, though,” he said, continuing the analogy. “It was like the kids were in the trunk! Very confusing. Then one day they sort of popped up in the backseat. Now sometimes they’re in front, giving directions!”
“Or trying to,” said Lydia, in a nod to their recent crossed-wires trouble.
The veins in Willow’s head looked like a blue candelabra. “But I knew you,” he nearly shouted. “I knew both of you—I knew your parents. How could you not have recognized me?”
“Troy did!” she said gleefully, as Daniel smugly looked on. “He totally did. He was always telling me that he thought he remembered you from somewhere . . .”
“Yup—just couldn’t put it all together. Plus, you don’t exactly look like you used to. You got fat and your face changed.”
Lydia tittered at the indiscretion.
“That’s right,” Willow snorted. “I’m a fat, ugly slob.”
“Sorry about that, sir. You actually don’t look too bad.”
“I think you’re handsome,” said Lydia.
“And as far as not recognizing you,” said Daniel, “Maya wouldn’t have because she was too young. When exactly did you move away, sir? Didn’t you move to New York?”
“In ’97,” said Willow.
“Well, there you go—she was only three . . . and we only really saw you occasion
ally, when you dropped by to see our folks. But I was six then and old enough to remember. And the Fourth of July, the day we ‘went away,’ was the first time we’d seen you in a long time.”
“Oh my God, Pace!” exclaimed Lydia. “We loved Pace! She was the bestest babysitter!”
It seemed to Willow that Maya was talking now, not Lydia, and he felt on the verge of cracking up.
“How is she?” said Lydia.
“Fine,” he said tersely. “She’s good, she’s well.”
Wonderful. I’m giving updates on my daughter to the dead.
“Why’d you leave her? Why’d you go away?”
The general question cut to the quick and he chose to ignore it. “But what about Lydia and Daniel—the ‘landlords’ or whatever? If they had to die in order for Maya and Troy to—what happened to them? Do you know how they—how you—” The pronoun-jumping was exasperating. “Do you know how they, you, whoever, died?”
Lydia went first. “I think when I was hiking, on the Orchard Trail. I fell and hit a rock with my head. A totally freak, stupid thing. That’s when I first felt her—felt Maya come.”
“What about you?” he asked Daniel.
“Heart attack—one night at my wife Rachelle’s. The thing nobody knows is that I had a heart attack a year and a half before, right when I was about to apply to the Academy. A pretty bad one. But I wanted to be a cop and there was no way I was going to let that stop me. A doctor friend of mine lied and gave me a clean bill of health. Actually, he was someone Rachelle fucked”—Lydia didn’t like the language and looked at him askance—“and I blackmailed him into doing it.” He tilted his head, ruminating. “I guess it’s okay to tell you that now. I guess there can’t really be any official repercussions. I mean, now that you know I’m dead.”
A Guide for Murdered Children Page 27