“Oh and by the way,” said Owen. “Your little theory about Roy Eakins traveling exclusively in children’s circles is absolute horseshit. We found a purse in his closet with ID belonging to Sarabeth Ahlström. She was murdered in her condo a few weeks ago in Dearborn Heights. At the time of his death, Roy was wearing a pair of bloody panties and the lab’s running tests to see if they belonged to Sarabeth—or someone else.”
“Frankly, I’m surprised. Killing adults doesn’t fit his profile.”
“You’re surprised? Fuck me, Dubya, I’ve been nothing but surprised for the last few hours.”
“Can we not lose sight of the fact that three murders have been solved? Of kids? And that two of those went unsolved for almost twenty years?”
“I haven’t lost sight of that, Willow,” he said, softening. “I haven’t lost sight of it at all. And I know they didn’t get solved by themselves. I know that and I appreciate that.”
“It sure didn’t sound like that in the conference room. But thank you.”
“I just need to wrap a red bow around it—hell, I’ll settle for twine—but right now you’re asking me to put a ribbon on a pile of horse manure. And it needs to get wrapped, Willow, you know it does, you know that’s how the game is played. It’s all woo-woo dream-catcher at the moment. You’ve got Iron Butterfly T-shirts and hunches . . . everyone’s having spooky little feelings. I run the Macomb County Sheriff’s Office, not a psychic fair. And I’m fully aware that cold cases are sometimes solved in methods that are slightly unorthodox. The public likes that. But the powers that be are more fond of old-fashioned leg- and lab work.”
“We have both, Owen.”
“You better pray it’s a footprint on that card. And then you need to pray it matches Roy Eakins’s—”
“It will.”
“—and that Grundy’s wife corroborates your story.”
“She’s a nutjob, Owen.”
“Yeah, well. They’re everywhere, it seems.”
“And do me a favor, Owen.”
“What’s that?”
“Can you leave Daniel a hero? I’m asking you not to go down this ‘rogue cop’ road. Daniel Doheny was a natural. A brilliant, intuitive investigator. So leave him a hero—which he was. For real. It won’t do his family any good to paint him black or gray. It won’t do the department any good either. Make him a hero, Owen, and we’ll all be heroes.”
3.
Not long after they resumed, Owen decided that Willow and Lydia were running on empty. The interview was adjourned so everyone could recharge and begin fresh in the morning.
She probably won’t be here tomorrow, thought Willow. She’ll probably be back on the train . . .
He hoped that wasn’t true, hoped it was another lie (he’d told so many today), because of the large place she now held in his heart. He wanted her to live forever. It was selfish but he couldn’t help himself. He felt for Maya-Lydia, or whatever she had become, the same protective, unconditional love that he had for Pace. He wondered too: Is it my love, Willow’s love? Or is it the love of a Porter . . .
He realized it didn’t matter. Whatever it was contained all love’s grisly glory—love’s one-and-onlyness.
In the late afternoon, the sheriff called.
Every cell in Willow’s body clenched and split apart. Every fear rose up—that he was being arrested for obstructing justice, even for murder and conspiracy; that he would shame his daughter, wounding her so deeply that she’d go back to taking drugs. Maybe Annie had already been detained and started naming names . . . He imagined being locked up on a 5150 for belonging to a cult with psychotic delusions of supervising dead children who inhabited dead bodies . . .
“Laverne Eakins went into labor in jail. It was obstructed—the kid couldn’t come out. The doctor said it ruptured her uterus and she bled out.”
“Jesus.”
“I guess it was a demon seed she had in there after all.”
* * *
• • •
In the early evening, he picked up Lydia and they drove to the Meeting in Detroit.
Again, Willow wanted to know how she was doing—but this time with less subtext about when she might be leaving for parts unknown. Instead, it had the flavor of what he’d asked a thousand times of Pace, in both troubled and untroubled times.
When he told her about the death of Grundy’s wife, all she said was, “That’s sad.”
“There’s something I’ve been thinking about,” said Lydia, her brow pinching up. “I was hoping you might have an answer. I’m not sure Annie would know, but it came to me that I should ask the new Porter.”
“Try me,” he said.
“I’ve been wondering what happened . . . to Winston and Dabba Doo. I know they were inside their landlords—Honeychile and Roy—but what happened to them when Honeychile and Roy died? I mean, finally died . . . What happens when your landlords die before you have your moment of balance? Or when someone else has it for you? I mean, I killed Grundy, but would that be enough? Would that be enough to give Winston his moment of balance? Can you do it like that, by proxy? The Guide doesn’t talk about it and Annie never said anything either. And poor Dabba Doo, he never even found the person who murdered him . . . So where do you think they went? I know things got ‘haywire’—Annie said it got that way on account of the fact she was dying and you were coming . . . I didn’t mean that to sound like it’s your fault! But what happened to Winston and Dabba Doo? Where did they go? Do you know, Porter? Do you know what happened to them? Porter, tell me if you do.”
He thought it was of note that she evaded the real question: Where did Troy go? And what would happen to Maya? Because neither one of them had a proper moment of balance, not really. Neither one of them killed the man who had murdered them. Though maybe bloodline was what mattered and Grundy could stand in for his father, “by proxy.” Maybe the killing of Grundy, though a simulacrum, would be enough to set sister and brother free.
The words poured from Willow without thought.
“Annie talks about the Great Mystery . . . and the mysteries wrapped in mysteries. The mystery of the children who return—and the mystery of evil. I think that whatever Roy Eakins had inside him was so strong that it . . . swallowed Dabba Doo up. I don’t know that for sure but I feel it.”
“But where do you think he is?” she said, with a redundant, childlike sincerity that broke his heart.
“I don’t know.”
“I know that he’s not where Troy is—because I can still feel Troy. I know I’ll be with him soon! But I can’t feel Winston. I used to be able to feel the others, at the Meetings. But I can’t feel Winston or Dabba Doo.”
After a brief moment, the worry inexplicably vanished from her face, erased by that smile she had when already somewhere else, far away from such concerns.
* * *
• • •
It touched him that when she sat down next to her brother’s empty seat, Maya’s serene disposition didn’t alter from that moment in the car when all disquiet disappeared. She knew she would soon be departing for the land of the trains; Willow saw the dazzling blueness that surrounded her begin to pulse like a cosmic jellyfish, calling her back, singing to her, loving her. He was certain she could feel its embrace.
He knew Annie saw it too.
A great sorrow, kingly and ennobled, overtook the detective, a palatial melancholy whose bare rooms were filled with the light of grace. Sitting beside Annie, he turned to meet the Porter’s gaze. Willow knew that she understood, having witnessed so many children leave this world for the last time after their moment of balance. Yet alongside such emotions, something terrifying took hold, more fearful than the panic of his first few Meetings. It was the sense he was too far in now, that the point of no return was approaching—or had already been passed. Why am I still fighting this? Maybe his recalcitrance had to
do with Annie having told him that Portership was his destiny. Because whether she was right or wrong, Willow Millard Wylde didn’t like anyone telling him anything about his own life.
Half a dozen people sat with Guides in their laps and Willow was puzzled that he was able to give each his undivided attention while his head was completely elsewhere. They had so many questions! When Annie gave him the nod to take over, he provided answers, provisional as they were. She smiled approvingly as he spoke, with maternal looks of “job well done.”
Maya took her cake and the newcomers were thrilled. (Children being always enlivened by a birthday.) It made no difference that they couldn’t comprehend what the celebration was about, though Annie had prefaced it with a short talk about something called the moment of balance.
After the Meeting, Annie asked Willow to stay behind. The sentry came in with a scruffy backpack and set it down in front of him. “Thank you, Bumble,” said Annie. He doffed his cap and left. Alone now with the new Porter, she pointed to the backpack.
“That’s for you to take home. And if I don’t see you again, I wanted to thank you. I’m so glad that it’s you who’s taking my place. I’m not as strong as you are, I was never as strong, and the children deserve that! Did you notice something different about this group? There was something so grounded about them, so purposeful. There isn’t that sense of aberration I’ve felt for so many months. Nothing ‘haywire’ about ’em! A healing has already taken place—a balance—and it’s because of you. And don’t get a swelled head about it either! It has nothing to do with you, not really. Not a thing to do with any person or thing—only to do with balance. Balance and love. Love makes balance, you see? Yes, that’s what I’ve learned. And if that’s all I’ve learned, it’s enough.”
He knew she would die soon and it frightened him. In that way he had become a child like the others.
“I don’t know what to say,” said Willow.
“You’ll have plenty to say and plenty of time to say it in, so don’t worry. Oh! There’s just one more thing—I seem to always be telling you there’s one more thing, don’t I? You’ve been in AA so I’ll put it in those terms. You told me once that you never really took the First Step—‘We admitted we were powerless over alcohol and that our lives had become unmanageable.’ The surrender of the First Step is what allows you to begin your sober journey. I know you haven’t done that yet, not in this room. You haven’t surrendered—I know it! But you’re going to need to, Willow, if you want to help these children. You’re going to need to finally do a First Step.”
“I’m trying, Annie.”
“There’s a word they use in AA—‘Eskimo.’ Do you know what it means? To have an ‘Eskimo’?”
“It’s the person who brings you to your first Meeting.”
“Yes! And do you know who your Eskimo is? In these meetings?”
“It’s you.”
“No,” she said gravely. “It isn’t me. You’ve still to meet your Eskimo—the one who will allow you to truly surrender.” She closed her eyes, as if weathering a storm. Softly, she said, “I pray that it won’t be a child.” He heard the words but could make no sense of them. Then she opened her eyes and smiled. “God bless you and keep you, Willow Millard Wylde.”
The sentry appeared again and took her arm.
Willow watched them go out.
4.
When he dropped Lydia off, he asked if she would be all right staying by herself. She said she would and kissed his cheek. He thought it best to just come out with it, considering the elegiac mood Annie had set, and all that he knew. “Lydia, I have the feeling”—he didn’t, really, but wasn’t sure how to start—“this is the last time I’ll see you.”
“That isn’t true,” she said. “If I’d had a ‘perfect’ moment of balance, you’d probably be right. But things got messed up. I happen to know exactly when I’m leaving and it isn’t tonight. I’ll stay long enough to go to Daniel’s funeral; I really did come to love him in the same way Maya loves Troy. Besides, Troy will be there too—hints of him. Because he and Daniel spent so much important time together. So I’ll see you Sunday, ’kay?”
“Okay,” he said somberly.
She kissed his cheek again.
“Try not to be so blue,” she said.
* * *
• • •
He made love to Dixie that night, saturated in love and death, good and evil, balance and anarchy. She cried when she came, the first time that happened. She was never more beautiful.
They lay in bed and smoked.
“How’s Lydia doing?” she asked.
“Seems to be doing okay. Had a bit of a rough day.”
“I think you all did. I’m surprised you went to your AA meeting.”
“It was either that or drink.”
“Willow . . . I know she was traumatized—but what was up with that little strip show she did?”
“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug and a smile.
“I mean, did you guys have some kind of deal going on?”
He laughed. “Why do you even say that?”
“I don’t know. She just looked so . . . comfortable. Like it was something she’d done before.”
“She’s just a little Aspergers-y. Kind of a strange affect. If you didn’t notice.”
“Yeah,” said Dixie. “I kinda saw that.”
“Cold case cops are weird, what can I say?”
It was her turn to laugh. “Be weird—but not too weird. ’Cause if some other chick comes out of the shower in her birthday suit, you’ll see how weird I can be.”
An hour later, they were asleep in each other’s arms.
* * *
• • •
He awoke gasping for air and looked at the clock: 1:20 A.M.
He was parched. He went to the fridge and slugged down half a gallon of orange juice. He wandered to the living room and saw the backpack by the door. Inside was a package wrapped in brown paper and a card with his name that said “Keep Coming Back!” (It was signed “Annie,” the i dotted with a heart.) He opened the stack of Guides. None had the names of children written on them; if all went well, he would soon meet their owners on the train.
He stared at the mural and was seized by a dizzying panic. He ran to the bedroom for his phone. He realized he had left it in his coat and ran back to the living room. It was slung across a chair and he fished it from the pocket. He dialed Pace, praying she’d pick up—
—certain that his grandson was dead.
O God, God, God. Larkin is my Eskimo . . .
He kept getting sent to voice mail and resolved to jump in the car and drive straight to Marlette if she didn’t answer in the next sixty seconds. At this hour, he could make it in forty-five minutes. He was already gathering his things, thinking about what he would say in the note he’d leave for Dixie—he didn’t want to put her through yet another crisis—when Pace called back. She’d been drifting off to sleep, her iPhone on mute, when the light of the incoming call awakened her.
He blurted out, “Is everything okay?” She was confused and then frightened by her father’s tone. She stiffened and sat up, jarring Geoff to wakefulness. “Is Larkin okay?”
“He’s fine, Daddy, we’re fine . . . everyone’s fine. What’s going on?”
“Go check on Larkin.”
“Hold on.”
She sprinted to her son’s room with an urgency informed by her father’s history. She still remembered his night terrors when she was a little girl, and the legendary story of his premonition of her great-grandmother’s death had long been enshrined in Wylde family lore. She touched the sleeping boy’s cheek and watched his tiny chest heave with life. Pace tucked the blanket around him and kissed the crown of his head.
“He’s totally fine. He’s right here, sleeping.”
“Great. That’s
great.”
“Daddy, what’s going on?”
“I’m sorry, babe,” he said. “I had a nightmare. Sorry, honey—I’m sorry I woke the house. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He told her that the bad dream was one of general family safety, deciding it would be cruel to make Larkin the focus. It might put thoughts in her head. “I guess today’s events had something to do with it. Guess I blew a fuse.”
“I heard,” she said as she sat at the dining room table. Geoff wandered in and sat too. “You’ve been all over the news! I’ve been trying to reach you! I talked to Mom and she said you were okay, but why don’t you pick up when I call?”
“It’s just been so crazy—and I knew you and Adelaide would talk. I had to turn my friggin’ phone off. I was getting calls from the media nonstop. Guess my cell phone number got WikiLeaked.”
“But you’re okay? Mom said you got hurt.”
“Just a scratch. I’m totally fine.”
“Daddy, are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. Sorry again to have woke everybody up. My apologies to Geoff.”
“Daddy, it’s okay, I’m glad you called. And always call, if you have a ‘feeling’—or even if you don’t.”
“Haven’t had one of those in a while.”
“Well, don’t worry. Everyone’s fine.”
“Thank you, sweetheart. Say hi to Geoff and let’s plan something soon. And give Larkin a kiss.”
“I will. I love you.”
“I love you too. Now y’all go back to sleep.”
MEMORIAL DAY
1.
It was a week of funerals, wakes and remembrance.
Annie gave Willow’s name to the funeral home as next of kin. He was startled when the mortuary called. There was something bracing about the non-etherealness of it, grounding him amid the general “woo-woo,” as Owen liked to say. At the same time, he became uneasy, the finality of her death nagging him to reconsider the events of the last few months. Had it all been a dream? The Porter was right: he still hadn’t taken a First Step, in this world or the next. And he had his resentments—why did Annie say what she did about praying his Eskimo wouldn’t be a child? The remark seemed almost sadistic. He could see himself making late-night phone calls to Pace until his dying day.
A Guide for Murdered Children Page 34