WISHBONE II: ...Some Wishes Should Never Be Made

by Brooklyn Hudson

  He made his way past an onslaught of news reporters, all awaiting information on the missing Grenier girl. Holding up a dismissive hand, he moved quickly past them and headed straight for the evidence locker.

  He wanted to go over the original rape and home invasion crime, which had long ago been filed away as a cold case, unresolved. Not a lover of bureaucratic red tape, Bale was handed a clipboard and hurriedly filled in only the most pertinent information in triplicate form, handing it back to the clerk. The clerk took the clipboard, scrunching up his face as he worked to decipher Bale’s handwriting then disappeared into the back.

  It was not long before the clerk reappeared, only to bend over his desk and tap away at his computer with no sense of urgency.

  Ed watched him and wondered if the little twerp was actually checking his Facebook.

  “We don’t have this case in back. I ran some of the details and all I can find is an attempted suicide, Rachael Grenier, about two-years-ago.”

  Bale looked at the clerk, “Attempted suicide?”

  Bale had no way of knowing what type of mental health issues there had been, only that, for a brief period of time, Jessica Grenier had been under the watchful eye of Child Protective Services after Rachael had attacked herself in public with a pen. He assumed that had been when Rachael was institutionalized, but now he knew he was wrong. The report noted that Child Protective Services had made weekly visits to the home for a time, but the case was closed seven months later; Jessica left in the permanent care of her father.

  “Can you check again? It was a home invasion case…a rape. Here, let me see what I gave you.” He noted the clerks name tag, “…Jeffries.”

  Jeffries handed back the clipboard.

  Bale picked up a pen ready to correct his errors, but all the information was as it should be. “Okay, yeah, this is it. Can you go check again? Grenier…G-R-E-N…”

  “Yeah, I know how to spell it. Four years of French in high school.” The clerk took the forms back and disappeared once again.

  Ed paced around the front desk area with his hands in his pockets. He whistled random vibrato notes as he waited impatiently.

  This time, the clerk spent a considerable length of time in the locker. Bale craned his neck, attempting to see if any progress was being made.

  Jeffries leaned out around the doorway, “Got nothing, Detective. Sorry. There must be some mistake. Maybe the information was entered wrong upstairs?” he offered. “In the computer, I found a few incident reports, the suicide attempt, something about a stabbing at a bank. I think one other incident; case was dropped. But you can pull all that up yourself.”

  Ed drummed his fingers on the counter. He looked up at the clerk, bewildered.

  “I guess there’s been a mistake then,” he agreed.

  Bale left the evidence locker and went straight to his car. He would stop at home and find his case notes for the Grenier rape. He kept every pad he ever wrote a detail on, from his first day as a detective through today. Maybe now, his collection would finally prove useful. The evidence might have been lost, or perhaps there was a glitch, or an error had been made, but that home invasion had happened, and in his attic, in one of the dozen or more large boxes, filled to the brim with small scratch pads, he would find proof of it. He often wondered if he had any business keeping those pads at home, filled with people’s personal information, but right now, he was glad he had.

  Julien activated service on the pay-as-you-go cell phone he purchased from the drugstore. He sat in his car dialing Ed Bale as the snow began to collect on the hood of the SUV. He was grateful when, after being transferred to the detective’s desk, there was no answer. He listened to Bale’s voice telling him to leave a message.

  “Detective Bale, this is Julien Grenier. I want to check in for the case. If there is anything turning up?”

  Julien knew there would be nothing for Bale to report, but he also knew a parent would not let a day go by without hounding the police and frantically calling. He did not want to trigger Bale or his associates into paying him a visit at home. New York City was a big place, active with crime, which kept the NYPD busy, but a missing child would take precedence, at least for a while, and his leaving town would surely raise a red flag at the station. He needed to keep Bale at ease while he worked to find his daughter and get back to the city as quickly as possible; no one ever realizing he had ever been gone. He did not know how he would explain Jessica’s sudden reappearance, especially with a clan of reporters and police watching his building, but he would deal with that when the time came, and even welcome it being his most pertinent dilemma.

  He dialed Matt next, knowing he would have to work even harder to keep Matt and Lily out of his way.

  Arlette watched Jessica sitting quietly at the center of the coop. The once immaculate enclosure was now in a state of disarray under Arlette’s less than diligent care. The chickens swarmed around Jessica pushing ahead of each other. One-by-one, they stepped close for a proper inspection of the little girl. Jessica showed no sign of fear among the noisy, crowd of birds and reached out to run her hand along their feathers. One hopped into her lap and nestled into her crossed legs; several of the others lay down around her. Arlette, satisfied, left the coop and Jessica behind.

  It was difficult to see in the shadowy barn, but Arlette knew exactly where she was going. She found the proper feed barrel and drove her arms deep into the cold, green pellets until her chin sank into them as well. She attempted to blow the collecting feed dust away from her red, painted lips, which only kicked up more, forcing her to hold her breath. The weight of the pellets against her spindly arms made movement difficult as she dug around, but eventually, her fingers brushed something. She grabbed hold of the object, retracting her arms from the can with a moneybag tight in her grasp.

  She shook the bag, dust particles flying around her as she moved into a stream of light where she could see what she was doing. She carefully tugged at the zipper, trying not to crush the items inside.

  The zipper was dry and caked with floury powder and tiny fragments, but after a moment, she managed to work it loose. In the light, she jiggled the open bag giving a fast count of four wishbones. She would have four chances to get Jessica to do what she hoped she would.

  The bag had once contained more than a dozen bones, but she had wasted many in unsuccessful attempts; first with her ex-husband, Bernie Lind, and then with Carl. As the tally of bones dwindled, it fast became apparent that, with the death of Sarah, came the death of her legacy. Jessica had become Arlette’s only hope, and after the incident that morning, chairs flying across the room, untouched, she was even more optimistic than she had been before. Her issue, now would be, convincing the little girl to play the game. And if she did, would she also be capable of manipulating the child’s wish without stating the request aloud, disabling their purpose. She was still unsure of the severity of the child’s disability and how much Jessica would be capable of comprehending or playing along. All she could do was to try.

  Arlette returned to the coop and peered inside where Jessica still sat amid the now resting birds.

  “C’mon Jessica, it’s time.” Arlette held out her hand.

  Jessica allowed Arlette to walk her back through the barn and over the snow covered bridge.

  They reached the porch steps and Arlette felt the child attempt to tug her hand free. She spun around as Jessica dug her heels into the snow refusing to come up the steps and join Arlette in the house.

  “Jessica!” Arlette pulled hard enough to drag the child up onto the first step and then the second.

  Jessica screamed. A flock of birds fluttered from the trees and the chickens and ducks could be heard in a distant cacophony.

  Arlette lost grip of Jessica’s hand and the little girl bolted. Arlette rushed after her.

  Jessica stood with her back to Arlette gripping and yanking at the door handle of the Mercedes. She jerked at it repeatedly as she rocked back and forth shaking her he
ad, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Arlette clamped her hands down on Jessica’s shoulders and at the top of her lungs, Jessica began to wail.

  “Papa, Papa, Papa… Papa, Papa… Papa, Papa, Papa, Papa, Papa, Papa…”

  Arlette became enraged. She did not miss the insanity she had endured for two decades with Sarah and now she was confronted with it all over again.

  “Jessica, Jessica, calm down!”

  Jessica banged her hands on the window of the rear passenger door. Her tiny palms smacked the ice-cold glass repeatedly.

  In all the commotion, Arlette dropped the bag of bones to the ground and fought to spin Jessica around and get ahold of her wrists.

  “Papa, Papa, Pa…” Jessica gasped for air and started up again, “Papa, Papa, Papa…”

  Her hands now restrained, she began pounding her head against the glass then kicking at the door as Arlette pulled her away.

  Arlette worked to drag the little girl from the car, but lost her footing and fell backward, landing in the snow, all the while clinging desperately to the child.

  The old dog appeared out of nowhere. It rushed to Jessica, frantically licking her face and wedging itself between the child and Arlette; now forced to let go.

  Its warm fur and gentle demeanor soothed Jessica quickly and her screams became subdued sobs.

  Julien entered the Town Hall building. He followed the signs, walking him past several private rooms and ending in the main office. A woman sat watching television behind a tall counter.

  She looked up, “Can I help you?”

  Julien, hugely relieved, saw no sign of recognition in her eyes, “I am interested in finding the owner of a house outside of town.”

  “Is the house for sale?”

  “I don’t know. It is empty.” He paused nervously, “A white Victorian.”

  “Oh, Arlette Vandermark, but I don’t believe that property is for sale at this time.” She looked to an open door across the room and yelled, louder than necessary, “Bernie, is Arlette selling the Vic again?”

  Bernard Lind appeared in the doorway, wincing at the sound of his secretary’s jarring voice. He laid his eyes upon Julien and quickly became distracted. He paused to look him over then leaned against the door frame with a delayed smile.

  “Why, I don’t believe the house is for sale at this time, no.” He looked back to the secretary, “Call Arlette. See if you can’t get her on the phone.”

  Julien felt a sudden sense of panic, an uncontrollable urge to rush from the room, but he held his ground.

  Bernie’s gaze shifted to the door behind Julien, “Good timing. You would know the answer to this gentleman’s question. Arlette hasn’t put the Victorian back on the market again, has she?”

  Julien turned around and came face-to-face with Dr. Carl Lind.

  Imagery flooded him at such a rapid pace, he didn’t notice the room had begun to spin. A sharp pain seared through his leg and he tried to grab hold of the counter, but vertigo veered him to the side and he missed. He felt himself going down.

  Ed Bale stood in the middle of the dusty attic, wishing he had taken the time to mark the boxes by year. He had been tossing pads in until the overflow could no longer be pressed down then sealing them tight with tape, uncategorized.

  One-by-one, he opened each box with a sharp razor, pouring through pads, reading a few pages of contents and attempting to remember which cases were around the same time frame as the Grenier rape.

  He was at the end of his second hour of searching through old notes when he found a pad with a scribbled drugstore list on the first page.

  His mother had been dead for six years now. She had been taking Coumadin after a stroke and only for part of the last year of her life. She had been on so many medications during that time and Ed kept the names of these drugs on the inside cover of each new pad he started, so he could stop to pick up anything she needed on the way home from work, when necessary. If he remembered correctly, Coumadin had only been on that list for the duration of the last two or three pads he used, before her passing, which was shortly after the Grenier case. He smiled, proud of his still infallible memory and skills.

  In his hand, he scanned the list of drugs, the third of which was Coumadin. He flipped through the pages of the palm size pad when, eleven pages in, his eyes fell upon the name, Rachael Grenier.

  He stepped over one of the many open boxes, now littering the path between him and the narrow attic steps; he would clean the mess up another time. He made his way down two floors of stairs, and then to the kitchen, where the lighting was good and he knew he had left a swig or two of cold coffee in the pot that morning.

  Julien woke, seated on the floor, his back propped against the counter. The mayor crouched beside him, holding onto his arm. The secretary stood over them with a cup in her hand.

  “Julien…” The mayor gave him a shake.

  Julien’s eyes began to focus and he remembered where he was, “How do you know my name?”

  Bernie picked Julien’s wallet up off the floor, held it up then placed it in his lap, “You passed out. We went through your wallet in case there was some sort of medical alert information.”

  “Where did he go?” Julien stammered.

  Bernie had difficulty understanding him, “Come again?”

  “Where – did – he - go?” Julien spoke clearer, fighting both confusion and his accent.

  Bernie looked to his secretary and back to Julien.

  The mayor shook his head, “Where did who go?” Bernie snapped his fingers in midair, “Give him the water?”

  The secretary rushed closer and held out the cup. Julien ignored her and started to get up. Bernie tried to make him to wait, but Julien wasn’t listening.

  Still shaky, he held on to the counter, “Where did he go?” he demanded again. “Lind. The docteur?”

  Seemingly baffled, Bernie glanced from Julien to his secretary and back to Julien again, “You know my brother?”

  Julien stared into the mayor’s eyes, searching for any indication that they knew who he was or why he was there. He began to have doubt. He couldn’t be sure of anything anymore. He slid his wallet into his pocket and backed away from them and into the hall.

  The secretary moved toward him with the cup outstretched, but Julien would not take it. Still weak, he slid along the wall then stepped out into the courtyard where he dropped to his knees in the snow at the base of a large oak tree and emptied his stomach.

  Carl Lind hung up the call from Bernie trying not to swerve off the icy road then dialed Arlette for the second time. Still no answer on her cellphone, he headed home where he hoped he would find her. He thought he would have more time; he expected Julien to take longer to recover, but according to Bernie, Julien had left only a few moments behind him. Frustrated and angry, he slammed an open palm against the steering wheel. He warned Arlette she was asking for trouble; bringing that child to Kings Hollow would only be a mistake.

  Arlette sat at the dining room table across from Jessica. The little girl sat petting the golden retriever, panting with one paw resting in her lap. Arlette opened the moneybag and removed a wishbone.

  “Jessica, do you know what this is?” Arlette held the bone up with one hand and fished in her purse with the other.

  Jessica looked at the bone and turned away from the dog.

  Arlette placed a photo of Sarah on the table.

  “Jessica, I know you know how to play this game. I found the broken bone that you and your mother used that day in the coop, a very long time ago.”

  Arlette tapped at the photo, “Would you like to play with Sarah?”

  Jessica allowed her eyes to drift from the bone and steal a fast glance at the photo.

  “We will, Jessica, we’ll play in a moment.” Arlette placed the bone in her lap beneath the table, where Jessica would no longer be distracted by it.

  The girl started to get up immediately, causing the dog to stand with her.

  “No! Sit
back down,” Arlette scowled and pointed at the chair.

  The dog’s rump hit the wood floor in an instant and Jessica did as she was told.

  “Now, do you want to play with Sarah? You can play with her right after you and I play the game.” Arlette turned the photo to face Jessica, who looked at it more attentively this time. “She can come play with you. She can be your very best friend…your big sister. Wouldn’t that be nice? You would like that, wouldn’t you? Someone to play with?”

  Jessica began to rock subtly in her chair.

  “It’s okay, Jessie. No one is angry with you now.” Arlette forced a sweet, exaggerated tone as she slid the photo toward Jessica.

  Jessica looked at the picture again.

  While Arlette could not tell the little girl what to wish for, she could certainly do her best to plant the seed.

  “Do you want to play? I bet you’re pretty sick of us old folks,” she laughed, “A nice little girl, just like you. That would be so fun for you, wouldn’t it?”

  Jessica stared at Arlette with a blank expression, only frustrating Arlette, all the more.

  “Jessica, do you understand me? Wouldn’t it be nice to play with Sarah right now? To have someone just like you to play with?”

  Jessica picked up the photo.

  “That’s it, very good. That’s Sarah. She can come and play with you if you really, really want her to. If you want it more than anything else in the world.”

  Jessica looked long and hard at the photo.

  “She can come and brush your hair, play dress up, tea party... whatever little girls like to do.”