Sarah Sparrow - A Guide for Murdered Children

It was getting late and Willow needed to leave if he wanted to get to Roy’s on time.

“Is that why you came to see me, Willow? To noodle around about Roy?”

“Maybe a little bit. Maybe I got a little nostalgic, in general.”

“I guess we’re a cold case that can never be solved.”

“It’s always tougher when there isn’t a body.”

She laughed out loud at the innuendo. Willow flashed on shoving her against the living room wall and sticking his tongue down her throat. He wondered if she’d submit. How long would it take for her to push him away? Would it be a push? Or a kick in the balls? Maybe she’d do that thing ex-wives in the movies do and go limp in his arms while breathlessly muttering, We can’t—we can’t—it’s not fair—to Owen—please stop—don’t stop! …

“Like I said, Dubya: you don’t miss me. You miss the idea of me, the idea of us . Now go home, take a cold shower, and call your daughter. I’m sure she’d love to hear from you.”

He smiled, kissed her cheek and left.

The drive to New Baltimore took half an hour. He could have taken Armada Ridge to County Line Road but chose the southernmost route instead—29 Mile Road, then left on Avenue of the Waters—so he could pass directly through Saggerty Falls. (Visiting Adelaide had awakened something.) Since his return to Macomb he hadn’t made an expedition to the place where he and Addie once lived—let alone to the Rummers, a fact Willow found both understandable and strange, in light of the fateful decision on the part of his deputies to reopen the case. In New York, it was always his habit and instinct to visit the scene of a cold case crime, under the aegis of a ritualized mystical reconnoitering that for him was mandatory. But he’d stayed away from Ronnie and Elaine’s (even the path where Maya’s bicycle was found), a fact that suddenly seemed worse than disrespectful. It felt like some sort of sacrilege, some sort of travesty.

Willow shivered as he crossed the border of the village. He made the five-minute detour to Creekview Street, where the Rummers had that barbecue on the day the Earth stood still. He put on Elgar’s Cello Concerto in E Minor for dramatic effect and it worked: as he entered the cul-de-sac, the large, Windsor-style home, painted in brighter hues than he remembered, hove outlandishly into view like the star of a movie doomed never to be released. The neighborhood hadn’t changed all that much. It looked like people were making more money now, which didn’t really make sense—making it how?—shiny new muscle cars and ATVs grandstanded in the driveways, and even the decorative accoutrements on the faces of the houses looked added on, as if for a promotional brochure.

A redheaded little girl in pigtails stopped to take in the stranger, straddling her bike as she eyed him. For a moment, he wondered if she were a hallucination but rejected the thought because he saw no blue mist, no Blue Death. He wondered who lived in the Rummers’ house now. He turned his car around in the bulb of the dead end and got back on Avenue of the Waters for the short ride to Roy’s.

He watched the girl in his rearview. She stared after him like an admonishment, and the old shame returned, the shame of leaving Pace behind.

Roy came to the door in a three-piece tweed suit and bare feet.

He gave Willow a bear hug and then, with comic swagger, ostentatiously waved an arm toward the dining table, where humble sandwiches and chips had been laid.

“You’ve won everything behind Door Number Three! And those , m’lord”—he showcased a bowl of gummy bears—“are for dessert: my favorites, may I add, the green ones, in honor of your visit. Took me an hour to do the sorting.”

He’d actually lit one of those fat fragrant candles, and that cracked Willow up.

It’s like a date!

Maybe Roy turned fag.

The detective acknowledged the brief bluish steam that rose from Roy’s chest before dismissing it as an aberration. Hadn’t the same kind of misperception occurred when he first took Lydia and Daniel to the Spirit Room?

It’d been eighteen years since they’d last seen each other, and nearly that long since Willow had even thought of him. Eakins looked remarkably young and vital—far healthier, thought Willow, than himself. (And Roy was much older.) Roy farcically snatched away the beer he’d set down when Willow informed that he was sober, replacing it with a Dr. Brown’s Diet Cream. His eccentric, guileless amiability was endearing; there was something so childlike about him that Willow felt like he’d stepped into Pee-wee’s Playhouse. He had always liked the man but the reality was they’d never had much contact, apart from the few open houses he attended at his daughter’s school.

“Man, I was jazzed to hear from you!” said Roy.

His ardent demeanor recalled Ronnie Rummer’s, and made Willow think loneliness must be going around. “It’s good to see you, Roy. And thanks for the awesome spread.”

“I had a marching band but I think they must’ve got stuck in traffic,” said Roy with an exaggerated frown.

“I’ll bet you did. It’s very welcoming and I appreciate it.”

They chitchatted awhile—it was a little tricky because Willow didn’t want to show his cards. (Not yet and maybe never.) Roy asked if Willow was still living in New York and he said no, he’d “moved back to the area,” to be closer to Pace. “I’ve already missed too much time with her.” He shifted things over to his host. “And what have you been up to all these years, my friend?”

“No good, I’m afraid,” said Roy, before growing serious. “After what happened with those kids—the bottom kind of fell out. You know what I mean. The Falls lost its charm. The media practically moved in! Too much attention, and all of it negative. I knew I didn’t want to be there anymore. I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to teach. Not there, anyway. Not in the Falls. Bloom was off the rose. The rose was dead , quite literally, I’m afraid. Oh, I didn’t want to be the party pooper—that wouldn’t have been fair to the parents or my students—so I hung in for about a year. That year was a bummer . But it wasn’t about me. I had an obligation. As a quasi-educator , I had a duty, a responsibility to the community. I really felt that and still do. Did a lot of hand-holding, something that comes naturally to teachers, if they’re worth their salt. And then I moved on. Took me awhile to find my footing. I taught for a few years in public schools, in Flint, then Grosse Pointe—did a little private tutoring on the Gold Coast. Hedge-fund guys who took a shine to Amercan history! You know, rich captains of industry who wanted to add a little scholarly sex appeal to their fund-raiser dinner conversations. They paid very well , by the way. Oh, I was the go-to guy for a while! Socked away a lot of money. I’m still living off those savings.”

Roy was curious about Adelaide and, without being mean-spirited, made a passing reference to the cause célèbre of her remarriage. He asked after Pace as well, recalling what a wonderful student she was. “The best and the brightest,” he said.

“How’d you wind up here?” said Willow, friendly and open-faced. “In New Baltimore?”

“Sweet little community,” said Roy. “I like being close to the lake.” Willow was about to bring up the matter of the Collins boy being found in the local marsh when Roy beat him to it. “And now that poor kid gets dredged up off Anchor Bay. It just never stops, does it, Willow?”

“Doesn’t seem to.”

“The madness of the human species… makes you want to burn your membership card, doesn’t it? But I don’t feel like moving, not this time. It was different with Troy and Maya. I guess that’s because they were my students. My kids. It was personal.”