Sarah Sparrow - A Guide for Murdered Children

The story they recounted about Rhonda and the murders at Jacobs Prairie aroused an entirely different emotion. Willow had a toe in both worlds, but the toe in Annie’s world was badly stubbed. The panic that caused him to hoist a drink at Dickweeds wasn’t merely rooted in the abrupt and phantasmagoric upheaval of his life—it was more prosaic. Simply put, if he didn’t tell Owen what he was now privy to, he would technically become a coconspirator, an obstructer of justice at the very least. Because not only did Willow know the identity of the killer (the name of “Rhonda’s” landlord could be uncovered easily enough), but he knew the witnesses as well—Cold Case deputies who worked directly under him! By not intervening in a murder they could easily have prevented, they were as guilty as the perpetrator himself.

Yet Willow the inchoate Porter understood everything, or at least was beginning to. While the Porter had no allegiance to the traditional, so-called truth and its attendant morals and jurisprudence, the detective —the veteran cop and professional, the provider for hearth and home (Pace, Larkin)—bridled at the potential consequences of criminal malfeasance that went along with a course of nonaction, nudging him toward accountability and the fantasy of telling his superior all . But what would he confess? That he’d become a sorcerer’s apprentice? That he was communing with the dead? It was a conundrum that he knew had no resolution.

And what about Grundy Eakins? Willow hadn’t even been able to summon the energy to drive out to Wolcott Mills, which (as a detective) was unforgivable…

There were so many things to drink about that selecting merely one seemed the greatest of luxuries.

Deep in his cups now, he meditated on karma. He used to talk about the concept with Renata, the opinionated Buddhist; they spent many an hour in the smoke pit at the Meadows, inhaling nicotine and confabbing in the 110-degree heat. She believed karma didn’t exist, “because there is no ‘you’ and there is no ‘me.’ How can there be retribution when there’s no ‘doer’ of the deed or crime? What they call karma is just more sisboombah Catholic bullshit.” For him, the dialectic was a little rarefied. He was old-school and believed there was balance and symmetry to the universe, call it what you will. She scoffed and said that was just a pretty way of saying “eye for an eye.” Maybe she was right.

He was about to order another drink when the man in the booth got up. Instead of passing Willow, he stopped right beside him—it was Charles in Charge. The detective felt a shudder of shame and paranoia. Charlie of course knew that he was sober. After an awkward hello, Willow decided the best defense was a strong offense. He pointed to his glass and said, by way of explanation, “I just got a piece of very bad news.”

“Awfully sorry, Dubya.” He put a hand on his old friend’s shoulder and warmly said, “Take good care now.”

It was just like Charlie not to pry. He was about to leave when Willow gripped his arm.

“Charlie, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to the sheriff.”

“No worries.” The man’s word was gold. “Hope it’s nothing with Adelaide or the family.”

“No,” said Willow. He at least had to disabuse him of that. “Nothing like that. A friend of mine passed away.”

“I’m sorry to hear.”

“It’s all good,” said Willow, world-weary.

Charlie patted the detective’s shoulder again. “You good to drive?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” he said, then touched his arm and smiled. “I love you, buddy.” And he really did. As Charlie left, Willow said, “Charles in Charge,” like he always had when they parted, as if in benediction.

The detective did what he told himself he wouldn’t.

He knocked on Dixie’s door.

And her light wasn’t even on.

She was pleasantly surprised and literally pulled him over the threshold by his lapels. She smelled the liquor and said “Oh” but kissed him anyway. She didn’t have it in her to be judgey, even if she knew how serious the situation might be. All she said was “You okay?” as she helped strip off his clothes. His pants got caught around his legs and he stumbled like a cartoon drunk, bracing his fall against the couch. Dixie laughed, saying, “Whoa there!” and he blurted out, I love you. “That’s what they all say after last call,” she said.

He came on like a lion in bed but that didn’t last. Inside five minutes he was cradled in her arms, his body convulsing in tears. She let him do that while she stroked and shushed.

“Talk to me, baby. What’s going on?”

“It’s— those kids . The Rummer kids, Maya and Troy.”

Saying their names out loud, saying anything about them, ambushed him. He had mentioned the case to her weeks ago in the most impersonal way, without naming names, and now he felt immense shame at pimping the innocents as an excuse for his relapse, much like he’d summoned the “death of a friend” with Charles in Charge. The horror and sadness of it tore through Willow’s very soul.

“How they must have suffered—” he said, in agony.

“I know, I know…”

“I knew them, Dixie! I never told you that, but I knew those kids, I knew their folks —who are destroyed, by the way. I went to see them and they are completely destroyed. My daughter babysat those children!” He closed his eyes. “When I think of what happened to them—that it could have happened to Pace …”

“But it didn’t , sweetheart. It didn’t. And I’m glad you’re letting this shit out. It’s okay to cry, babe, you have to, you need to. We need to cry! And I know how you hold that in, I know it’s part of your job not to show how much you hurt. You’ve been holding so much in for so long—your whole life . So let it out, babe, just let it out. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here…”

As he nodded out on the bed, he prayed he wouldn’t dream of the train. Leave me in peace, he thought. When Dixie solicitously asked if he wanted to sleep alone, Willow realized he’d said those words out loud, and it stabbed at him that he might have wounded her. “I didn’t mean that for you, babe… No, I want you here. I need you here.” She smiled, quizzically, as if she didn’t quite believe him. “Okay,” she said.

“I’m a hot mess, huh,” he said.

“Yeah, but you’re my hot mess. At least tonight you are.”

He kissed her cheek. “Thank you, Dixie.”

“We aim to please.”

“Watch your aim, babe. Wouldn’t want any more casualties.”

“Too late for that,” she said.

1.

While a small part of him yearned to go back to the Meeting, Roy Eakins knew that he was done—with the Porter and the landlords and the whole deal. It was the “residual” of his child-tenant that tugged at him to return, because he missed his playmates.

But Dabba Doo was gone forever.

It would be challenging now to make the journey to the Cross of Glory Lutheran Church even if he wanted to. The drive would be too rough. He wasn’t physically well and his weakness surprised him, because of late he’d experienced a cascade of strength and well-being that he attributed to the killing of Violet and her landlord, Sarabeth. He still had power surges—moments when he felt almost superhuman—but the “hangovers” that followed were getting worse. He wet his bed every night and lately the sheets were stained by his stool. When Roy used the machine at CVS, he thought it was broken; he had no blood pressure at all. His urine was black and he had episodes of blindness in alternating eyes; except for the beloved, dreaded gummy bears (he was even losing his taste for those), he could hold down only broth. His skin was splotched by purple starbursts. He thought of seeing a doctor and then laughed when he imagined the fellow entering the examination room to tell him the test results came back, revealing that he was dead. Like one of those good news–bad news jokes.