Sarah Sparrow - A Guide for Murdered Children

“Do we know what Ebenezer’s been up to? Does he still live in the area?”

“He’s in a lovely community outside Harrison Township,” said Lydia, with a slight smile.

“Go and talk to him,” said Willow.

“He makes his home in a quiet little village called Erin Grove,” said Daniel.

“It’s a cemetery,” said Lydia. “Tractor accident, ten years ago.”

“A very grave situation,” said Daniel.

“You’re both fuckin’ hilarious,” said Willow, unamused.

Suddenly, he thought: What was the point of all this? Of chasing actual clues and Persons of Interest, of sifting through evidence… What was the point of a traditional “investigation”? Wasn’t the arrival of Troy and Maya supposed to make Lydia and Daniel—wasn’t it supposed to confer upon the whole freak foursome some kind of omniscience? For chrissake! These were dead children who’d dropped down from God knows where, like the supernatural hammer of Thor! Weren’t they supposed to simply know the identity of their killers? And if they were supposed to know , why hadn’t the deputies made any headway? Willow wondered if it was something he was doing—or not doing—that was creating obstacles, impeding their flow. He felt like an inept counselor lost in the woods with two frightened scouts.

He decided it was all of a theme, in this world and any other: he was failing again. He had always failed and now he was failing in the sacred task entrusted to him. And, as in times of challenges past, he wanted out.

“Can either of you expand upon the process or method of how exactly the tenants—how the children reach their moment of balance ?” He still chafed against the essential phrase, enunciating it with a measure of sarcasm. “Do you think you can help me with that?”

“It just comes,” said Lydia. “ Annie said it’s more of a feeling than anything else. She said that one day, you just know.”

“But what if you don’t?” said Daniel, rhetorically. “What if that ‘feeling’ never comes? Personally, I think something’s gone wrong. Because by now we should have known who killed us.”

Bingo , thought Willow.

“I’m not sure that’s true,” said Lydia meekly.

“And what about Dabba Doo?” asked Daniel, continuing to build some sort of ominous case. “In a few months—if he ever comes back—that means he’ll have been coming to the Meeting for a year! And from what the Porter said—the Guide said it too!—that isn’t possible.”

Willow wandered over to the corkboard. Staring at the hit parade of evidentiary pinups, he had deep thoughts—though not about the Rummer case. Instead, he asked himself if he felt like a drink. He didn’t, not really… though maybe it was time to surrender , surrender to alcoholism and concede it was booze that provided Willow Wylde his very own moment of balance —a custom blend of revenge, symmetry and justice that would never let him down, one day at a time , until his trudging-buddy pallbearers (all those he’d abysmally failed) trudged him to the grave.

They joined their boss at the board.

“What are those?” said Lydia, in confusion.

The detective had come in early and thumbtacked two images. One was a photo taken from a 1998 school yearbook of a staffer in a loud bow tie, smiling broadly. The caption read “Roy Eakins, American History. History doesn’t repeat itself but it often rhymes.— Mark Twain.” The other was a recent picture of “R. J. Eakins” that Willow clipped from an article in the Anchor Bay Bugle about locals who were protesting the installation of parking meters with computer chips.

“That’s Dabba Doo,” said Daniel, wide-eyed.

“Dabba Doo?”

“From the Meeting,” said Lydia.

“He stopped coming, which is weird. Because he hasn’t taken his birthday cake,” said Daniel.

“Jesus,” said Willow, under his breath.

In the detective’s view, Roy had never been a viable contender in the leading role of the Rummer murders anyway. And yet, after the uneventful visit to the tidy home in New Baltimore, Willow had been surprised when his gut stubbornly refused to acquit the schoolteacher of the crimes. Now, though, learning that Eakins was de facto dead seemed absolute proof of his innocence. Willow couldn’t believe he was capable of such berserk logic: as far as he knew, the children of the train only sought revenge on the living. If Roy had killed Troy and Maya, how could they balance the scales if he was already dead? He would definitely need to have a talk with Annie about that, if only for curiosity’s sake…

Now that he knew Roy was a landlord, he felt hoodwinked. It gave him the willies just thinking about being “entertained” by a charming cadaver on a pleasant afternoon. The damn thing even made him a sandwich. It made him feel unclean.

“Do you really mean to say,” said Lydia, “that Roy Eakins… is Dabba Doo ?” She sounded both like a child whose father had just told her Santa Claus wasn’t real, and like an adult who’d been told that he was .

“Apparently,” mused Willow. “And I wonder why he stopped attending the Meeting.”

His detective mind leapt forward. Where there’s cremation smoke, there’s fire—he had better get on that interview with Grundy tout de suite.

“Hear me out, sir,” said Daniel, who hadn’t been paying much attention to the exchange. “It’s imperative that we speak to Honeychile.” It was less a suggestion than it was a pronouncement. “If at all possible.”

“I agree, sir. Daniel has a really strong feeling about it,” said Lydia.

“The sheriff was supposed to interview her this morning,” said Willow. “I’ll ask how it went—she may not be in shape for that. But if we do see her, I’m going to have to tell Owen about it beforehand. I don’t want a repeat of that fiasco.”

Happy with the new plan, Lydia and Daniel made a shiny little show of getting back to work. Willow blinked at the stuffed unicorn that hung in its Ziploc just above the photos of Roy. It whispered but he could not yet hear what it was telling him.

4.

After the visit from Owen and his investigator, the patient’s transformation was radical and unexpected. She became calm and lucid, nearly presenting as “normal.” She promised to behave and begged to be transferred from protective isolation. Because of the murder charge, they wouldn’t allow her to mingle with other patients, but the doctors agreed she could change to a more “mood-elevating” room. Even her skin blotches seemed to fade.

Honeychile said that she wanted to draw, which her therapists encouraged. Crayons and paper were approved. Through the locked door and wired glass portal, the staff could hear her sing while she sketched. The nurses couldn’t believe she had killed a six-foot-tall football player—so tiny, so demure! They smiled as they listened, busying themselves in the changeover to swing shift.

“Girl’s got a voice. She should go on tour,” said an RN.

“Give Katy Perry a run for her money,” said another.

“That’s going to have to be some serious running, cause Katy got a lot of money!”

As Honeychile put the finishing touches on her butterfly-winged angel, she luxuriated in the melody: