Sarah Sparrow - A Guide for Murdered Children

Lydia had given up her lightweight opiate habit months ago; she stopped taking painkillers a week after dying on the Orchard Trail. But tonight, she washed down four Oxycontin and three Xanax with white wine. She sat on the couch in the dark and waited for that lush, familiar sense of well-being to come but fell asleep too soon to savor it.

At 11:20 P.M., she awakened bolt upright and thought:

He’s leaving me now —

—finally, she knew!

And though her knowledge was flawed, she acted.

She arrived at the New Baltimore residence of Roy Eakins at 11:47 P.M.

The house was dark.

She lifted one of the windows and went in.

She walked to the bedroom.

She heard the sound of lungs in distress (more the sound of gears being stripped) and turned on the light.

He was in bed, propped with pillows so he could breathe.

Was that what he’s doing? Because it didn’t sound like breathing.

He blinked and smiled. “Hello there, Christian—”

The borrowed life was already leaving his body.

“Where is Troy!” she said, crouching over him like a jackal.

“Well,” whispered Roy, with ragged intimacy. “I could tell you he’s dead but that would be redundant.”

“He isn’t !” she said corrosively. “I still feel him. Where is he? ”

“You really don’t know, do you?” he said woozily, like a wizard toad to a babe lost in the woods. “I guess that’s a prime example of what Annie called ‘haywire’: you managed to get here , to me , but you still can’t get there , to him . You’re botching it just like Winston did—”

She bent back his fingers, breaking them. He yelped but still managed to be jovial.

“It’s all about vengeance, isn’t it, Maya? I guess I was a little more pure . Less… judgmental than you kids. I didn’t have your righteous arrogance. Because I never sought vengeance—what I did, I did for pleasure.”

“Tell me where my brother is!” she commanded, stone-faced. She looked ancient and timeless all at once. “Or I’ll do exactly to you what you did to me.”

“I’ve been thinking. Maybe when I die— again —when you ‘kill’ me—maybe right then, another tenant will come along. And a few weeks from now, voilà: I’ll be back at a Meeting, with Annie and the gang. Wouldn’t that be special?”

“I swear I’ll take my time sending you from this world—”

“Do you have any idea how crazy you sound? Send me from what world? I’m not here , Chiquita, I’m already gone… and you know it. I left ten months ago… neither one of us is here! Not Lydia , not Maya , not Roy , not Dabba Doo —we’re ghosts! The moment of balance only works if the one you come back to kill is alive. How you gonna kill a ghost? You dumb bitch .”

With his last breath he said, “You are so fucked.”

She knew that Roy Eakins was right.

1.

Willow arrived at the Cold Case office early, with a mission.

They hadn’t yet sent Maya’s birthday card for DNA testing. Willow contacted an eager beaver buddy of his at the forensic science lab—a fingerprint expert. The detective was certain that if his friend were able to get a footprint off the scrap of paper that Roy had stepped on (with his son’s phone number) it would match the one on Maya’s card.

After the messenger came and picked it up, he made himself a cup of coffee, lit a cigarette and opened the computer. A few days ago, he’d requested photos of the crime scene at Mount Clemens High, and he was stunned at the image now on his screen: the football player was wearing an Iron Butterfly T-shirt when Honeychile stabbed him. There it was again, just as it had looked in her sketch at the hospital—the chrome angel, its naked torso sprouting brilliantly colored wings. Willow’s wheels started turning. Was the person who killed Winston wearing a shirt with the same design when the boy was abducted and slain? Since Honeychile was Winston’s landlord, might seeing the image of the angel have triggered her attack on the student? According to the sheriff, the distraught girl kept saying she had “killed the wrong one”… is that what Honeychile meant? That she’d lashed out in a case of mistaken identity?

Lydia and Daniel were late. (Meaning, they weren’t early.) He’d give ’em that; yesterday was one hell of a day. The death of Renée “Honeychile” Devonshire had been a serious blow, and not just to the investigation. That a landlord had offed herself was a little too close for comfort. Willow closed his eyes. The detective slipped away and the Porter he was becoming took its place. He sunk deep, trying to feel his recruits. Daniel was nowhere to be found… but he felt Lydia. And with that feeling came a surge of crackling energy—a vision.

He jumped from his chair and literally ran from the building.

He gunned it to the orderly neighborhood in New Baltimore where Roy Eakins lived. Lydia’s Kia was parked haphazardly in the drive, blocking Roy’s vehicle. Shit—

Too late!

He drew his gun.

Avoiding the front porch, he skulked around the side of the house, clinging to the wall. There’d been a respite from the storm but the sky was darkening again. A neighbor in the yard next door just finished taking her clothes off the line; she took her basket and went in without seeing him.

He tried the back door—locked.

He saw an open window and wondered if Roy had escaped.

He climbed in…

The house was quiet, like a void where sounds couldn’t live. The table where they had eaten their sandwiches was still set. The plates hadn’t been cleared.

Gummy bears littered the carpet.

He did some quick cop moves, gun raised while ducking into empty rooms—the sink of the front bathroom was stained with what looked like dried blood—before moving slowly down the long hall…

There was a body on the bed. Was it Lydia’s?

Motherfuck —

He moved closer… It was a man.

It was Roy—

Willow reflexively wheeled around, pointing his revolver at an immobile figure in the chair.

“Jesus Christ, I almost shot you!” he said.

She didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t say a word.

Was she injured? Was she dead—

He stepped toward her and saw that she was all right, whatever all right meant…

She was alive.

He swiveled again, drawing his gun on Roy. He moved toward the bed, keeping the weapon trained on the body. The man looked like hell. The smell overtook him now, stronger than any he’d ever experienced—industrial-strength death. He fought the urge to vomit. He turned back to attend to Lydia.

She was still doing her Lincoln Memorial thing: rigid in the chair as she stared into space. Sphinxlike, regal… maybe that’s what all the children of the train look like, après moment of balance .

“Lydia, are you okay?”

“I failed,” she said softly.

“What happened?”

“Eakins was right.”

“About what? What do you mean? Talk to me, Lydia.”

“I didn’t kill him—he died on his own. I just stood there and watched. And he knew that would be the worst thing. He knew…” She smiled like a martyr on a stake about to be set on fire. “He won. Roy Eakins won.”

A thousand things went through his head, half the concerns of a Porter, half those of a professional sworn to uphold the law. What the fuck am I supposed to do with this? There’s a body — need to file a report. I’ll say we were following up on a lead — that the print on the birthday card was a footprint, not a palm print — but Owen’s going to ask what we were doing here, why we came to his house before getting the results — and why didn’t I call for backup? Fuck fuck fuck — and Lydia— what if she dies? Right there in the chair? Because isn’t that more or less the fuck what happens after moments of balance ? Don’t they drop dead after the ones who murdered them are gone?