Sarah Sparrow - A Guide for Murdered Children

She put the blade into one eye and then the other and Grundy Eakins screamed, not a scream like Maya-Lydia’s but not a human one either. Then she looked up toward Willow and the room where her brother lay. “Finish him, Troy!” she shouted, awash in ecstastic, unfathomable horror and resolution. Willow had the sense she was in some sort of fugue state, because even in the magical world whence she came (and would soon return to), he doubted that Troy’s or Daniel’s participation was an option. Both landlord and tenant had been released—he felt it in his Porter’s bones.

She went back to work with the “heirloom.”

Less than a minute had passed when Grundy’s protests ended and the moment of balance came, albeit secondhand.

3.

Seven sheriff’s cars and three ambulances converged.

It wasn’t yet noon; the storm made everything into a dark slurry, a Turner seascape.

Willow sat in the white-trash solarium, shrouded in a scratchy blanket provided by paramedics. His bumpy, bloody head was swabbed and bandaged. Beside him was Lydia in her own blanket, though looking more serene—almost religious. Her face was ethereally calm, like the emblem of a dreamer. The bodies hadn’t yet been loaded into the coroner’s van and the forensic team was busy measuring, taking pictures and bagging evidence. Laverne Eakins insisted on walking to the ambulance unaided but the request was denied. They cuffed her to the gurney.

After his walk-through of the crime scene, Sheriff Caplan went to the sunroom and stood there, composing himself. His autocratic gaze shifted between them—the disheveled, slightly sheepish cold case detective and the spaced-out rookie. The blood of Lydia’s partner had been wiped (mostly) from her face and hair but was still painted on her clothes.

“Can you tell me,” he said, “what the fuck went on here?”

Willow sighed before pronouncing the words he’d been rehearsing in his head: “Grundy Eakins killed Winston Collins.”

Owen was startled but merely bit down on his lower lip, mindful of a set of circumstances whose gravity could not be overstated—one of their own had been tortured to death. He tabled Willow’s news flash. “What happened to Doheny?”

“He got here before we did,” said Willow, not that it explained anything. He just hadn’t had time to formulate a feasible narrative. For now, the best strategy was to state the obvious. “A few weeks ago he told me that he felt Grundy Eakins was a strong suspect. Lydia and I were looking at… various others. I told Daniel not to pursue until we had a consensus.”

“He came here without informing you?”

“That’s right. I think the death of the Collins boy hit him hard, harder than he let on. It became personal. I warned him about not getting involved that way. It happens.”

Lydia spoke up, to Willow’s surprise. “It was PTSD—a PTSD thing. A boy died when he was in Afghanistan and he felt responsible. I don’t think that’s something you ever get over. I know Daniel didn’t.”

“Are you telling me,” said Owen, “that he came here as some kind of vigilante?”

“He wanted to be a hero,” she said, putting a compassionate spin on what in some quarters is called an epic goatfuck.

“I don’t know if he was planning to arrest him or kill him,” said Willow. “And that’s the God’s honest truth.”

“Jesus,” said Owen, shaking his head. “The suspect was crucified . And his eyes! His fucking face —” He looked at Lydia’s bloody hands and said, “Did you do that?”

“His father did that,” she said. “Roy Eakins did that to him.”

“What?” said Owen.

“That’s right,” said Willow, thinking it best to go with the flow. Buy now, pay later. “His father killed him.”

“And how did you two get here?”

“I had a feeling he might be here,” she said. “So I told the Porter and we—”

“Who the fuck is ‘the Porter’?”

“I meant my supervisor—”

“We came over together,” said Willow. He shot her a glance that said: put a sock in it.

It was difficult for the sheriff to keep a lid on the stew of anger, grief and bedevilment he was floating in. “You had a feeling so you just raced over to an alleged serial killer’s compound without calling it in. Jesus, Willow!”

“It happened so fast,” said the beleaguered detective. He had always detested that catchall phrase but at the moment was grateful to put it to use. “I’m sorry. You’re right, of course you’re right. I should have called it in.”

“You’re sorry.” Owen took a deep breath. “Is there a connection to the girl in all of this? Renée Devonshire?”

“Honeychile?” said Willow, with a familiarity that struck the sheriff as odd. “None whatsoever.”

“You’re saying she didn’t know this asshole? That Honeychile had zero contact with the Eakinses…”

“Zero,” said Willow. To sound a little less sure of himself (about everything), he added, “That we know of.”

“Let me ask you something else, since you seem to be all-seeing and all-knowing. There was a time we were looking at Grundy as a suspect in the Rummer case— if you’ll recall.” Everything he said had a terminal tinge of mockery. “Has it occurred to you and Deputy Molloy that those suspicions were correct?”

Willow touched his bandage and winced, as if to signal that he preferred that the interrogation be postponed. “I don’t think so. I don’t think he—Grundy—participated.” Then it came out. “It was Roy who killed those children.”

“Roy?” said Owen, trying to get a footing.

“That’s right,” nodded Willow. “Roy Eakins killed Troy and Maya Rummer.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“I have proof.”

“And when were you going to tell me about this? Or do I work for you now?”

“I wasn’t sure until last night, Owen.”

Willow prayed that the prints he’d sent to the lab would match—if they didn’t, he’d be skipping town. Maui was looking pretty good right now. Maybe Woody Harrelson would hire him as a gofer.

“Where is Roy Eakins.”

“At his house in New Baltimore.”

“We need to go pick that man up!” said Owen, waving one of his men over.

“There’s no hurry,” said Willow. “Roy’s dead.”

Owen became irate. “You better not be telling me that Daniel Doheny already took care of that!”

“No,” said Lydia, calmly. “He died of natural causes.”

The sheriff threw up his hands. The confetti of information needed to be properly sorted outside the war zone. “I want you both to clean up and be at my office within the hour . You’re going to start from the beginning and walk me through to now. Is that clear?”

“Of course,” said Willow. “And thank you, sir. I think we both need a moment.” He turned to Lydia. “I’ll take you home.”

“One of my men will take you.”

“I’m okay. I’m fine to drive.”

“Like hell you are. Leave your car. We’ll take care of it.”

The detective got paranoid, wondering if Owen was going to turn the automobile over to forensics. He panicked, wondering if he’d left some of the Guide s Annie had given him in the trunk.

“Take your showers,” said Owen. “I’ll see you on the hour .”

As they walked to the waiting sedan, the sheriff caught up to Lydia. He gently touched her arm, the human part of the baffling equation suddenly making itself known. He knew the deputies were in a relationship.

“I’m sorry about your loss, Deputy Molloy.”

“Thank you,” she said, warmly. “I’m sorry for you too. It’s a big loss for everyone.” Her tears had dried up.