Bruce Wagner - I'll Let You Go

The anguished Icelander looked imploringly at Samson, who gave a small nod of empathy.

“Oh my God. Mother! Do we have to call the paramedics? Is that what you want? Do you want the paramedics to go in there and grab you?”

Bluey began to shriek again and Pullman to roar, while Winter wept and Trinnie raged, and it was under this chaotic cover that the children made their getaway.

Approximately one hour later, in the vaulted quiet of Olde CityWalk’s Majestyk Theater, an emergency summit was called. Amaryllis reverted to her watchful, closemouthed street ways, fearing, however irrationally, a reversal of fortune and speedy return to the Canyon realm of Earlymae Woolery. What she did share with the small circle was this: Samson Dowling was the very cop who had “arrested” her, booking her into MacLaren.

The exciting development was discussed from every possible angle. There was general discombobulation at the fact that the same man once hired by Grandpa Lou to find Marcus Weiner — the same man whose name had been first broached in the sanctum sanctorum of Tabori & Co. — the same man who had summered with Trotter familia before any of them were even born and now just happened to be cohabiting with their beloved aunt and mother (Toulouse averted his eyes, not wanting to “go there”) — was the infernal bloodhound now after their adored Amaryllis! The diabolical enormity of it left Edward astonished and invigored, and his grateful sister ecstatic at such a plot twist; made to order and delivered by hand. Toulouse was merely angry, and mindful of Amaryllis’s safety.

“It’s Les Misérables !” cried the authorette, beside herself. “Samson is Inspector Javert! And she ,” said Lucy, turning to the orphan with what struck the latter as an accusatory air, “is Cosette! Amaryllis is Cosette .”

A plan was hatched. Until now, she had been shacking up in the rear parlor of the Black Lantern Book Shoppe — but that place had been deemed unsafe in the long term; Candelaria and her minions were notorious for scouring storefront innards and cobblestone without warning, especially when the children were at school. (There had already been a few close calls.) Amaryllis would now be secreted away in the attic of the cousin’s apartments, an aerie accessible only by rope ladder. Seeing the look on the girl’s face upon hearing his proclamation, Edward assured her there was nothing in the old belfry but discarded masks and paintbrushes, a detail that only served to frighten her more. In this way, reasoned Edward — the attic way — the likelihood of surprise attacks by Candelaria’s crack troops would be severely diminished, as the invalid’s quarters were strictly off-limits to the unannounced visits of parent or staff. It was agreed, then: while brother and sister breezily took to the Four Winds, Amaryllis would remain sequestered in the manner of Anne Frank (the allusion was Lucy’s), at least until her freedom could be properly secured. So it was with a measure of exhilaration that the gang, excepting of course Edward and Pullman, ascended the rope like fledgling acrobats. Once she landed, Amaryllis practiced stowing the roll-up ladder, replacing the square wedge of dislocated floor that sealed her in, et cetera. Mission accomplished, shakes and hamburgers were ordered in.

What the children, precocious as they were (which was precocious indeed) yet with more a taste for melodrama than for the actual cruelties that may be visited upon us by the world — what the children could not have known was, at that very moment of mobilization, all their worst fears, fueled more by adrenaline and active imaginations than anything else, were being realized. The wheels of juvenile justice were already turning.

After much Sturm und Drang, Pullman’s teahouse was restored to him. A doctor was summoned and the old woman was sedated. They bundled her up in a cashmere throw and laid her in the back of the Silver Seraph for the drive to Cedars. Louis, in sharp houndstooth coat, held her dear, limp hand, wiping periodic tears that gathered to tremble in the corner of his eyes.

When Bluey was settled in, Trinnie told the detective she was tired and not in the mood for the dinner they’d planned. He drove back to the El Royale wondering, as a younger man had earlier that very long day, if the honeymoon was over.

Samson Dowling was level-headed enough to know that Trinnie had always loomed larger for him than he for her — from even before she fell under the thumb of a ghost. He had always wanted her, and what he’d fantasized about for years had finally happened; yet they were connected through him , her husband, and when they made love, he had the unnerving sense of being part of a séance. Sometimes as they lay in bed afterward she would ask him, like a child, to tell her the story of how Marcus had been found at St. John’s in the Wilderness or how he had looked that time when Samson first saw him or what the hospital that he and her father had taken him to was like — and how it was again that Marcus had escaped …

Dive, be not fearful how dark the waves flow;

Sink through the surge, and bring pearls up to me;

Deeper, ay, deeper; the fairest lie low …

Sitting alone with his cocktail, the detective found his mouth suddenly forming a word: “Amaryllis.”

My God .

He conjured her face, then said the name aloud …

Amaryllis?

He dialed MacLaren. There was no one he knew on duty, so it took a while to get confirmation that, yes, Amaryllis Kornfeld had gone AWOL during a field trip last month. Jesus. How the hell could she have wound up with the Trotter kids? That meant he would have to drive over to Saint-Cloud. He would have to bother Trinnie or wake her up or do whatever — would have to tell her about the AWOL girl and bother her son about it, too. Oh shit . She just wouldn’t be in the mood. The intrusion would seem bogus, some cockamamie bullshit he’d come up with to get next to her. If the honeymoon was over, this could be just the thing to push them into Divorce World. Still, it had to be done. We’re talking about a homicide here. And a girl, a minor, a ward of the dependency court, who’s out there. Floating.

He swigged his drink and reluctantly picked up the phone. If they stonewalled him, he’d tell the staff it was an emergency and that he needed to talk to Katrina right away.

By ten o’clock the next morning, William had finished his baking chores in the SeaShelter kitchen. He strolled to the farmers’ market on Main Street. Amid wealthy housewives, their punnets filled with feta and white mulberries, he bought his precious pomegranates. They were in season now, brick-red and unbruised and of glistening pulp. He would make a chutney for his sweet lady Jane Scull, with shallots sautéed in grapeseed oil, the red seeds folded in with molasses, kumquats and fat Jordan dates, ras el hanout and zest. He watched children ride the ponies — so many children! — then walked to the high-end hostelry called Shutters, where he summoned a cab. He gave the driver the Public Storage address and said he’d be making a round trip.

Eighteen months ago, he had paid in advance and had worn the key to the garage-size space about his neck ever since. The downtown structure occupied several acres beneath a swooping freeway on-ramp; guided by William’s sure hand, the taxi proceeded down this lane and that, like a hearse on its way to the grave. He bade it stop, then stepped out, fitting the key with some trouble. He sweated, jigging it; the lock finally sprang. He went in.