Now
BY THE TIME Beth made it into the hospital, Grover’s eyes had closed again.
“What happened?”
Natalie stood beside Grover’s bed, touching his shoulder. “He was talking, Beth. They think he’ll make it.” She beckoned Beth closer, but seeing Grover like this, the unshaven white stubble on his chestnut-colored skin, his chest bandaged from waist to neck, made Beth feel suddenly vulnerable. Like she might finally break down, and of all places, in public.
She stood bedside and grabbed Grover’s limp right hand in both of hers.
Natalie looked across the bed at Beth. “It’s Doc we need to worry about. It’s not looking good.”
Beth felt slight pressure on her grip, like Grover may have just squeezed her hand. She looked up to find Natalie watching how tenderly her thumb rubbed over his bony knuckles. Grover seemed like he’d aged ten years in the past twenty-four hours—near-death had a way of doing that to a person—but she hadn’t expected him to look so skeletal.
“You look tired,” Beth told Natalie.
“I am tired.” Natalie looked down at Grover sleeping peacefully in his bed. “But this helps. You know he asked for you. First thing he did, he said, Beth …”
Beth’s lower lip quivered. She looked away from Natalie. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for being human, Beth.”
Beth wiped her eyes, changed the subject. “I was at the Beehive when you called. There’s something not right there. Something weird going on with Mickey.”
“Something weird going on everywhere,” said Natalie. “I know you aren’t scared, but I am, Beth. I can’t get what I saw down by the tunnel out of my head. That couldn’t have been Mayor Truffant. A doll? I mean … who would do such a thing?”
“I don’t know.” But it reminded her she had work to do.
Natalie checked her phone. “Shit, it’s Doc.”
Beth followed Natalie down one main hall and into another, where a lot of noise and commotion sounded from Doc’s room. One nurse hurried out while another ran in. Machines beeped. Inside, Jane Bigsby cried. Beth heard her first, and then once she got close enough, saw her standing bedside much like Beth had been doing moments ago with Grover, except Jane held a completely limp hand and her husband’s face was ghostly pale, eyes and mouth open.
Beth had either just missed Doc’s last breath or was witnessing it now.
Natalie slithered into the room, stood on the opposite side of the bed from Jane.
Jane looked at Natalie, and then at Beth in the open doorway, and said, “What did he mean? What he said, what did he mean?”
Natalie shook her head; she was crying now too. Doc Bigsby had delivered Natalie; he’d delivered half the town. “I wasn’t in the room, Mrs. Bigsby. I didn’t hear.”
Jane looked at Beth.
Beth stepped inside. “What did he say?”
Jane looked shelled. “Something about the Island of Bones. Something about Simon …”
“Simon Bowles?”
She nodded. “Yes, Simple Simon …”
Beth moved closer to the bed, did her best to ignore Doc’s emaciated corpse, mouth still open and eyes wide. “What else?”
“That he’s coming …”
“Who’s coming, Mrs. Bigsby?”
“Through the tunnel …”
“Who’s coming?”
Jane Bigsby looked straight into Beth’s eyes. “Mr. Lullaby.”
Excerpt from Detective Harrington’s notes
July 12, 1996
Harrod’s Reach
I’M TOO OLD to be navigating the ravine. Too old to be getting anywhere near that tunnel. But a job is a job and I suppose I’ll do it until I die.
On this sunny Sunday afternoon, I hadn’t expected a call from one of the Reach’s unlikeliest, Mr. and Mrs. Bowles, fearing their young son Simon (age 6) had run off. I got in my car right away and headed fast out toward Harrod’s Lake, where the Bowles and a few other local oddities owned cottages around the waterline.
Gus and Deborah Bowles met me outside their cottage with tears in their eyes. In the rare times I saw the three of them walking through town, the two parents never seemed to show much affection to their little boy, Simon, who walked in their shadows like an afterthought. Many in town had begun to call the boy simple, due to his slow, befuddled nature, but it was clear as soon as I arrived that they loved him, and they truly feared him gone.
We first searched the lake, knocked on a few doors, but no one had seen Simon all morning, and it was already deep into the afternoon. Two hours into our search, which by that time had included a few locals who’d volunteered to help canvas the woods, we stumbled upon Simon’s body just a few paces away from the tunnel’s northern entrance. The boy was lying there on his side, motionless. I thought him dead for sure, because how long could a child sleep out here without waking up? But as I slowly approached, I noticed, beneath his head, the pillow Simon had brought with him. I noticed the blue blanket, covered by leaves and grime. The stuffed teddy bear nestled in the crook of his right arm. And finally, the subtle rise and fall of the chubby boy’s chest. He wasn’t dead, just asleep. Deeply asleep.
Once mom and dad Bowles got over the shock of seeing their son lying there, asleep, the realization hit them, and they exchanged looks of oh we should have known. They said their son often sleepwalked. That, of course, would have been the first thing I would have led with when the authorities arrived at my door, but it seemed to never have crossed their minds until I found him sleeping by the tunnel.
Not just sleeping, but something akin to hibernating, as the boy didn’t even awaken when his father carried him back to their cottage at the lake. Out of curiosity, I waited around until he did wake up, an hour after his father deposited him back onto his bed. The longer I sat with the family, waiting, the more I realized through conversation, or mostly a lack thereof, that they were both, perhaps, a little simple too. But it turned out Simon was not only a heavy sleepwalker, but in fact slept most the day, every day. I’m making a note to check with Doc Bigsby whether this should be considered problematic for a boy that age. Was this too young to be depressed? Lethargic? Although both parents said when he was awake, he was usually full of energy and typically upbeat.
“Then what,” I asked, “is wrong with him?”
“Nothing,” Gus Bowles said. “Boy just likes to sleep.”
“That ain’t all of it.” Deborah Bowles smirked. “The boy likes to dream.”
“Where he goes …” Gus leaned forward like he didn’t want anyone else to hear, even though there was no one else around to do the hearing. “He calls it Lalaland.”