He felt hungover when he got to the office in the morning.
They talked—Annie talked—for more than an hour, while he listened, insensate. Willow figured he’d retained only 10 percent of what she said, if that. He spent the morning cautiously revisiting the few snippets he was able to recall, fearing a more comprehensive effort might somehow prove injurious.
His wheels stopped spinning; they’d fallen off entirely.
What the woman described was nothing short of madness. He had already begun a heroic struggle not to be sucked into the vortex, but to Willow it was insane that he even felt susceptible. He wondered if he’d been poisoned. She shook my hand before sitting down . . . maybe that’s when I absorbed the pyschotropic powder. As a detective in New York he’d interviewed every crackpot known to man, sometimes climbing deep inside their heads; Annie had climbed into his. He dredged up a phrase from college psych books—folie à deux—a term that defined the sharing of a delusion or mental illness by two people. Maybe this is what that looked like. Or the beginning of it . . .
At the moment, the only thing that offset the disorienting outlandishness of Ms. Ballendine’s bullet points was Dixie. When his thoughts became too crazy, he flashed on their carnal moments and it settled his nerves—the sole shared delusion he was up for.
During Annie’s monologue, he wanted to bolt but his feet were encased in cement. He was shocked when she spoke of the train, reminding him that it was the place where they first met. “You had a Tom Collins—remember?—that was a new wrinkle.” She even referred to his wall paintings, saying that many years ago she’d been compelled to do a mural “in the same theme myself, in the room where I lived during my apprenticeship.” She discreetly paused whenever Willow zoned out; though it didn’t have much effect, Annie occasionally touched his hand, to comfort. Then she would ask if he had any questions, like a doctor trying to interview a patient who’d just had surgery and was still under the fog of anesthesia.
“You don’t have to know the ‘whys and wherefores,’ because there aren’t any, not really. At least none we can understand. But what is important to know, as a father, is that you’re going to be a father again. Which is marvelous, isn’t it, don’t you think? And it’s important to know as well that you have arrived—you’ve disembarked and you’re in the station now, whether you know it or not! We don’t have a choice about such things. I’m just like you, Willow. I didn’t have a choice either. And like you, I’m no one special—but I can show you what to do, where to go, how to be. That is my privilege and my honor.”
She patted his hand and then stood to leave.
“You’ll be fine,” she said. “You just need a moment to integrate. And thank you for giving me your attention! It’s really all that I wanted.”
The new recruits were waiting for him like anxious children in detention when Willow walked in.
Jesus. They’re just kids.
What was Owen thinking?
“They’re greener than green,” the sheriff had said. “But I’m telling you, Dubya, they certainly have the aptitude. Mark my words—in a few months, they’ll be known far and wide as the Cold Case Kids.” Like an amateur soothsayer, he added, “I have a feeling about those two.”
Back when they were partners in Saggerty Falls, Owen had been awed by Willow’s reluctant necromancy. “You, my friend, are spooky,” he’d say. There was that time his beloved Rover disappeared and Willow said he had a “feeling” about the dog’s whereabouts. The next day, he led them through a mile of forest to the animal, accidentally shot dead by a hunter. (Owen futilely tried to get the visiting detective to track the missing Rummer kids the same way.) The sheriff’s lame prognostication about the greenhorns becoming Cold Case legends served to put Willow on notice that hey, Owen Caplan could be spooky too—real schoolyard pissing contest shit. In an oh shit moment, it occurred to him that Adelaide was the secret sauce behind Owen feeling competitive.
After all, Willow got there first.
“The sheriff said you worked Cold Case in Manhattan,” said Lydia, nervously taking the lead.
“That would be correct.”
“He mentioned you had ‘special talents,’” said Daniel. He’d been staring at Willow from the moment he walked in, as if trying to place him.
“More like special needs.”
The three of them laughed and everything got better. Willow realized he was as jittery as they were. It’d been a long time since he had anyone under his wing, and he wasn’t sure he was up for it.
“That was actually my nickname in New York. ‘Special Needs.’ True story.” The couple smiled, warming to him. “So, what do you think of your new job description? It’s a helluva change from being out in the field. You’re definitely not going to have the kind of action you had recently.”
“That’s probably a good thing,” said Daniel.
“Sometimes when you have an encounter like that, you get a little taste and want some more.”
“Not me, sir,” said Lydia. “That’s not my purpose.”
He thought the phrasing was odd. “And what do you think that purpose might be, Deputy Molloy?”
As she began to reply, Daniel cut her off. “To bring justice and closure to those who no longer have a voice.”
“To be their voice,” said Lydia, with gusto.
“Well played,” said Willow. “It’s long hours, with not a lot of satisfaction. Cold Case isn’t glamorous. On TV, they solve everything in an hour—and I mean everything. In the real world, you might work on a case for a year and still be trying to tree the wrong bear.”
“We have three to five months, six at the outset,” said Lydia mechanically.
“How’s that?” said Willow.
The deputy awkwardly explained away the remark, as if it were a joke about being gung ho.
Well, she’s an odd one.
“Let me tell you something,” said Willow. “You crack a case in six months and you’ll be up for some kind of medal.”
“One thing doesn’t make sense to me,” said Daniel. “This is kind of a big deal, right? The money comes through for a Cold Case team and the sheriff handpicks us? No offense to my partner and me, we’re going to do an amazing job, one hundred percent. But why pick us? And not—I don’t know—a couple of seasoned detectives?”
“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” said Lydia, annoyed.
“Sheriff Caplan had a feeling about you. And as for the ‘seasoning,’ I guess that’s where I come in. Don’t think too hard about it.”
“We’re honored,” said Lydia. “I know we’ll learn a lot from you.” She turned to Daniel and said, “Any other brilliant questions?”
“Nope.”
“More will be revealed,” said Willow.
The Cold Case Kids smiled at each other; indeed it would.
In the Spirit Room, their lighthearted demeanor changed.
Willow noticed the temperature of the space growing colder. The detective started getting “feelings” of his own that he couldn’t identify. He had planned to dip the deputies’ toes in the water by sifting through the contents of a box or two but hung back and watched.
The familiar blueness of the room that sometimes wafted like smoke appeared for a moment—a long moment—wrapping itself around Lydia and Daniel in an embrace of curiosity before migrating to their heads, where it sparkled in excitation like a swarm of cobalt fireflies.
Willow was entranced.
Deputy Molloy was the proactive one. Deputy Doheny monitored her moves in a way that seemed almost chivalrous. She looked like she’d fallen into a trance. She ran her hand over the topmost boxes of the stacks, putting Willow in mind of a professional medium the department once hired when he worked homicide in New York. There was an elegance and focus to her movements that was almost balletic. The area became an enormous stage; the detective had a sense the orchestra was tuning up.
Daniel joined her as she lingered by the box scrawled RUMMER/JULY 4/’00. She lifted the lid and pulled out a tiny T-shirt found at the scene of the roadside abductions. He took it from her hand and held it to his much larger chest, turning to Willow with a smile to show him what was written there:
BE EXCELLENT TO EACH OTHER