It was a week of funerals, wakes and remembrance.
Annie gave Willow’s name to the funeral home as next of kin. He was startled when the mortuary called. There was something bracing about the non-etherealness of it, grounding him amid the general “woo-woo,” as Owen liked to say. At the same time, he became uneasy, the finality of her death nagging him to reconsider the events of the last few months. Had it all been a dream? The Porter was right: he still hadn’t taken a First Step, in this world or the next. And he had his resentments—why did Annie say what she did about praying his Eskimo wouldn’t be a child? The remark seemed almost sadistic. He could see himself making late-night phone calls to Pace until his dying day.
When he came to the viewing room, the sentry was standing over the coffin. Willow lingered respectfully in the doorway and was about to step away when Bumble walked over. They shook hands. He said he’d cleaned out Annie’s room at the SRO and donated her things to the downtown Mission, as she had asked.
Bumble handed him an envelope.
“Will I be your sentry, sir? Annie said that I probably would but it’d be impolite not to ask.”
He was taken aback. “I’m—I’m just not sure yet if I’ll be returning.”
“She said you might say that too!” he said convivially.
He retreated to the door and stood dutifully on watch.
Willow went to the casket. She was beautiful—smiling that Mona Lisa smile that was so her. She wore the same stunning greenish-blue jewelry and brocaded dress he saw her in when they had their first encounter on the train. It wasn’t until later that he realized how much she looked like his grandmother. The errant thought came that Nana had been a Porter. But if that were true, Annie would have known. She probably would have mentioned it.
The public memorial for Winston Collins was a few weeks away, too long for Lydia to wait. (Maya’s and Troy’s bodies, entombed in the foundation of Roy Eakins’s old house in Saggerty Falls, wouldn’t be found for three weeks.) As it happened, though, on this day—today—there fell separate services for Renée “Honeychile” Devonshire and Deputy Daniel R. Doheny. Willow hadn’t planned on going to Honeychile’s memorial until Lydia said that she absolutely wanted to be there. When he mentioned that to Owen, the sheriff was glad. He said he would have liked to go himself but would be attending church services at St. Joan of Arc in Saint Clair Shores for his fallen deputy. Willow told him they’d join up with everyone at the Doheny funeral, after Mass.
He was waiting at the curb to take her to the Devonshires’ when Lydia walked out in her deputy’s uniform. At first he was uncertain, thinking it a bit heavy-handed for what he understood to be a more casual, kid-heavy, festive gathering at the girl’s home. (The parents were calling it a “celebration,” that bugbear of a word when it came to heartbreaking occasions.) But then he thought, no—it was a respectful, powerful, purposeful choice. He laughed to himself that even an entity, a moribund vessel inhabited by the spirit of a dead child, had known the right thing to do. The uniform represented those who protect and serve, who sought justice and the restoration of balance. By honoring Honeychile thusly, she was honoring as well the girl who had mysteriously allowed them to recover Winston’s body, to help solve his crime. It was the one positive thing that came out of her death.
When they arrived, the house was filled with Honeychile’s schoolmates (mostly girls) and their parents. It felt like a party, which was just what Harold and Rayanne wanted. Willow found himself scanning the rooms for Honeychile, which seemed normal, the lines between both worlds having so recently been blurred. The lights dimmed as the movie put together by her best friend, Zelda, began. The montage of Instagram photos and videos of Honeychile being, well, Honeychile were greeted by hoots, laughter, applause and tears. At the end came the tour de force: a tribute from none other than Gaten Matarazzo, the young actor from Stranger Things who was afflicted with the cleidocranial dysplasia that she shared. The young celebrity had read a story about Honeychile online and after her suicide got in touch with the Devonshires, asking if there was any way he could help. They invited him to the party but he was unable to come, sending a funny, moving tribute instead. “Oh my God,” Honeychile’s friends kept saying. “She would so die!” The tribute closed with a last group of photos of the absent hostess, accompanied by an eerily beautiful rendition of “Life on Mars?” sung by Honeychile herself, surreptitiously recorded on Zelda’s iPhone. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.
They finally found their way to Mom and Dad, who remembered Lydia from the hospital waiting room—the Sheriff’s Office uniform helped—and were so touched that she’d come to pay her respects.
“Is your friend here?” asked Rayanne. Lydia looked at her blankly. “The young man who was with you when we met?”
Daniel’s death had been big news and while it was likely they knew of it from the paper or television—they’d probably seen his photo—they obviously hadn’t made the connection.
“He was unable,” said Lydia, not wishing to inform.
“Well, please say hello and tell him he was missed,” said Rayanne. Just as they were about to leave, she took Lydia’s arm and said, “Can I show you something?”
She walked them to the den—“Honey’s favorite place”—and Harold plucked something off a shelf, gently putting it in Lydia’s hands. It was a snow globe. On closer inspection, she and the detective saw three figures hugging. Their faces, meticulously traced from photographs, were clearly recognizable: Harold, Rayanne and Honeychile.
“She made this for you?” said Lydia.
“Yes,” said the mother, choking up.
Harold stepped in. “That was Honeychile—artistic and loving and so, so smart. That was our Honey.”
“Was and still is,” said Lydia.
Rayanne seemed to particularly appreciate the remark.
Outside, they passed a woman on the walkway. She stumbled a bit on the steps and the two rushed to support her. She looked at Lydia’s uniform and smiled. “Who says the police are never there when you need them?” She thanked them and said, “I’m going to need a walker soon but don’t tell anyone.” She was only half-joking; she wasn’t that old but had the gait of someone who’d prematurely aged. “It’s not already over, is it?”
“Not at all,” said Willow. “It’s in full swing.”
“Were you one of Honeychile’s teachers?” said Lydia.
“Not by definition,” she smiled. “I kind of think she might have been one of mine.” She thrust a hand out and said, “I’m Hildy, an old family friend. Hildy Collins—Winston’s mom.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” said Willow.
“And thank you,” she said, addressing the one in uniform. “Thank you for finding the man who did that to my son.” Her eyes watered over as her voice became resolute. “Thank you for all that you do.”
Owen went in the direction Willow suggested. Not that he had a real choice; it was either go with the flow or not go with the flow, with the latter engendering months of controversy, ill will and bad press.
It was now a matter of permanent record: Deputy Daniel R. Doheny was a hero cop.
The sheriff had his red bow and ribbon—for the public anyway, and the department as well—if not exactly for himself. By stepping outside his Cold Case lane to assist a current homicide investigation, not only did Deputy Doheny find the killer of Winston Collins, but also helped unravel the mystery of the nearly two-decades-old disappearance of Troy and Maya Rummer. Willow’s instincts had been spot-on; it was a footprint on the birthday card, not a palm. And it belonged to Roy Eakins. That sort of thing has been known to happen because the ridges of the arch of the foot toward the heel are similar to those on the “knife edge” of the palm. Apparently the technician who did the assessment in July 2000 got it wrong and no one double-checked the results. Dubya really pulled that one out of the hat. He had to hand it to his spooky old buddy for cracking the code.
The bottom line was that the deaths of the Rummer kids, Winston Collins and Sarabeth Ahlström were stamped SOLVED—with five more children’s bodies in the process of being exhumed from that hell farm in Wolcott Mills. (Three had already been identified.) As far as Owen was concerned, Roy Eakins did not commit the grisly crucifixion murder of his own son, but Laverne Eakins wasn’t around to tell any tales. He had a few sleepless nights over that one, because if it wasn’t Roy who nailed Grundy to the floorboards, it could only have been Lydia or Willow, and he simply refused to go there. He locked up those suspicions and buried them in a hole deeper than any of those kids had been buried in. For political and personal reasons, the latter of which he was unable to explain, the punctilious sheriff did what he never had in his long, decorated career: he let it slide, even if there was no evidence it was true. Not a drop of his son’s blood was found on Roy’s hands or clothing as he lay dead in bed at his home in New Baltimore, the place Willow speculated he had gone right after killing Grundy. Yet the coroner ruled that Roy had died the night before, with Grundy’s death occurring the next morning, around the time of the sheriff’s arrival at the farm. But if he wanted that bow and ribbon, Owen had to name Grundy’s killer, and name him he did. Neither the public nor the politicians gave a shit about an iffy timeline, because two monsters had been wiped off the face of the Earth. So he hung it on the child-killer dad and felt no remorse. In his heart, he knew that Deputy Lydia Molloy killed Grundy in a rage over the torture of her lover. Owen had even spoken to her about it personally, with compassion, doing everything he could to get a confession, but she stuck to her story. There just wasn’t any payoff in making Lydia or the community suffer any further. Owen also knew that Willow was grateful to him for that, and grateful too that the sheriff elected not to further pursue the line of argument in private conversation.
They got to church in time to follow the hearse for the twenty-minute drive to Clinton Township, where Deputy Doheny would be laid to rest at Resurrection Cemetery. (Willow thought it couldn’t have been more appropriately named.) The turnout was stately and the pageantry magnificent. Hundreds of officers from Metro Detroit and practically every county in the state comprised the motorcade with its flashing blue and red lights. Lieutenant Governor Calley and other politicians attended as well. Officers came from across the country to honor him. Among the sea of onlookers quietly lining the sidewalks as the vehicles passed—the throngs were there to honor the deputy and the children, all children who’d been harmed, thrown away and forgotten—were wounded vets of many wars. Stories had been written in national magazines about the hero’s remorse over the accidental killing of a boy during the time he served in Afghanistan. The articles shared the theme of PTSD and were for the most part sensitively written, each stressing the poetic justice of Daniel bringing a child-murderer to justice.
As they stood at the graveside, Willow grew agitated. He kept stealing glances at Lydia. She’d promised him she would stay—“I’ll stay long enough to go to Daniel’s funeral”—but what did that actually mean? Would she collapse beside him the moment they lowered the casket? Or would her passing be more in keeping with the drama and elegance of the Great Mystery . . . would he become lost in thought (as he was this very moment) and then turn to find her gone?
To calm himself, he conjured Dixie. Her voice, her sounds, her smells . . . Should prolly just marry the girl. A few nights ago, to get him out of his head, she dragged his two left feet to Oilcan Harry’s for line dancing. He had more fun than he’d ever had when he was high. Watching Dixie in her boots and cowgirl hat as she ran through the coordinated routine was sexy as fuck. He felt bad for not inviting her to Daniel’s funeral but just couldn’t see how that would work. It might well be his last moments with Lydia and their experience had been too private, too mystical, too insular to tolerate the presence of a lover. (Besides, the nature of his attentions toward the deputy might easily be misinterpreted.) When he gave Dixie a half-ass plausible explanation for the snub, she backed right off, pretending that she understood. But he knew she was hurt. He would need to make it up to her.
Maybe put a ring on it . . .
They stood with Owen and Adelaide as the box ratcheted into the ground. Willow tried to suppress the ludicrous optics of Lydia expiring and tumbling into the grave.
When it was done, the group walked to their cars. Adelaide took notice of her ex’s firm grip on Lydia’s arm. Her first reflex was jealousy (which surprised her), but then she chastised herself and actually thought it courtly, if a touch chauvinistic. Of course the real reason behind Willow’s ministrations was his terror that Lydia was about to vanish into thin air. As they moved along with the dispersing crowd, they small-talked, mostly about their daughter and grandson. Adelaide said they were having a barbecue next week and told him to mark his calendar. Pace had promised to bring the family down from Marlette. They hugged goodbye and went their separate ways.
About a hundred yards off, Willow saw a couple standing near his car. They were arguing—the woman was, anyway—and the man tried to restrain her. Suddenly, she looked toward the detective and pointed, wild-eyed. She lurched toward them, the man straggling after.
It was Elaine and Ronnie Rummer.
Willow hadn’t spoken to them since their children’s murders were solved. He’d meant to and didn’t know why he kept putting that off. It was a horrible thing to do—not to make that personal connection—a callous and egregious gaffe, especially after how gracious they’d been during his visit. He flinched, girding himself for impending violence. Maybe Elaine snapped again and was coming after him to repay the insult . . .
Only when the Rummers were upon them did the question arise: How would Maya react to seeing her parents? Or would she have any reaction at all? Perhaps “Maya” and “Lydia” were already gone . . . Again, he was plagued with the image of Lydia conveniently dropping dead on the spot. But Elaine bypassed him entirely and went straight to the deputy, tenderly taking her hands in hers. A shiver went through the woman and she closed her eyes, as in prayer. When she opened them, she said, “It’s you.”
Ronnie and Willow hung back.
“Mama,” whispered Maya, her emotions in check.
What presented itself to Elaine Rummer was a hybrid of her baby girl and a mature young woman—what Maya would have become. “I felt you . . . I told Dubya!—I told him that for a few months, I’ve wanted to live. And now I know why! The Lord showed me why . . . I don’t know how I knew you were here and didn’t know how I would find you—today . . . Ronnie thought I was crazy for wanting to come! I didn’t tell him why I wanted to”—she laughed through her tears—“because then he would have had me locked up again! But I’m not crazy, am I? It is you . . . I’m not crazy, am I, Maya?”
“No,” she said, smiling. “You’re not. And I’m so sorry, Mama, for everything that happened—for how you suffered. That you did to yourself what you did.”
“And he—your brother was here too?”
“Yes. He was here today.”
“I knew it! I felt it. And he’s gone now?”
“Yes.” Maya looked shyly toward the ground. “We weren’t supposed to see you,” she said. “There usually isn’t time. I wanted—I planned to come visit, even after Troy left. But this morning I knew I wouldn’t have to. Because I knew I’d see you here.”
Elaine turned to Willow. “Did you know? That they’d come back? Did you know they were here?” The detective somberly nodded and she turned to her husband, ecstatic. “He knew. Our old friend Willow knew . . . he knows!”
“I have to leave now,” said Maya. She embraced her father to stop him from quaking. “Take care of her, Poppy—and take care of yourself. I want you to be happy. Troy and I want both of you to be happy.” She hugged Elaine again and told her she loved her.
“Baby, please!” said Elaine. “Can’t you stay?”
“I can’t, Mama, but I’m here now. Remember what I said that time about the spiderweb?”
“That it’s better than coming home to nothing,” said Elaine, and they both laughed. The woman’s ruined face looked beatific.
“Know that I’ll never leave you,” Maya said.
They left the cemetery and drove toward Lydia’s home. When they got to the junction, she told him to take North Avenue instead of the M-19, which would have been a straight shot to Richmond. He did as he was told.
“Do you know what’s strange?” she said. “In the last few days, I’ve started wondering about the terrible things we did—Daniel and Lydia, and Maya and Troy . . . and the terrible things that Rhonda and José and the others did too. I mean, wondering about the purpose of it. It’s not like I have guilt—not exactly—or even that I’ve anguished over it . . . it’s more of a—meditation. That’s the word Lydia would use! A meditation on the purpose of it all. Does that make any sense?”
“Yes.” He had a queasy sense of where she was going.
“It’s made me question—it got me thinking about the quality of mercy. If the children who came back can be forgiven for the things they did to the people who hurt them . . . well, it made me wonder about Roy Eakins and his son. Isn’t it possible they’ll be forgiven too? At first I thought that was such a miserable idea, a useless and evil idea—to show them that sort of compassion. But is it? How can it be? Maybe it’s a beautiful idea, because . . . can’t monsters be forgiven? How can someone, some actor in the Great Mystery, not be forgiven? Is it so wrong, Willow, to be wondering that? And I wondered if I was the first—of those who came back, of the children of the train—if I was the first to have those kinds of thoughts. Though maybe it’s just a ‘haywire’ thought! I guess I’m secretly hoping it is . . . because if you begin to question the purpose behind the moment of balance, then who are you, what are you? What have you become? Do you think it’s an evil thing, Willow, to desire a moment of balance? Or worse: Do you think it’s evil that such a thing, a vengeful thing, even exists? I’m so glad I’m leaving because I really don’t want to follow that through to its logical end! What if it is a terrible thing, a wrong thing—and what if when your moment of balance comes, you choose to refuse it? What if that’s actually something within the power of those who return? To say ‘no’ . . . do you think that’s possible, Willow? What if saying no is the next step, part of the evolution of the Great Mystery? What if the Great Mystery has been waiting centuries for the children of the train to demonstrate that quality of mercy? I’ve been thinking about all these things . . .”
Willow had been too but remained quiet. He was about to turn on 32 Mile Road but Lydia told him to stay on North Avenue.
“Where are we going?”
“It’s not too far now,” she said.
Soon they were passing the canopies of tall trees that stood like stoic guards along the ingress of an ancient castle. The leaves had already begun to change. Banks of wildflowers beckoned from a thousand entrances to the forest. “There,” she said, pointing to a dirt road. “Slow down or you’re going to miss it!”
He did, and had to back up. They drove awhile before she told him to stop. “This is it. We’ll need to walk from here.” She climbed into the backseat and stripped off her uniform, changing into the hiking clothes that she’d packed in her duffel. She left the car, jogged in place and then started up the trail. He was still sitting at the wheel, lost, when she called to him. “We can say goodbye here, or you can follow me.”
He got out and set after her. It was a rail trail and he felt that was apt. The defunct tracks of a ghostly train came in and out of view, covered over by dirt and clumps of hop clover and spectral Indian pipe. Willow grew winded and a few times she waited for him to catch up. He idly wondered if he would be able to find his way out. He had a fleeting thought that it might be better if he didn’t.
She stopped on a high ridge, staring out at the pastureland below and the world at large. Willow knew she was doing as the Guide’s epilogue suggested—thanking “that big, beautiful Blue Earth, the Mother Earth who nurtured you and those you loved, and to whom you returned for your moment of balance. You must thank Her before you take your final leave.” When he reached her, he bent over to catch his breath. She let him, before asking if he’d say the Lord’s Prayer with her, like at the end of their Meetings.
After Amen, she made her final remarks.
“I want to thank Maya and Troy. What beautiful little beings they were—so loved, by so many!—I wish them well on their journey. And how can I thank Lydia Molloy? Such a good woman, such a strong and smart woman. The world will miss her . . . and Daniel the Lionhearted! Deputy Daniel Doheny, I thank you on my brother Troy’s behalf. Daniel had such anguish in his life but now he’s free. My brother thanks Lydia too! We were both so honored.” Willow saw tears in her eyes and had the somewhat clinical thought, How is it that the dead can cry? She turned to him and took his hands. “And I want to thank you, Willow Wylde, for supporting us, and walking us through every step of the way. My Porter! How lucky we were, and how lucky are the children who are coming! Father! Father! Goodbye—”
And just like that she ran up the hill to seek the gully where months ago she had lain.
He wanted to make love but Dixie wasn’t having it.
Her excuse was a horrible migraine that started in the morning. She looked like she had a bad headache—he didn’t think it was connected to not having invited her to Daniel’s memorial, but who knew. When he asked if she wanted to sleep alone, she said no, she wanted company. At least that was a good thing. He got a cold rag and draped it across her eyes, then drew a hot tub for himself.
He was confident in his decision to resign from the Cold Case Task Force. He would tell Owen tomorrow, in person. That was something he wasn’t looking forward to, but he knew the sheriff would understand. He hoped the meteoric success of his brief tenure would assuage any disappointment. Willow thought about what he was going to say—he’d thank him profusely for having given him the opportunity and then haul out the “I’m too old for this” trope. He was prepared for the sheriff to try to dissuade him by countering with a bonus or steep raise; in light of recent events, the county’s vote for an infusion of funding to the unit was a fait accompli. He would promise to stay on and train a replacement.
As for his duties as Porter, he was done with those too.
His decision was partly triggered by Lydia’s crisis of faith. On that last journey together, she had voiced her doubts about the essential validity of the moment of balance. Willow had been having those same heretical thoughts himself. Listening to her, he was reminded of something that Renata, his Buddhist friend, once told him about the Wheel of the Dharma. The idea was to be free of the Wheel—not to take on another body or some other incarnation, but to reach a state of no-yearning and no-craving, to escape the dogma of justice and retribution, to go beyond hatred, even beyond love. Would the Eakinses be forgiven? Could they be? He didn’t know the answer but sensed it was irrelevant: there could be no freedom until there were no longer any questions. The truth is that he didn’t want to exchange one task force for another, which is what Annie’s program seemed to be: just another job with standards, protocols and endgames—Spec Ops from the Unknown. He remembered that time at Penn Station when he asked about becoming a porter. The man corrected him by saying they called them service attendants now. The little scene wasn’t too far off the mark, because that’s just what Willow felt like—a drunk with delusions of supernatural grandeur, applying for a gig whose name he couldn’t get right.
As he soaked, he reread the note from Annie that the sentry gave him at the funeral home. She included a Wordsworth poem (he’d googled it earlier) about a man who encounters a strange little cottage girl. When he asks if she has brothers and sisters, she declares, “We are seven,” even though two are dead—“two of us in the churchyard lie.” When the man says that if two siblings have departed, then she only has four, the girl insists he’s wrong.
The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.
So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.
And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side.
“How many are you, then,” said I,
“If they two are in heaven?”
Quick was the little Maid’s reply,
“O Master! we are seven.”
“But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!”
’Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, “Nay, we are seven!”
He sunk the note in the bathwater, watching the ink run together.