by Jo Barney
“We’ve just been notified that fingerprints from a beer can have identified this individual as originally from McLaughlin, one Jeffrey Moore, whose prints were logged in the U.S. Army files.
“We are quite sure he is responsible for at least three murders here. Researchers looking at your recent murders suggest he may be in McLaughlin. No known relatives. An informer describes Jeffrey Moore as about six feet tall, about thirty, dark eyes and hair, bearded, likes good clothes and haircuts, even though his home has been a tent in the woods, speaks as if he is educated.
“He gathered a cultish group of street kids, and they lived for a year or more in the woods at the edge of the city. He apparently controlled them with promises of safety and threats of punishment. The one teenager who agreed to talk about Jeffrey Moore says that he liked to call the kids his family, say he was their father, but one family member vanished while our informant lived in the camp. There are rumors of more disappearances among the family. The disappearances coincide with bodies found in or near the woods.
“Our agent Dan Miller, aka Seattle, will be in touch with you. Let’s keep in contact.”
Matt makes copies so that he can discuss the information with his team in the morning. A serial killer, probably psychotic, for sure very dangerous.
His desk is almost cleared when Grace’s call comes in.
“Not to worry you, Matt, but I just got a call from Collin’s therapist. Collin has fired her.”
“Why, for God’s sake?”
“He feels he doesn’t need her any longer.”
“What does she say?”
“Whether he’s right or wrong, he has to try life on his own.”
“What do you say?”
“I’m about as worried as I was the day you said the same thing to me.”
“And?”
“You called me when you needed me.”
So this is what it’s like. Letting go of a child. It feels like the hardest thing of all, at this moment. “So, he’ll call her, or us, if he needs to?”
“We’ll find out, Matt. Let’s go out to dinner tonight. This may be an important event in several of our lives. Ben says he’s paying. He says we deserve a reward.”
“Damn, Grace,” Matt says as he hangs up.
The thing is, when you let go, you don’t stop worrying. You just do it while biting your lip to keep from saying no.
For some reason, he thinks of the old woman, Ellie, what must have been her good-bye to her son. At least Collin and he never tried to beat each other up, didn’t leave each other bloody and angry. At least Collin and he will be talking to each other ten years from now. Maybe.
The phone rings. When he answers, a voice warbles at him, a poor cell connection. “I can’t hear you,” he says.
“Seattle reporting,” the voice seems to be saying. “I’m in a camp at the top ridge of the county forest. I’m concerned about what’s happening here. You…” The line goes dead.
Matt calls an emergency meeting of his team. It’s time to start searching the forest beyond the park. For some reason, he remembers Ellie’s last name, Miller. He looks again at the email. Seattle’s real name is Dan Miller. Not possible. Lots of Millers in the world.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sarah
September 2009
“Why are you back?”
Starkey aims his squinty gaze at me, and he’s not smiling. The kids are sucking on their Slurpees, their worried eyes asking the same question.
“I thought I could make it alone,” I said. “That’s why I took off. I didn’t want to keep following the family’s rules. I wanted to make my own rules.” I blink like I’m about to cry. Maybe I am. “I found out that I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t safe. I almost got beat up, and then I got really sick, and I got hungry.” I give Starkey a begging look. “I’m sorry I left. I want to be part of this family again.”
Starkey raises his eyebrows as if he’s astonished at the idea. “We’ll discuss it tonight, after we do our chores and eat. For now, your job, Smiley, is to gather firewood. Like before.” He waves a hand, and the drinks are set down and we all scatter. We all know that the sooner we get finished with our jobs, the sooner we eat. Starkey leans back in his chair, looks up at the sky with its faint dusting of stars.
When Jimmy crosses my wood-seeking path with his shovel—not a spoon now, I notice—I stop him. “Jimmy, the cops are looking for the family. They don’t know it’s us, of course, but they know someone is in the forest, killing people.” I don’t keep whispering because Jimmy is walking away, shaking his head. I pick up dead sticks until I have an armload, and I bring them back to the fire. Lila and Mouse are stirring a pot. They don’t look up as I set my load down and say hi.
Then I see a bearded man sprawled on a log, watching us, his knitted cap trailing dreadlocks onto his shoulders. He’s older than the rest of us. Shadowed valleys reach from his nose to the corners of his lips and lead to a scraggly beard that grows out of his neck as well as his cheeks. If it weren’t for his eyes, blue and alert, I’d be afraid of him.
“Hello,” I say. He nods but doesn’t speak.
By the time we circle for dinner, I understand that I am getting the silent treatment from everyone, even though Leaky pats half of his sleeping bag for me to sit on, like he remembers how I used to share a pad with Peter. In between spoonfuls of stew, the kids talk in whispers. The new ones look at me, their eyes neither afraid nor uncaring, just curious. No one mentions Peter, and I know I’d better not, either.
Owl, the slow girl, collects our cups in a plastic bin and goes out to the creek to wash them. At Starkey’s signal, we reach out to hold our brothers’ and sisters’ hands and wait for his evening lesson.
“A quiet moment to reflect on our blessings, food, a place to sleep, a family to take care of us.” We bow heads; someone starts a hand squeeze and we pass it on. Then Starkey begins.
“The one element that makes a strong family different from any other grouping of people is loyalty. And loyalty is built by sharing tasks, secrets, and beliefs. In our family, we are very good at sharing the tasks of living. You are learning to open your hearts, reveal the secret parts of yourself, and not hold back anything—your past, your dreams, your fears. What you have shared in this circle is the intimacy that binds us together, gives us our strength, protects us from a world that doesn’t give a shit about us. We know just about everything about each other, don’t we?”
Heads nod, a few twitchy smiles. I am wondering where this is leading.
“And our loyalty gives us the strength to keep the truths of our family from the outside world, doesn’t it?”
More nods. I am beginning to understand.
“And it is our belief that our family is the source of our courage. As your father, I have the family at the center of my every thought and action.”
Starkey leans back now, looking at us, touching each of us with his gaze. “I am worried. I am sensing a questioning spirit floating in the air, doubts eating at the trust we have built up so carefully.” The bodies on each side of me shift a little, eyes glancing around without any heads moving. A small, anxious breeze passes over us.
“By now, most of you are familiar with the idea of testing. We’ve talked about how Moses was tested on the mountain, just as Jesus was tested in the desert, just as Muhammad was tested by the hegira, each to prove his loyalty to his higher power. I’ve decided that each of you must be tested another time to prove your loyalty to our purpose.”
Leaky is squirming, his foot jabbing against my hip. I wonder if it’s a warning or a memory that is circling through him, making him tense.
“We’ve someone staying with us for a few days to watch how we live together, how we succeed as a family. As I told you last night, he is interested in us because, where he comes from, families like ours are falling apart, arguing, disappearing. Disloyalty has leaked information to the authorities; camps have been destroyed, children set adrift. I’ve known this man�
��” His hand drifts toward the bearded man next to him. “—since we were younger than you.”
The rest of the family has heard this speech before. They are nodding. This introduction is for my benefit. No one, including Starkey, will look directly at me. I glance at the stranger, and I know I’ve seen him before.
“He’s asking that we call him Seattle, his street name. The two of us have had many adventures together. We’ve lived on the street together, and we have shared the secrets of our sad and hurtful lives as children with each other. After all these years, we are still loyal to each other, and that’s why I wanted him to meet you, see how we do things.”
Seattle raises his eyes to us; his glance lands on me and stays a fraction of a second longer than it does on the others, and he says, quietly, “I’m very impressed with you all. Thank you for letting me hang with you for a while.”
Starkey moves on with his program for the evening. “First, we need to give Goose a hand for her contribution to our kitchen supplies. Five cans of beef stew, the food that fed us tonight.” Everyone claps, and a skinny girl with stringy blond hair held down by a knitted surplus army cap looks down, pleased.
“And we know that Bebop and Jasper completed their loyalty task without a hitch, and we have the evidence to prove it.” Starkey holds up a jar filled with liquid and a pickle. No. Not a pickle. A finger, white in a pink fluid.
“One less lost soul for the world to push around.” Not Leaky and Jimmy, thank God. Bebop and Jasper must be the two black boys sitting on the other side of the fire, looking at each other, then at their boots, uncertain grins flickering across their lips. Rick, Rick.
“Unfortunately, one of our newer family members did not understand the importance of loyalty.” Starkey gives Seattle a sad shrug. “He was found trying to phone out to the world, and I felt it necessary to discipline him. Sampson won’t be back, and someone will have to take his place as a communicator.”
Sampson was probably on graffiti patrol, his job to send out the word that we exist, that we’re angry, that we survive despite how the world treats us. Maybe he was trying to get back to a lost mother, like Jimmy was with his MOM hearts. Maybe, I’m realizing, that’s what most of us are trying to do: find our mothers. I don’t hear Starkey’s next words, see that everyone is looking at me.
“And are you missing Peter? No, Smiley, he’s not here, and you know why. When you left so abruptly, went back to the unwelcoming arms of the streets, Peter tried to follow you. But not before he committed an even worse error, that of challenging me.” Starkey looks at Mouse and smiles. “We ended that disloyalty.”
That’s when I see the hunting knife in its leather case lying on the edge of the fire ring. I can imagine how it went that night, Peter rising up, Starkey swinging the bat, Mouse too afraid to do anything but whatever Starkey asked.
“We knew you’d want to see Peter again. You were good pals, right? So Mouse and I left him buried in leaves near the park Lila saw you in a few days ago.”
With Rick. Maybe Rick’s murder wasn’t as random as the cop thought. Maybe it was meant to be a message to me. Like Peter under the leaves. Who will my body be a message for? The rest of the family? Anyone else having doubts?
Chapter Thirty-Four
Ellie
September 2009
I’m sick of remembering. Really sick. I’ve thrown up SpaghettiOs and lettuce, this week’s offerings from the food bank, and now I’m getting rid of yesterday’s Rice-A-Roni. Maybe I’m allergic to food past its due date, but old food never had this effect on me before. Even Perry Mason doesn‘t cure me. Or Sue Grafton. I decide to take a shower, clean up, both inside and out.
Sarah’s left her shampoo, a sample-size bottle with just enough left in it to suds up my hair. It smells like Sarah. I could use her now, at my sickbed. I lift my leg over the edge of the tub, inhaling the last of her.
On the floor in between the sink and the bathtub, I see a plastic pill container, the one I took out of Sarah’s purse days ago. The brown pills, four or five of them, rattle as I pick it up, look at the label again. This time I can read a few of the words. A telephone number, the last name of someone who bought the pills. And I can barely make out the small print at the bottom that says the pills are amitriptyline, or something close to that. Not my business.
But a half hour later, I’m calling the number on the label and a voice says, “Sellwood Pharmacy. This is Stella. May I help you?” I have to think fast.
“This is…” I look at the name on the label, “Mrs. Jansen?” I don’t know why I made that a question, but I go on. “I have an old bottle of pills from you in my bathroom cabinet, and I’m wondering what they were for? And whether they are expired?”
“Do you have the prescription number?”
Damn. No number. “The bottle must have been in the sink, water or something. I can’t read it, but I do have the name of the drug, and maybe you have records there of my buying it?”
“Name again?”
I say, “Jansen,” and then add, “It’s stupid of me to not remember why I got these, but I’ve been under stress for a while, and I’m finally feeling better.” That sounds lame. “I do want to know how to dispose of whatever this is. I read in the newspaper the other day about the pollution of the river because of drugs being flushed down the toilet.” I let that sink in while the woman is apparently looking up Jansen.
“Sorry, we delete our records after five years. You’re not in the computer. Not sure I can help. What was the name of the medication?”
I spell it, squinting at the small print, hoping I’m getting most of the letters.
She says to wait a moment, and when she comes back she tells me it is an antidepressant, probably expired, and it should be disposed of by putting it in a container of used coffee grounds and sent along with the garbage.
I thank her and hang up and go back to lie down on the davenport. I don’t have coffee grounds. Not my problem. None of this is. So why am I lying here, eyes wide open, instead of sleeping off whatever is going on in my stomach?
Sarah Jansen? Why, more than five years ago, when she was still wishing for a Samantha Parkington doll, would she have been taking antidepressants? Maybe she stole these pills from someone. Why was she carrying around old pills instead of swallowing them? If she bought them on the street, wouldn’t they be in a baggie or something unidentifiable? Was she selling them? Same question: why in the original pill container?
I go back to the hall and steal the phone book. Children’s Services, I guess. State? County? I pick a number, jot it down, and go out to the phone.
When someone live finally answers, I say, “I am worried about a young girl, fifteen or so, who has—” what should I say that won’t get her into trouble? “—stayed with me for a few days and has gone on to a relative’s home. I am hoping she is off the streets right now and safe, and I need to let someone know that I’m interested, maybe this relative.”
“Is she one of our cases?”
“She said she was in foster homes until recently.”
I give the woman the only name I have, Sarah Jansen. She comes back a few minutes later. “Yes, she has lived at several of our foster homes, in fact, until she ran away from the last one a few months ago. Her caseworker is very worried about her. Is she there with you now?”
“No, she’s left and I haven’t seen her for a while. I just thought that if that relative had her, I’d like to see her again, make sure she’s all right.” I make my voice sound old and harmless. “She is a beautiful young woman. I wish she was my granddaughter.”
“Sarah apparently had no family left after her mother died.” I can hear pages flipping in the background.
This is where I have to ask the right question. What is the right question? “She told me her mother died. Cancer, right?”
“I don’t think so. Says here probable suicide.” The woman hesitates, then adds, “I’m sorry. I’m way out of line.” She’s official again, says, “We
are interested in Sarah being safe. If she shows up, please let us know, and tell her we are here to help her. Thank you for being concerned.” She asks how they can contact me, and I give her Stella the pharmacy lady’s name and number.
So now I know. I am holding in my hand the drug that killed Sarah’s mother. The very last thing her mother touched, found by her daughter under the bed or between the mattress and the box springs. I put the vial in my top drawer, next to my underwear, where I also have hidden a locket that protects a browned, fading photo of a young woman, my own mother.
She died, too. I was five, and the last thing I remember of her was her hand waving at me from the train window as she left for the sanitarium. I never saw her again. They had orphanages in those days, not foster homes, and to keep me from going to such a place, my grandmother took me in. She fed me, taught me to be clean, and made me go to school. She sewed my dresses from printed flour sacks and checked for nits in my hair. She had worries of her own: a dead husband, her own four boys all hard to handle, heading into trouble or the army. She never held me, did not touch me except for the occasional swat. Once, she tried to teach me how to quilt and I blew her off. I didn’t want to be mothered and that was good, because by then she didn’t want to be a mother. A couple of years later, I escaped that house, scraped clean of love and heavy with despair, by getting pregnant.
And here I am, a sick old woman about to go to the toilet one more time. Only now, I feel better.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Sarah
