The Whispering Hollows Part 3

She didn't tell him exactly the way Sarah had died. That was not the reason she'd had the vision; she knew that. She was here to help them find her. She was here to make sure the man didn't do what he would eventually do to another girl. It was a cold, hard certainty within her.

"You said dirt under his fingernails," Muldune said when she was done. He was doodling on a pad in front of him. (Something he did that helped him think. His wife hated that, too. She hated a number of his little quirks, things he was powerless to change.) "Not dirt," she said. "Oil maybe."

"Hands calloused, dry?"

She closed her eyes, trying to remember. "Yes," she said finally. "I think so."

"Like maybe he worked in a garage?"

Eloise shook her head thoughtfully. It sounded right, but she'd reached the end of her knowledge, and that horrible thrum of anxiety had subsided. She'd done what she needed to do. A tremendous wave of relief and fatigue crashed over her.

"Well," he said after another moment. "Thank you for your help. We'll be in touch if we need any more information."

A respectful blow off-which was actually fine. She wasn't one of those glommers-on, someone who wanted to help solve crimes, or stand on the sidelines watching the investigation unfold. She didn't want attention or credit. She wanted to do what she had been asked to do, nothing more.

She left then, got in her car and drove home and cleaned the house. Maybe that was it, she told herself as she scrubbed the floor with a nearly religious zeal. Maybe that was the final event. Sarah was gone-not in the foyer, not in the kitchen or the upstairs bath.

The house was quiet except for the soft mewing of Oliver, the new kitten that she had brought home for Amanda. Alfie had always been allergic, so they'd never had pets. Oliver wasn't much of a consolation prize, but he brought some much needed cuteness and comedy relief into their grim little house where the dead dominated.

Eloise had thought a kitten might be good for her daughter, who recently seemed to have discovered rage. Amanda was angry at Eloise-for having a doctor's appointment that morning Alfie and Emily died, for the crazy visions, because Eloise had forgiven Barney Croft.

How do you forgive the man who killed your family? What right do you have to forgive him? Amanda had shrieked, when Eloise shared her experience. Dr. Ben said that anger was healthy for Amanda, way better than the depression that comes from turning anger inward. But it certainly wasn't pleasant-the screaming, the door slamming, the sudden hysterics. Eloise's nerves were frayed.

She'll work through it, Dr. Ben promised. Trust me, you would rather deal with this than the alternatives. Speaking of which-how are you doing?

Detective Muldune knocked on her door at five to midnight. It was a loud, insistent knock that woke both Amanda and her instantly.

"Who is it?" Amanda whispered. She was still sleeping in Eloise's bed, a habit Eloise had no intention of trying to break right now.

"I have no idea," she said. As Eloise climbed down the stairs, she saw the flas.h.i.+ng lights in her driveway, Detective Muldune standing on her porch with his s.h.i.+eld out. Eloise experienced a dump of fear. Oh, G.o.d, she thought. I knew all sorts of things I shouldn't know. Maybe they think I had something to do with it?

"Mrs. Montgomery, can you open the door? Detective Ray Muldune of The Hollows PD."

She pulled it open, aware that Amanda, who was creeping down the stairs behind her, had come to sit on the middle step. Was Amanda going to have to witness Eloise being hauled off by the police?

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said. "Can you?"

The desperation was coming off of him in waves. She saw that he was alone; there were no other cars, just his empty prowler in the driveway, red lights silently spinning.

"We can't find her," he said. "We have no leads. Her parents are beside themselves. We've had people out looking for nearly forty-eight hours. Time is running out."

Eloise shook her head. She thought her job was finished; she didn't know what to say. Was she supposed to help him further?

"Trust me," he said. "I wouldn't be here if I had anywhere else to go."

"Let me get dressed," she said. He offered a solemn nod and walked off her porch back to his car. She quietly closed the door and turned toward the stairs.

"You're going with him?" said Amanda. She wore this particular angry scowl when she looked at her mother now. She hates me, Eloise thought.

"I have to," said Eloise moving past her.

"You don't have to do anything," she said nastily.

"I think I do," said Eloise.

"You're going to leave me here? It's the middle of the night."

"You can come," Eloise said.

"The h.e.l.l I will," said her once sweet daughter. Amanda got to her feet and stormed up the stairs past Eloise. She slammed her door so hard that the china in the cabinet downstairs rattled, channeling Emily.

"This is bulls.h.i.+t," her daughter screamed through the closed door. "You. Are. Not. A. Psychic."

A psychic? The word conjured women in flowing skirts and headscarves, crystal b.a.l.l.s and fortune-telling cards. Is that what she was?

Eloise got dressed and tried to push open Amanda's door. It was locked.

"Amanda," she said. "I know you're angry. Try to understand, okay?"

Nothing.

"I didn't ask for any of this," she said. She rested her forehead on the door. "I'm just-" What? What was she doing? "I'm just trying to do the right thing."

Nothing.

"I love you."

Eloise waited.

"I love you, too," Amanda said after a moment. That was something, at least. She didn't open the door, though. It had always been a rule of the family, never part without saying "I love you." They both knew the worst thing could happen.

Ray Muldune's car was overwarm and smelled of fast-food hamburgers. He filled his seat, belly hanging over his belt. His jacket was wrinkled and soft with overwear.

"I brought you something," he said. He pulled it out of his pocket and let it rest in his open palm. It was a red Goody barrette. There was one in the box in the man's room. This must be the other one. "A volunteer found this in the woods."

They both looked at it. Eloise wasn't sure why, but she didn't want to touch it. She looked away, watched a squirrel run lithely across a branch of the great oak tree in her front yard.

"I don't know how this works," he said. His wedding ring looked uncomfortably tight on his finger.

"Neither do I," she answered. She wrapped her arms around herself. It was so cold. She was always so cold lately. She felt as if she'd be s.h.i.+vering even if it were a hundred degrees.

"I don't believe in this kind of thing," he said. He kept his eyes on the cheap plastic bauble, not on her.

"I don't blame you," she said.

After a moment, she reached for the barrette. At first, there was nothing. It was just a piece of plastic and metal, no energy at all. But then she was there, in the woods. She was above them while he carried her carefully between the trees. Her hair snagged on the branch, and the barrette fell onto the ground.

"It's hers," she said.

Muldune was looking at her strangely.

"What?" she asked.

"I just lost you there for a minute," he says. "You were a million miles away."

"He knows her. But she doesn't know him," Eloise said. "He saw her, but she didn't notice him. No one ever does. Once he saw her, he followed her all the time. He has access to the school."

It came out of her in a strange tumble, facts that she had no access to moments before. There was something else. She'd seen it before, but it was just out of reach. What was it?

"Someone saw a car by the side of the road," the detective said. "It was parked in the shoulder by The Hollows Wood."

It came to her then, something about the mention of the woods. She'd lost that piece. "The blind," she said. "He took her to a hunters' blind."

Muldune sat up at that. He put the car into reverse and backed out of the driveway.

"Okay," he said. He pulled out onto the rural road and started to drive. "Where?"

"Somewhere in the woods," she said. "He walked miles with her. He's tall and strong. He works with his hands."

"We tried to bring the car owner in," he said. It was more like he was speaking to himself, though, as if she wasn't really there. "But we can't find him."

"Is his name Tommy?" asked Eloise. The name was just in her head. Muldune didn't say anything. "Does he work with cars?"

Still nothing from Muldune, but he was driving faster. She knew where he was going. He was taking her to where the car had been parked. At first, she didn't think that was right. The man had been on foot. But then she put it together: he'd driven first and then come up the back way. That's how he'd made it there so quickly.

After a bit, the detective pulled over. They both got out of the car and headed between the trees without a word to each other. He had a big powerful flashlight that illuminated the way before them. They walked far, getting breathless and tired. Muldune followed close behind Eloise, who had no idea where they were going. But she did know. Of course she did.

When the flashlight beam fell upon the hunters' blind, almost invisible among the trees, Eloise stopped. A wave of nausea hit her so powerfully that she almost doubled over with it. She had to lean against a tree until it pa.s.sed. All the while, Muldune kept his eyes on her. He had no idea what to do with Eloise-he was afraid of her, confused by her. He didn't want to believe in her. All of this, she could read in his concerned frown.

Muldune pulled a radio from his belt and turned it on, its staticky hum filling the night. He spoke softly in a language of shorthand and number codes that she didn't understand. She heard the trickle of a creek, and she turned toward the sound. Muldune's flashlight beam filled the area. She saw what she didn't want to see. One slender white arm. That coldness inside, it spread.

She folded herself over and started to cry.

Eloise thought that justice was a funny thing. It was a big idea, a romantic one. It was imagined like a satisfying end to a story. Justice must be served. Is one served Justice, like a meal at a table? Or does one serve Justice, like a maid in a grand house? These are the thoughts that Eloise was having as she sat at Barney Croft's sentencing.

Eloise had spoken for leniency on his behalf. Addiction is a disease. Barney Croft needs help, not just punishment. And she believed that. When she looked at his weeping wife and his small children, their faces confused and sad, it was clear to see that a lifetime in prison served no one-not even Eloise and Amanda. Barney Croft's children would be broken by this; perhaps they too would turn to drugs and ruin someone else's life. Surely, there was a better way.

But the judge was not lenient; a life sentence was handed down, parole possible after thirty years. The courtroom erupted in wails of despair, chairs moving, cameras flas.h.i.+ng, an angry call to order. Eloise and Amanda hustled out of there before the reporter vultures that never seem to tire of the Montgomery tragedy could corner them. They were in their car, safely driving away before the court adjourned.

"I don't feel any better," said Amanda. Eloise's daughter had dressed in a simple black dress and white cardigan, patent leather flats as if they were going to church. (Which they never did anymore unless her in-laws were visiting. That was Alfie's thing.) Amanda looked very grown up, a young woman.

"No," said Eloise. Eloise had thought that she might cry today. But no. Tears came at odd times, not when you expected. Grief was not linear. It came and went in unpredictable ways.

"But I think I can forgive him. Someday," she said.

"When you do that," said Eloise. "You'll feel better."

"I guess," said Amanda, unconvinced.

Eloise rested her hand on her daughter's thigh. Amanda put her hands on top of her mother's.

Amanda had released some of her rage. At least she didn't hate Eloise quite as much. She'd apologized for blaming Eloise, even for just a little while. Amanda knew it was wrong. But there were no apologies necessary. Eloise blamed herself enough for both of them, even though she knew it was wrong to do so. The voice that wasn't a voice had told her that. We all have our time and our design. There are no accidents. And no one is to blame.

At home, the reporters waited, a throng that only seemed to grow. They parked their cars in the driveway. Amanda and Eloise waved politely as they walked easily up the path to the porch.

How do you feel today? Do you think Croft got what he deserved? Why did you speak for leniency? How would your husband have reacted to the verdict? What is your life like now?

Neither Eloise nor Amanda said a word, just pushed in through the front door and closed it behind them. There was nothing to say to anyone, least of all reporters-a pack of hyenas waiting to scavenge the dead. But, she supposed, even hyenas had to eat.

Amanda had picked up the paper on the way in, laid it flat on the kitchen table. The Hollows News and Gazette announced in its front-page headline that the murder trial of Tommy Delano, the mechanic's son who had murdered Sarah, would begin next week. He had seen Sarah for the first time when her parents brought their car in for repair. He had watched her when he went to the school to work on the buses, as per his father's contract with the district. He had watched her and watched her. And when he had his opportunity, he killed her, violated and mutilated her corpse. He kept his trophies in a box, a red barrette, her panties, her heart-shaped locket. Or so the accusations stated.

Eloise knew Tommy didn't kill Sarah. In fact, it had been an accident of circ.u.mstance. She had told as much to Ray Muldune. And Tommy, too, pleaded his innocence on that count. But no one believed either one of them-not the so-called psychic, not the man with pictures of girls and a dead girl's underpants under his bed. And all the evidence pointed to Tommy. It was up to a jury to decide the truth now.

Would justice be served? No, Tommy didn't murder Sarah. But he was months away from murdering another girl. One who would now, because of what Eloise had done, live and go on to help a great many people. Or so the voice that wasn't a voice told her. Justice, it promised, will be served in other, more significant, ways.

Eloise wasn't sure she believed it. But what did she know?

She decided that it was a good afternoon to clear out the garden in the backyard. The perennials needed tr.i.m.m.i.n.g, the annuals to get pulled up, the soil turning. She had neglected the garden badly, like so many things since the accident. Amanda reluctantly helped pull weeds for a little while, but then she lost interest and Eloise let her go inside and watch television. It was awhile of being out there alone before Eloise was aware of it, how strange was the rustling of the wind through the trees.

She stopped what she was doing and pulled herself up from her gardener's crouch, stretched out her aching lower back, and listened. The leaves were dancing in the wind that had picked up. And underneath the current of that sound she heard the distinct sound of whispering. Low and musical, eternal, a million voices telling their stories to the sky. She stood there awhile, letting the sound of it wash over her. She knew that she had never heard it before, but that it had been there all along, like a radio station she'd never been able to receive. There was something deeply sad and also joyful, a symphony of all the myriad notes of lives lived. Once Eloise heard it, she couldn't stop listening. It was mesmerizing, a siren song. What rocks would it crash her upon?

"Mom?"

Emily was standing over by the rosebush Eloise had just trimmed back. "Mom, do you hear it?"

Emily was wearing the dress she'd worn to her first communion. It was a white, lacey thing that they'd had to wrestle her into. She complained the whole day about how it itched, and she'd torn it off and thrown it to the floor the minute she was allowed to change. But she looked like an angel while she wore it. Even frowning and fidgeting, she was the most beautiful creature.

"The whispers?" asked Eloise. Oh, she wanted to take that girl in her arms. It was a deep and powerful ache, but she kept her distance.

Emily nodded sagely. "Yes," she said. "The Whispers. Not everyone can hear them, you know."

"What am I supposed to do?" Eloise asked. She didn't mean to sound sad and peevish, helpless. But she did. And she didn't mean just about The Whispers. She meant everything. "Emily, tell me. What am I supposed to do?"

Emily smiled-her funny, crooked, one that was always just for Eloise.

"All you have to do is listen."

Then she turned and left soundlessly through the garden gate. Eloise didn't call after her. She just let her lovely lost girl go.

THE BURNING GIRL.