Eulogy
by J.R. Godwin
Disclaimer: "Labyrinth" belongs to Jim Henson & Co. There's no money being made off of this.
Rating: M
SECOND WITCH: By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.
-Macbeth
4.
Mrs. Ortega insists on making us coffee the moment we appear at her door. I don't drink coffee and Harry, well, Harry's hungover. Harry's the only person I've ever met who gets sicker from black coffee whenever he has a hangover. And Mrs. Ortega ... she's not drinking anything. Just stares at her lap and answers our questions with a yes or a no.
She puts me to mind of a shotglass that's been dropped on a tile floor. Shattered.
We ask the usual questions. Does your family have any enemies? Was there any strange or suspicious activity in the days leading up to your daughter's disappearance? When was the last time you saw your daughter?
"You don't understand," Mrs. Ortega mumbles. "Everything was normal. Normal. We got no problems. Jennie, she's a good girl. I don't know what to say."
Harry's face contracts as if he's sucked a lemon. Answers like that always drive him crazy. The problem with people, Toby, is everybody thinks they're normal even when shit's hitting the fan, he once told me. This bullshit doesn't help an investigation. There's always something going on, but people don't wanna mention the creepy ex-boyfriend or the weird neighbor. Denial kills more cases than bullets.
Before Harry can explode, I raise a finger. "Uh, I'm gonna look at the bedroom."
Jennie's room is sparse compared to Ana Maria's ... no pink, no frilly decorations. Just a lot of books. Jennie's well-read for a second-grader. Ana Maria liked stories, too. Her bedroom had been full of comic books and fairytales. Our team is already scurrying in and out like ants: taking pictures, laying tape, making notes.
With a tissue, I pull a book off the shelf and flip through it. Where the Wild Things Are. Sounds familiar. I probably loved this as a child. There are other thin volumes here. Scary Stories To Read In The Dark. Some R.L. Stine books. An old red book, too stained to read the title properly. A copy of Stephen King's The Stand, obviously forgotten by a parent. Jennie likes scary stories.
You always struck me as a romantic fairytale kind of girl. Mom showed me your princess dress, once. She said it used to belong to your mom, before she left you and Dad. Your mom sounded like a stuck-up bitch, a real piece of work. I saw one of her movies, years ago, back when Hollywood still gave two shits about her, before the alcohol ravaged her health and career.
Anyway, it was hard for me to enjoy the movie. Every time I saw your mom, I only saw your face.
Who's texting me? I squint at my phone in surprise. Tom Marvel.
Want me to pick up milk?
I reply immediately. Same place?
yes
when?
1 hour, he suggests.
2 hours, I insist.
ok
Tom Marvel, in case you haven't guessed, is a pseudonym. It's taken from an H.G. Wells novel called The Invisible Man. His real name is Julio. You don't need to know his last name. His family's under my protection. Keeps things neater that way.
Julio had a big brother, name of Mikey, who made a bad decision of joining the Spanish Lords. Mikey saw more violence than most people ever will, and participated in at least one murder and too many cases of assault and battery to list.
When the Lords orchestrated what came to be called the July 4th massacre, it went down in city history as one of our worst gang bloodbaths. The death toll included civilians and several officers of the 23rd precinct.
That was the last straw. Mikey was sixteen-years old. He'd been running with the Lords for five years, and he wanted out. He got his chance when we brought in the gang's ringleader. Mikey testified against him in court and put the guy away for a long time.
In return, I helped Mikey vanish.
The only retirement plan for the Spanish Lords is death. So in a way, I had to make Mikey dead. He's in another country right now. I can't tell you where, or who he's with, or what he's doing. But I can promise you he's alive. That's what I tell Julio and his parents, too. They'll probably never see him again. Small price to pay for his life, really.
Our meeting place is a bench several streets east of Union Square. It's also eighty blocks from Harlem and anyone who'd easily recognize either of us. We meet whenever I have news from Mikey for his family, or when Julio's got gossip for me. Julio's already at the bench when I arrive. He's leaned forward, elbows on his knees, one hand clutching a cigarette and the other feverishly scrolling through his iPhone. To anyone watching, he's checking his texts. Julio's a consummate actor.
We're both dressed in jeans and hoodies. Julio wears headphones and cornrows. I've got long sleeves to hide my tattoos. I don't look like a cop.
I sit at the opposite end of the bench and stretch out like I'm waiting for someone else, then casually glance over. "Perdón por llegar tarde."
Julio doesn't look up from his phone. "No pasa nada. You know you talk Spanish like a Mexican."
"Just now?"
"Just in general."
"You wanted to talk? I don't have any updates from your friend."
Julio scowls and finally looks at me. His face is half-hidden beneath a Yankees cap. "So it's true? Another kid's missing?"
I stare out at the busy street and nod.
"Fuck." Agitated, Julio takes a drag on the cigarette. "Listen, I got something for you, but you didn't hear it from me, okay?"
Now I'm intrigued. Julio only occasionally has information for me, and he's never nervous about it. Not like this. "Sure."
"I mean it. You mention my name, I'm not giving you anything again, even after all you did for my brother."
"Julio, I swear on my daughter."
"... so, I got a friend. Don't ask me his name. Anyway, two weeks ago, he saw something weird."
Being a detective makes you hyper vigilant to body language. Sometimes you have to read the cues and prod people to get answers. Julio needs some prodding right now. "What'd he see?"
He looks away, drags on the cigarette again. "He was looking out a window, the night she went missing. He saw a kid in the street."
My heart rate's already picking up. "So?"
"It was the Ramirez kid. He recognized her photo in the paper later. She was in her pajamas and didn't wear no shoes, and there was a white guy with her."
That definitely has my attention. "What?"
He nods furtively. "Yup. White dude. Blond, dressed in white, pale as hell. Said he looked like a yuppie grim reaper. Real posh."
"I want to talk to your friend."
Julio barks a laugh. "He won't talk to you. He don't trust the pigs - ha, sorry, the cops."
"What exactly was your friend doing when he saw all this?"
"Liberating a TV from an apartment. Don't look at me like that. The prick owed him money and wasn't paying, so he helped himself. The guy had it coming."
"If he talks to us, I can get him immunity for the theft."
"Can you get him citizenship while you're at it?"
"He's not here legally?"
"Nope. Listen, he won't talk to you, and I'm not giving you his name, so just forget it. He's scared about what's happening to these kids, but he doesn't want your friends showing up at his door."
I need to talk to Harry. We're going about this all wrong. Serial killers usually hunt within their own ethnic groups, and we've had this guy pegged as Latino or black. Shit. Shit.
Julio smiles grimly, recognizing my anger. "You pissed? You better be. One of your own's hunting us."
I stare at him. "Excuse me?"
"Look, nobody gives a shit when little black and brown kids go missing. We're animals, right? Who cares when we're killing each other? But now a white dude's moved uptown and hunting our kids. And sooner or later, he's gonna start touching your kids. And then you'll give a shit. You'll do an exclusive on him and talk about his abusive childhood and what a poor misunderstood monster he is, and nobody'll remember the victims. That's how it always is."
"You're mad at us? We're trying to protect you, Julio."
He stubs out the cigarette and stands to go. "You wanna help? Catch this fucker before he takes someone else. I got a little sister, you know."
"Congratulations on getting into college," I call after him, forcing him to pause. "CUNY?"
Julio eyes me. "Manhattan College."
"What're you gonna study?"
"Engineering. People like my drawing. I'm good at conceptualizing and building stuff. This city needs more bridges."
"Your parents must be proud."
"First one to go to college, and somebody's gotta take care of them when they're old. Mikey's gone now, and my sister's the baby of the family. Gotta be me." His smile has no humor in it. "That's the upside to having a gang banger for a brother. My parents are so happy I'm going to college and not in prison or dead, they don't care I have a boyfriend."
"Good job."
He hesitates, and in the depths of his eyes I see fear. "Catch this asshole. I'm serious. You're looking for a white guy, about five foot ten. That's all I know."
"You know we got an anonymous hotline, right? You coulda called in, saved yourself a subway ride and maybe won some money."
"Lo que tú digas,man. I don't need your money." Then he's gone.
Harry is beside himself when I update him. "We're looking for a white guy? In Harlem? Who steals kids from their beds? Who the fuck is this guy, Houdini?"
"The Boogeyman," I correct softly, flipping through photographs on my desk. "How do you think he does it?"
"What?"
"How does he do it? This strange white man appears in your bedroom in the middle of the night, you're a little kid, what do you do? Why would you go with him?"
"I dunno. Maybe he offers them candy."
"Even a 7-year old's too smart to take candy from a stranger who appears in their bedroom, c'mon." I sadly touch photographs of Ana Maria and Jennie, one after another. "They trusted him."
Harry sighs, deep and long. "Why would they trust him?"
"Every child trusts Santa Claus. Maybe these kids didn't see this guy as the Boogeyman. Maybe they saw him as something else."
"Like what?"
"I don't know."
Today's my first day off in eight days, and the Captain doesn't want to see my face. I think I've been driving everyone at the station a little nuts. Whatever, I'm banished for the next 48 hours. Elsie's back with her family, so I take Lucia and head upstate to see Dad.
Our parents got divorced a few years back. Oh, they said it was irreconcilable differences. They said a lot of things. The truth is, they never got over your disappearance. It took twenty years before they made it official, is all. They're still friends, still get along whenever the family gets together. You'd be proud of them, Sarah. They just couldn't make it work as a couple.
Dad lives in a little gated community on the north side of town, not too far from our old house. I drove by it on the way over. The new owners repaired the fence and the shutters, which is good. Dad really let the place go, in the later years. There was a tricycle on the front lawn, and headless Barbie dolls on the porch. A new family had moved in. I wonder if they know the house used to be a crime scene.
When we pull up to the apartment, Dad's waiting for us at the door. Lucia latches onto his neck and burbles to him about our trip in "Daddy's new car." (I rented a Honda for the trip up.) Dad shows me the deck he built outside, and gives Lucia a new doll, and makes us spaghetti bolognese for dinner.
It almost feels like a normal family gathering. And if it weren't for all the missing women in our lives (Cassie, you, Mom), and the mortuary photographs of a dead girl in my briefcase, it very well could be.
A nightmare wakes me up, though I don't remember what it was about. I just know it was bad. I remember the roar of rocket fire, so maybe it was about Afghanistan. I'm not sure. I remember seeing your face. That's all. There was no blood pouring from your eyes this time, thank God.
I'm not alone in the guest bedroom; Lucia's sleeping next to me in the bed. It's been three weeks since Cassie's death, and Lucia still insists on sleeping with me. Right now she's passed out cold, thumb in her mouth.
Creeeeeak.
I'm out of bed in an instant. My gun's in the bedside table; I pull it out and head for the door.
I reach the hall just in time to see you. You're wearing your regular peasant blouse and blue jeans, but your face looks strange like it did in Afghanistan. Bone white like a dead thing. Your eyes are coal black smudges.
But you smile so radiantly that I forget all this and just smile back at you. Hi, Toby!
I drop the point of the gun immediately. Hi, Sarah.
I've missed you.
Something lodges itself in my throat. I nod and hope I don't cry this time.
Follow me, okay? Don't make me chase you this time.
Okay.
You lead me down the stairs and into the kitchen. There's a fresh pot of tea waiting on the stove, and someone's laid out a bowl of goldfish crackers. My favorite. How'd you know?
You laugh. It's a bright, bubbly laugh. What don't I know about you, Toby? Have a seat.
I sit at the table and grab a handful of goldfish crackers, shove them in my mouth, bite down. Yum. There are tears again in my eyes. I wipe them away with my free hand and don't feel so self-conscious now. I'm home. I'm safe.
Lucia got so big!
She did. Kids grow fast at this age.
I wouldn't know. You look so forlorn when you say it.
Sarah, why did you leave?
I didn't want to leave, Toby.
Bullshit. Nobody took you. Nobody broke into the house. You just vanished. You left.
You sniff at me. You're better than that, Toby. You're supposed to be a detective. When was the last time you heard about someone vanishing from a locked up house without any sign of struggle?
What? No. No, that's completely different. These are different cases. These aren't ... aren't ...
Are they?
I don't know. I'm not sure of anything anymore.
Then you smile a really eerie smile. It's like half your face momentarily stops working, and the other half curls up into a Cheshire Cat grin. It's so creepy that my stomach twists itself into a knot. Your eyes are too black. Dead eyes, like a doll's eyes. Then you wave your hand at the refridgerator. No, at something beyond the fridge. At the door leading down to the basement.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Something's humping its way up the stairs. Something heavy, like a car. Wham! The door crashes open and falls off its hinges. A cardboard box spills into the kitchen like it's grown legs. As soon as it hits the linoleum floor, it stops hopping and lies very still.
You're staring at the box, and the look on your face is hard to read. There's grief and anger, sure, but I see the sort of determination I haven't seen since Afghanistan. I'm looking at a woman going to war. The truth is complicated, Toby. You love me, right?
Yes. I can barely breathe. Oh, yes.
We need your help.
"Sarah!"
I jolt awake at the kitchen table. The light of the early dawn peers through the windows. Did I sleepwalk down here? What the fuck? My eyes dart to the stove, but there's no pot of tea there. Nor is there a bowl of goldfish crackers on the table. The overhead lights are off. It was just a dream.
I make a beeline for the basement and find what I want right at the base of the stairs: a large box sealed in duct tape with "Sarah's room" on the side in thick Sharpie. Somehow, I knew it'd be there. I proceed to upend the box's entire contents onto the basement floor.
"Toby?" a querulous voice calls out from the top of the stairs.
"Dad? It's me."
"What in the world are you doing? It's six in the morning."
"Sorry, I couldn't sleep."
"Couldn't you go to the gym like a normal person?" he jokes, and I know he's not mad.
I indicate the pile of growing crap in front of me. "Dad, what is all this?"
He sighs as he comes to stand beside me. He's wearing a terry cloth bathrobe I gave him one Christmas and looks older than I've ever seen him. "I boxed all that up after the divorce and brought it with me. I didn't want to leave it behind. It's Sarah's toys and books and things. There's more in other boxes down here ... somewhere. I haven't looked at this stuff in years."
"You kept it? All of it?"
"Oh, yes. I could never let that girl go, you know. I always hoped ... well, I wanted to keep her things in case she ever came home and would need them again. Seems silly, doesn't it? It's been thirty-seven years now. She's never coming home." I'm stunned by the bitterness in his voice. Mom and Dad never showed any wavering in all the years I spent growing up with them and watching Mom vaccuum your bedroom on weekends. Their faith wasn't to be questioned. One day, you were coming home.
I guess I should feel relief that Dad's finally accepting reality. Instead, I feel tired.
Something else in the box catches my eye. I pick it up and freeze. It's a stuffed unicorn with a bedraggled string tail. And behind it, a yellow teddy bear. And ...
What the fuck?
... and a villainish figurine dressed in black, with fierce eyes and wild blond hair and a flowing cape. Grandma's voice echoing in my memory. That there is a very wicked man.
"Dad." My voice is shaking. "Dad, what is this?"
"Hmm? Some of Sarah's toys. I don't know where she got all of them. She had some of them since she was a baby."
"I remember some of these. Especially this one." I pick up the figurine of the Dracula-looking dude in black. It feels like he's made of poured resin.
"Well, I'm not surprised. You probably saw these in Sarah's room, when you were little."
I'm dreading my next question. "Dad, I remember a dream when I was a kid about going into Sarah's room and climbing on her desk -"
"And pounding on her mirror!" Dad exclaims, and my heart drops into my shoes. "I remember that. Scared the piss out of your mother and me. We thought you'd fall and crack your head open. I still don't know how you got up on that desk. You always were an athlete."
It wasn't a dream. You went into the mirror. It wasn't a dream.
A splash of red catches my eye. I reach into the box and draw something else out: a book, bound in dusky red cloth. It's so old that the title's vanished, but when I open it, the title page shows only one word, printed in a bold script, yellow as a lightening bolt: Labyrinth.
"I've seen this book before, too," I murmur.
"Well, you've probably seen a lot of Sarah's things. They stayed in her bedroom for twenty years."
But this memory continues to pick at me as I return upstairs. Not just the memory/dream of you disappearing into a mirror. The book itself is annoying me.
There's something I'm not remembering clearly. I've seen this book before. But where?
Then it hits me. Pink. Frilly pink. Yellow tape. Black coffee.
I grab my case files from the guest room where Lucia still sleeps and flip through the photographs. Then I see it. There. On the floor, next to Ana Maria's bed. A dusky red book, bound in cloth, lying open and face-down on the floor. Its title, Labyrinth, written in gold.
Another memory. Me, standing in Jennie Ortega's bedroom, using a tissue to pick books off her shelves and inspect them. R.L Stine books. Where the Wild Things Are. The Stand. An old book, the front too heavily stained to read the title. The cover, dusky red, bound in stiff cotton, the edges rimmed in black tooling work.
Dad looks up in alarm as I charge downstairs fully dressed, Lucia mumbling and cranky in my arms. "What's the fuss? What's going on?"
I wave your red book at him. "Dad, where did Sarah get this?"
He looks at me as if I've lost the last shred of sanity I held. "Goodness, how should I know?"
"Dad, you safeguarded every last possession of Sarah's for twenty years, then boxed everything up and moved it with you. Don't tell me you don't know about this book."
"Of course I know that book. I read it to Sarah when she was little. But I don't remember where we got it. At a bookstore, I imagine. Where are you going?"
I'm halfway out the door, Lucia in one hand and the book in another. "Back to the city," I call over my shoulder.
We have to disturb the Ortega and Ramirez families again and actually pull the books from the bedrooms. Of course, they're the same one: Labyrinth. The lab inspects all three books and finds no strange fingerprints for us.
I take all three copies and pour over them at my desk. Harry thinks I'm nuts, as usual. "We're looking for a kid and you want to read books! You ever stop to think these kids and your sister just shared the same reading habits? Maybe they shopped at the same store."
I shove your book in his face. "Do you see an IBN number? An author? No. These are specialty items, probably handmade. You can't find these on Amazon. I already checked. These books don't exist, and each one is different from the others."
"Huh? What do you mean?"
"Each book tells a variation of the same story, about a goblin king who kidnaps children. And he-"
"A what?"
"Will you shut up and listen for two seconds? The villain is king of the goblins, and he kidnaps children. But the story is always different. In Sarah's book, the heroine saves a kidnapped baby. In Ana Maria's, the heroine slays a dragon threatening her family. And in Jennie's book, the heroine wakes a sleeping prince and marries him. A lot of the details vary, but all three fight the same bad guy, and they all defeat him with a monologue at the end."
"And all three girls disappeared. What are you saying, they were kidnapped by goblins?"
"Don't be stupid. But don't you find it odd that all three victims have the same untraceable book in their disposal, and each is tailored to them? I mean, my sister babysat me when I was little. There's no mention of a baby anywhere in Ana Maria's or Jennie's book."
Harry is silent for a long time, which is impressive given his big mouth. Then he finally says, "Okay ... so you're our guy. You give your victims a book. Why?"
"Because you know these girls want to be a hero. And you know exactly what stories will indulge that fantasy for each of them. I'm telling you, the books are customized for each girl. Sarah's and Jennie's are in English. But Ana Maria was new to this country, so her book's in Spanish."
"What're you saying? Mr. Sandman shows up in the middle of the night and goes, oh hey, I've come to make all your dreams and wishes come true, just follow me?"
"Yes."
"That still doesn't answer how he gets into the home in the first place. Or gets out again."
"Maybe he's a better locksmith than we give him credit for. Doesn't matter. But right now we can explain how he gets those kids to cooperate, and we have evidence linking all three girls to each other."
"Captain's gonna think you're crazy."
"Do you think I'm crazy?"
"I don't know what to believe right now." He chews thoughtfully on a hangnail and inspects Ana Maria's book, still sealed in its evidence bag. "We need to find out where these books are coming from. The parents don't know?"
"No. They don't remember buying them. I already put out a call to several rare book dealers in Manhattan and sent them photos. So far, they haven't seen anything like this."
"Maybe the lab guys can trace material the books're made from."
"Maybe."
"Toby?"
"Yeah?"
"Good work."
"Thank me later. We still have to find Jennie." It's been seven days. We're running out of time.
The elevator's out in my building again, so I make the climb despite running the last two days on no sleep and too much coffee. I'm starting to like the stuff, even if it does taste like battery acid. Nobody drinks coffee for the taste. It's just rocket fuel.
I enter the apartment to silence. Usually, Cassie would be making dinner and sitting at the kitchen table, tap-tap-tapping away at her laptop. This thesis isn't gonna finish itself, baby. Why don't you put on some tea for me?
Someone else sits at our kitchen table now. Kimmy's a college student, our usual babysitter. Lucia's wild about her. Nice girl. She looks up as I walk in. "Hey, Mr. Williams. How's everything?"
I hang my coat in the closet and loosen my tie. "Good. No troubles with Lucia?"
"Nope. I just put her down an hour ago." Suddenly, Lucia starts to whine from her bedroom down the hall. Kimmy chuckles. "I'll check on her. Make yourself at home."
My phone's buzzing. I answer it immediately. "Harry, you better have good news for me, man."
"Toby, we found Jennie."
"Alive?"
"No."
I squeeze my eyes shut, clutch the bridge of my nose. Goddammit. "Where?"
"I can pick you up. Are you at-?"
A scream shatters the calm of the apartment. I drop the phone and barrel down the hall. The scream came from Lucia's bedroom. I burst through the door to find Kimmy pressed against the wall, Lucia sobbing hysterically in her arms. Kimmy looks like she's just seen a corpse. At my entrance, she jabs a finger at the opposite wall, at the window. "Out there! There's a woman at the window!"
"Jesus Christ, Kimmy, you scared the-"
A white face appears in the window, which shuts me up. The eyes, coal black. I've seen that face in my nightmares. It's you.
My jaw drops.
You lock eyes with me and jump from the ledge. We're five stories above the pavement.
"Where are you going? Don't leave!" Kimmy wails. Lucia's screaming. I'm running for the front door like a man on fire. I fly down five flights of stairs without pausing for breath and burst out onto the sidewalk. A stitch in my side threatens to lay me flat, but I ignore it.
I look south, see nothing. Look north and my breath leaves me. You stand on the sidewalk twenty feet away, hands stiff at your sides like a body in a coffin. How the fuck did you survive that jump? Then you turn and flee up 3rd Avenue.
I bolt after you. Late-night pedestrians scramble out of my way. "Stop! Police!"
You ignore me. I'm really seeing this, right? I'm not hallucinating this time. Kimmy and Lucia saw you. You pay no mind to the green light at the next intersection, just run right through it. An SUV blares its horn and swerves out of the way, missing you by inches.
"Sarah! Stop, dammit!"
You ignore me. You lead me on a merry chase up 3rd Ave, then down 88th Street, past the Church of the Holy Trinity, then on until we reach the water. You vanish from my sight at Carl Schurz Park. Flashing red and blue lights clog the entrance. Someone's laying down tape.
"Toby? Toby, that you?" It's Harry, looking like a drowned cat. "What happened? I heard a scream and the line went dead."
I look around me, dazed. "Harry, what is this?"
"Somebody found Jennie down by the water. We cordoned off the park. How'd you know to come here?"
I say nothing.
It's obvious, even when we first see her, that Jennie's been in the water for days. You don't need to know the gorier details, save that her eyes are also missing. Harry covers his nose and tries to breathe through his mouth. "Same guy," he mutters in disgust.
My gaze flickers to her hands. "Glittery pink nail polish. Just like Ana Maria's. He painted their nails. Why does he paint their nails?"
"Toby, who's watching Lucia? Did the babysitter go home?"
Oh God, Kimmy. I left her and Lucia like a madman. I should call - shit, I dropped my phone in the kitchen. I need to go.
Harry looks concerned and understanding. "It's okay. We'll take it from here. Your family needs you tonight." So I leave the park and slowly walk home. My brain feels like it's swimming in a bath. I feel kind of drunk. Nothing makes sense.
I'm aware of the footsteps behind me for a long time before I decide to respond to them. When I stop, they stop. When I walk, they walk. Finally, I halt and slowly turn. 88th Street is dark here, so I have to squint, but I spot the small figure dash behind a mailbox.
My heart beats furiously in the cage of my ribs. "I see you back there. Come out where I can see you." And then you step out into the light. Your peasant blouse is crisp white as always, but your face looks pinker and not so corpse-like.
You're still fifteen, if you're a day. You look pretty and wholesome, in a 1980s kind of way. You would have been fifty-two, this year.
Sarah.
But how?
Sarah.
I don't ...
I just ...
I can't ...
Sarah.
You approach me with tears in your eyes, which are normal and green now. No more monster eyes.
"How are you doing this?" I whisper. I realize I'm crying, too. You slip your arms around me, and I sag against you like a deflated balloon. I can't feel my hands or feet.
Sarah. You smell like peppermint gum and freshly-laundered cotton. You smell like a girl. Your hands are solid against my back and your flesh is warm.
Sarah. I don't understand.
Where did you go?
This isn't real.
This is the only thing that's real.
I'm trembling so much I can barely breathe. Oh, my God. I'm going to have a heart attack, I know it. My chest hurts so bad. Oh, my God. Oh, my God.
You trace patterns on my shoulders like a mother would with a finicky baby. "Shhhhh. Let's find someplace and talk."
We're sitting in a pizza parlor. I don't remember how we got here. You pretty much led the way, Sarah. I was too much in shock to do anything. Still am. Oh, my God. None of this makes sense.
I should be home right now. I should be checking on my family. Instead I'm sitting here with you.
I'm going crazy. I've snapped. Only explanation.
Sarah. Oh God.
You sit across from me and nervously tuck your hair behind your ears. Just like a teenager. I guess that's true, looking at you. You never grew up.
Nothing makes sense. Jesus.
I sit and stare at you for at least ten minutes while you try to feed me pizza and coffee, but it's too hard to move. If I never saw you again after tonight, I want to commit your face to memory. The photographs in our parents' house didn't do you justice. They never captured the warmth behind your smile. You have Dad's ears and nose, but your teeth are perfect. Those braces really did do the trick. You have a little baby fat, but it's disappearing with puberty. You remind me of Lucia, in some ways.
"Hey." I grab the hand of the waitress as she walks by and nod at you. "Can you see her?"
The waitress obviously can, judging from her withering look. "Time to pack it in and go home, sir." And quit drinking. I can read that in her face.
As the waitress flounces off, you giggle behind your hands, delighted. "Of course people can see me, silly. I'm real."
"I wasn't sure after last time. That was you in Afghanistan, wasn't it?"
You stop smiling. "Yeah, that was me. I made it so only you could see me that time."
"Why? Were you trying to make me crazy?"
You look insulted. "As if! Your friend would be scared if she saw me, too, and I had to get you to safety. I did what I had to do."
Abimana. You mean Abimana. I rub my face and pinch my cheeks. You watch me do it with the curiosity of a baby bird. "Sarah, what happened to you? You haven't aged a day."
"The Goblin King happened," you mutter bitterly.
Goblin King. The book. "What?"
You reach across the table and takes my hands in yours. "Oh, Toby, you got so big! I can't believe how big you got. I used to be able to carry you in my arms. You were as big as a football. I'm sorry I didn't get to see you grow up. I'm sorry for everything."
"Sarah," I whisper, "tell me what happened."
You rub at your eyes. Your face is red. "Magic is real, Toby. I know you don't believe me, because you're a grown-up, but it's true. And then the Goblin King took you, and I had to get you back. So I ran his Labyrinth-"
"Who's the Goblin King?"
You pull your other hand from mine and hug yourself as if the temperature's just dropped twenty degrees. "He rules the Labyrinth, Toby. That's the place where dreams come from. He's the Lord of Dreams, but if you piss him off, he'll control your nightmares. He gives you wishes, but there's always a price. He's horrible, Toby. He's like the boogeyman."
The Boogeyman. "Does he kill kids?" I ask sharply.
You frown. "Kill ...? No. He turns unwanted babies into goblins, and he takes people's souls. I think that's worse."
"So this guy took you?"
You look down at the table and fold your hands in your lap. "Yeah."
"Did he touch you?"
You look up at me. "Huh?"
I may kill someone. "Sarah, did he hurt you?" If he hurt you, I swear to God ...
"No. But he's mean. He made me stay with him in the Labyrinth. I could never come home, except sometimes when I snuck out. I've been sneaking out a lot lately. I think he's mad at me."
"How did he do this?"
You look affronted. Or maybe you think I'm being willfully obtuse. "I told you. He's the Goblin King. He can do whatever he wants."
Okay. Calm yourself, Toby. It's a minute before I realize I'm slouching in my seat, my hands covering my mouth. I'm still in shock. I force myself upright and ruffle my hair. I can do this. "Why are you here? Why now?"
If I could label the expression on your face, I'd call it devious. "I've gotten really good at sneaking back Aboveground. That's what we call the real world, down below. Anyway, I wanted to see you. It looks like you need help. Something from the Labyrinth is killing your kids."
So you knows about the murders. And you're smart enough to put two and two together. Clever, clever girl. "Sarah, I think your Goblin King might be responsible."
You purse your lips. "He's an evil man, Toby. That's the real reason I came to you. I need your help."
"You want me to get you home."
"Yes. But there's only one way to do that."
I must be dreaming again. Standing in our father's kitchen. The truth is complicated, Toby. You love me, right? We need your help. Yes. Oh, yes.
My mouth's moving without my brain. "Anything," I promise.
You beam. "I want you to kill the Goblin King."
Cars honk outside in the street. The door jingles as another customer leaves. The pizza I bought for you lies cold and untouched at your elbow. I stare. "What?"
You nod confidently. "I want you to kill the Goblin King. It's the only way for me to come home. His magic binds everything in his Labyrinth, including me."
"You want me to murder a figure from a fairytale?"
"He's real, Toby! Just as real as I am!" The people around us are glaring at your outburst, but you ignores them as if I'm the only person left alive in the whole world. "You're my brother, Toby, and you're my only hope." You start to cry, and then I feel like a jackass.
"Sarah-" I try to hold your hands again, but you won't touch me. "Sarah," I say more gently, "give me a minute to collect myself, okay? My sister returns from beyond the grave, and she's still a teenager, and she wants me to kill the King of the Faeries. It's a lot to take in." My body's still trembling so bad that I can't hold a cup of coffee.
You're wiping your eyes again. "I know. I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry."
"I'm sorry anyway."
"It's okay, honey." It's like I'm talking to a daughter. Christ, Lucia's only a few short years from turning fifteen. You look so young and vulnerable. What the hell. "So, magic is real, the Goblin King is real, and I have to get you home."
"Yes," you say in a tiny voice.
"How do you kill a Goblin King?"
"You could bind him," you suggest. "Maybe with a magic spell, or cold iron. That always worked in the stories."
"Jesus, Sarah, this isn't a fairytale."
"Isn't it?" you cry. "Everything else in the fairytales is real! Why isn't this real?"
"Okay." I bury my face in my hands. "Okay. I'll think of something. When do you have to be back?"
"Before he notices I'm gone again." You shiver at the idea.
"Okay, why don't you go-" Home. I almost say it. "-back. Is there a way for me to call you?"
"Just call my name three times, and I'll come," you murmur.
"Like Beetlejuice," I joke, but you cock your head at me like a bird, and I remember that movie came out the year after you vanished. "Never mind. Will you hear me call for you, even Underground?"
Your smile is brittle and sad. "I've always heard you, Toby. I never left you. Not really. I've been watching over you your whole life."
And then, in the space between one breath and the next, you're gone. No one else in the pizzeria sees you disappear but me.
I hurry back to the apartment, rubbing my hands together. It's coming on late October and I left my coat at home.
Jesus. Jesus Christ. I don't ... I can't ...
Sarah.
You're back.
I'm not crazy. I was never crazy.
You were always real. You never left. You were always watching out for me.
The elevator's still out, so it's my second trip up the staircase this evening. The front door is unlocked. Kimmy should have locked it behind me. Stupid. I'll need to mention this to her. Little mistakes like this get people killed. Christ, I'm shot. As soon as I get inside, I'm passing out on the couch.
But I can't, because someone else is already sitting on it.
He's blond and gaunt and pale as bone. He wears a tailored suit and black gloves. And when he smiles, his teeth are impossibly long. That there is a very wicked man. As soon as I enter the living room, the stranger smiles his terrible grin at me, as if I'm an old friend he hasn't seen in years and years. His mismatched eyes bore into me like he can see every horrible thought I'd ever had.
"Little Jareth!" he cries in obvious delight. "Or I suppose you now like to be called Detective?"