The Face of Death

rouse me (I was too busy lying on the back patio, drooling on the concrete) and she started howling. God, could she howl. Anyway, so our next-door neighbors, John and Jamie Overman, called the cops because of all the racket and because I guess they peeked over the fence and saw me drooling and thought, Hey that's kinda strange. Two coppers showed up (cheezit!), a guy named Ricky Santos and a new rookie named Cathy Jones. Cathy becomes what we call an IM- PORTANT CHARACTER in my story.

Over the years, unlike most other people, she actually gave a poopy- doody.

More on her later. That's the thirty-second recap. Now we'll head back into third-person view.

Time for another trip to the watering hole. Ready?

1-2-3: GO!

Once Upon A Time, things were totally, totally screwed. . . .

SARAH SIPPED WATER THROUGH A STRAW AND TRIED NOT TO feel tired.

A whole week had gone by. A week of floating in marshmallows because of the drugs they gave her. A week of sly voices whispering in her head. A week of pain.

One day she'd woken up and hadn't started to scream right away. That was the end of her visits to Marshmallow Land. She still had dreams, though. In those dreams, her parents were (nothing they were nothings nothing at all)

And Buster was a

(puppyhead--puppyshead?)

(nothing nothings nothing)

She woke from these dreams shivering and denying, shivering and denying.

Right now she was wide awake, though. A lady-policeman was sitting in a chair next to the bed, asking Sarah questions. The lady's name was Cathy Jones, and she seemed nice, but her questions were puzzling.

'Sarah,' she started, 'do you know why your mommy hurt your daddy?'

Sarah frowned at Cathy.

'Because The Stranger made her,' Sarah answered.

Cathy frowned. 'What Stranger, sweetheart?'

'The Stranger that killed Buster. That burned my hand. He made Mommy hurt Daddy and hurt herself too. He said he would hurt me if they didn't.'

Cathy stared at Sarah, perplexed.

'Are you saying there was someone in your house, honey? Someone that forced your mommy to do the things she did?'

Sarah nodded.

Cathy leaned back, uneasy.

What the hell?

Cathy knew that forensics had been through the Langstroms'

home and that they hadn't found anything to point away from a murder-suicide. There was a note from the mother that said: I'm sorry, take care of Sarah. There was the fact that Linda's prints were found in a number of damning places, notably the hacksaw that beheaded the dog, her husband's neck, and the gun she'd used to shoot herself. There was also the matter of the antidepressants the mother appeared to have been taking, no sign of forced entry, Sarah being left alive--if it looked like a dog and barked like a dog . . . Cathy had been asked by the detectives in charge to get a statement from Sarah for corroboration. A loose end, nothing more.

So what do I do here?

Ricky's voice came to her.

Just take the statement. That's what you're here for. Take it, give it to the de- tectives, and move on. The rest of it is not your problem.

'Tell me everything you remember, Sarah.'

Sarah watched the lady-policeman walk out of her room. She doesn't believe you.

It was something Sarah had become aware of about halfway through her story. Adults thought kids didn't know anything. They were wrong. Sarah knew when she was being humored. Cathy was nice, but Cathy didn't believe her about The Stranger. Sarah frowned to herself. No, that wasn't quite right. It's that she seemed . . . what?

Sarah puzzled over the nuances for a moment.

It's like she doesn't think I'm lying--but she doesn't think that what I'm saying is true.

Like I'm crazy.

Sarah leaned back in the hospital bed and closed her eyes. She felt the pain riding in like dark horses. The horses, they'd gallop into her soul and rear and scream, their hoofs sending black sparks flying off her heart.

Sometimes the pain she felt had clarity. It wasn't a dull ache, or a background noise. It was a ragged wound, nerve endings, and fire. It was a blackness that swept over her and made her think about dying. In those moments, she'd lie in her bed in the dark and would try to get her heart to stop beating. Mommy had told her a story about this once. About wise men in ancient China who could dig an open grave, sit next to it, and will themselves to die. Their hearts would stop and they'd topple forward into the waiting dirt.

Sarah tried to do this, but no matter how much she concentrated, how hard she wished, she couldn't die. She kept on breathing and her heart kept on beating and--worst of all--she kept on hurting. It was a pain that wouldn't go away, that wouldn't lessen or subside. She couldn't die, so she'd curl up in her bed and cry without making noise. Cry and cry and cry, for hours. Cry because she understood now, understood that Mommy and Daddy and Buster were gone, and they weren't coming back. Not ever.

After the grief came the anger and shame.

You're six! Stop being such a crybaby!

She didn't have an adult there to tell her that being six meant it was still okay to cry, so she curled up in the dark and tried to die and wept and berated herself for every tear.

Cathy not believing her, Cathy thinking she was a cuckoo-bird, brought a new kind of pain.

It made her sad and angry. Most of all, she felt alone. A

Cathy sat in the patrol car and looked out the window. Her partner, Ricky Santos, was downing a milk shake as he gave her the once-over.

'Kid's story bothering you?' he asked.

'Yeah. Any way you slice it, it's bad news. If we're right, she's crazy. If we're wrong, she's in danger.'

Ricky sucked on his straw and contemplated the insides of his sunglasses.

'You gotta let it go, partner. That's how it works for us uniforms. We don't get to follow things through to the end, not very often. We parachute in, secure things, turn it over to detectives. In, out, clean. You carry things around when you're not in a position to do anything about them, you're gonna go crazy. Why cops end up drunks, or at the wrong end of their revolvers.'

Cathy turned to him.

'So you're saying--what? Don't give a shit?'

Santos smiled at her, a sad smile.

'Care while it's your problem. That's what I'm saying. You're gonna see a hundred Sarahs. Maybe more. Do the right thing for them while it's your job, and then let it go and move on to the next one. It's a war of attrition, Jones. Not a single battle.'

'Maybe,' she said.

But I bet you have a case you could never let go of. I think Sarah's going to be mine.

Saying it to herself made Cathy feel better.

Mine.

'I'll be right back,' Cathy said.

Santos looked at her. He was inscrutable. A sphinx in shades.

'Okay,' he replied, and sucked on his straw.