Abandoned

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The day is California-perfect. The sky is blue from horizon to horizon, and the sun shines down with a gentle warmth. It’s a day for T-shirts and blue jeans, sunglasses optional. Parents and surfers alike will be looking at this day and thinking about the weekend, hoping that this honey keeps on falling from the sky.

We’re on the way to see Douglas Hollister, and I’m excited about it. Not the excited of a kid going to the comic book store, but the excited of a meat-eater getting ready for a live meal.

I have developed a picture of Heather Hollister. Like me, she lost a parent early in her life. Like me, she was called to this job. To being a cop. Our reasons were different; she wanted justice for the world in exchange for the lack of justice for her father, whereas I was lured by an inner siren song.

By all accounts she was very good at her job. She hadn’t let her obsession destroy her. She found time to marry, to have children, and to care for the victims she ran across as a detective.

Now she’s lost her husband and her children. The life she knew is gone. Our stories couldn’t be more different and yet the same.

I feel a kinship for her that’s put an ache inside me, a longing that I recognize. It comes when empathy with a victim crystallizes to a painful, sharp-edged clarity. I care about every corpse that becomes my responsibility. Each was a life, replete with hopes, dreams, boredom, laughter, tears, day to day. I know this about them all, but with some, I can see it like I can see the hills next to the highway through the window as Alan drives.

Paul Rhodes is a writer I like a lot. He can be a little uneven at times, but there was a passage he wrote in one of his books that summed up this idea for me, this encapsulation of the uniqueness that each of us exists as, even though the stories of our lives are the same stories that have rolled on forever:

Every man thinks his dream deserves worship. It came from him, him, there is no other him; thus, it must be unique.

God says (in a booming, wrathful, surround sound voice, fit to shake the rafters of the world): FOLLY!

And man trembles.

God hunkers down in his white robes and puts an arm around man’s shoulders. It’s an ineffable embrace, of course; mother’s milk, father’s thunder, joy to build the world.

God says (not unkindly), Now that I’ve got your attention, listen up:

Every dream has been dreamt before, a thousand by ten thousand times. Those desires you deem unique have been attached to a million dreamers before you. They woke each day to wage the wage-war, to fight for survival for themselves and those they loved; to don a good suit, to drink a rich wine, to find themselves sweating that evening in the clutches of someone beautiful. The dream is never new, my son. Only the dreamer.

God smiles the sunrise.

Oh man, sweet child, how I love your folly.

They say any idiot can have a child, and that’s true. The biology is the same. The outline of the story is the same. But the real truth is, none of them is the same. People make every story different. Only the world-weary really believe otherwise.

Tommy and Bonnie will never be Matt and Alexa. That’s okay. They are themselves. They are the same idea when viewed from a distance, but listen closer and you hear it: Both songs are sung in a different tone, both are rich and beautiful, both are extraordinarily themselves.

I see Heather this way now. I perceive her not as a female victim with some similarities to myself but as a unique individual who added more to this world than she took away. I believe that her husband, Douglas Hollister, murdered not her body but her life.

We’re on our way to see this man, and I’m hoping that our visit brings him sorrow.

“You think Burns will keep his cool?” Alan asks.

I turn my gaze from the passing hillside and my thoughts of Douglas Hollister’s doom.

“What’s that?”

“Burns. He seems a little amped up. I’m worried.”

It was true. Burns was practically licking his chops, just thinking about biting a nice big juicy metaphorical chunk out of Douglas Hollister.

“I think he’ll be okay. He’s been a cop for too long. It’s not like he’s going to kill Hollister right in front of us.”

Alan slides a look at me, then back to the road. “You hope,” he says.

Or maybe I don’t, I think but do not share with him.

Douglas Hollister lives in Woodland Hills, in a nice, newer two-story. The exterior is an off-white faux-adobe, with light wood accents at the windows. The front yard has a single adolescent tree. The rest is green grass, cut short. Attractive, cute even, but unimaginative. It has the look of any of a thousand homes that were thrown up during the housing boom. Hollister’s been here with his new wife, Dana, for only three years, so I’d guess they bought at the height of the market.

“What do you think about Dana Hollister?” I’d asked Burns.

“I think she’s clueless and that she loves the guy,” he replied, echoing our thoughts when we’d first viewed the black-and-white photograph of them coming out of the hotel room. “She cheated with him, so I hold that against her, but she always struck me as not being the sharpest knife in the drawer. Dumb more than malicious.”

He filled us in on the other facts. Dana Hollister had worked in real estate for a few years, a career she started not long after she and Douglas met. She’d done okay but had quit a year ago, after the housing bubble burst. Now she was trying to start up her own business.

“Keepsake store or something like that,” Burns said. He checked his watch. “She should be there now. She’s open every day, as a matter of fact. Hardworking, I’ll give her that.”

“You still keep pretty close tabs on them, then?” Alan asked.

“’Til he’s suffering in prison,” Burns had replied, his voice as flat as a machine.

Alan parks next to the curb in front of the house, pulling up so that Burns can ease in behind us. I notice a white Honda Accord in the driveway. We climb out and I wince at the sudden cold turn the air has taken during the short drive. February in Southern California remains capricious, as always.

“How do you want to work this?” Burns asks, coming up to us.

“He’s already going to be on his guard when he sees you,” I say to him. “That’s good. I’ll introduce us, and Alan and I will show him our FBI credentials. That should make him even more nervous. After that we’ll let Alan run things.”

Burns squints at Alan. “I heard rumors about you. You’re supposed to be some kind of ass-kicker when it comes to interrogation.”

Alan shrugs. “It’s all just science, really. Body language, eye movements. Anyone can learn it.”

“Anyone can play golf too,” Burns says, “but there’s only one Tiger Woods.”

“Putting him on the defensive is good,” Alan says, “but our vocal tones need to be soothing. Body language, nonconfrontational. Like we’re coming to give him some bad news, not as if we think he’s any kind of a suspect.” He glances at Burns. “You think you can handle that?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll try to look contrite.”

“Good. We get him to let us in. I’ll do all the talking. Let me sit closest to him. I need to be able to watch him when I tell him that his wife is alive. The most important reaction is the one he has right after I deliver the news.”

We walk up to the door. It’s a simple gray concrete walkway. The driveway, I notice now, had been redone. Laid with brick or something like that. A number of the houses in my neighborhood have done something similar, but I hate the look. Paint your house, plant a tree, put in a beautiful garden. Driveways? They’re for getting your car from the garage to the street.

“Let me knock,” Alan says.

He raises a huge fist and pounds the door so hard it shocks me a little, and I was half expecting it. He waits a moment, winks at me and Burns, and then knocks again, practically bending the door inward.

More time passes than I would have expected. I’m watching the front windows; no one’s pulled back a curtain to see who’s knocking. I have no sense of anyone staring through the peephole.

Alan shrugs. “Nothing to do but knock again.”

I brace myself as I see him getting ready to really lean into it. He hammers the door so hard I almost laugh out loud, except that none of this is funny.

Alan lifts his fist again, but Burns holds his hand up. “Wait. You hear that?”

I don’t hear anything, but maybe Burns has bat ears. Then I hear it. The soft swish swish sound of socks against a wood floor. We all straighten. The sound stops and the peephole darkens.

“Yes?” It’s a man’s voice.

Alan glances at me. We want to make him nervous, but later, after he’s let us into the house. A woman’s voice will be better for now.

“Mr. Hollister?” I ask.

“Yes?”

“I’m Special Agent Smoky Barrett, from the FBI. We need to talk to you, sir.”

A long pause.

“Sir?” I query.

More silence. Then:

“Hang on.”

We hear the deadbolt turn. The door opens and Douglas Hollister stands before us. He has some gray in his hair now, and weight has settled into his face and around his middle, but not too much. If anything, he looks more fit than in the hotel photo. Perhaps, before today, he looked happier too.

But not right now.

Right now he reminds me of Al Pacino in Scarface. He looks like he just buried his head in a gigantic pile of pure cocaine and breathed deep. His eyes bounce from me to Alan to Burns, then back to me. There are bags under those eyes. He’s unshaven and, from the brief scent I catch, unbathed as well. I glance down and see something stranger: One of his feet is missing a sock.

He smiles, but it’s a parody, something hideous, as though it had been commanded at gunpoint.

“Can I help you?” he asks, his voice squeaking a little. He clears his throat, gives us the death’s head grimace again. “Sorry. Can I help you?” A little better this time, but he’s started to sweat. A line of small, fine beads has formed at the hairline.

I show him my ID, as does Alan. “My partner, Alan Washington. And you know Detective Burns.”

The slightest hint of a new emotion breaks through the barely suppressed terror. It shows only in his eyes, and only for a moment, but I catch it before it’s gone. Resentment, a brief petulance, the this is all your fault of a four-year-old child.

“What’s this about?” he asks, turning his attention back to me.

“We have some important news, sir. May we come in? I’d prefer if you were sitting down for this.”

His eyes widen, and he wrings his hands. For some reason, it seems contrived. “Is it Dana? Did something happen to her?”

I reassure him with my reassuring smile, well honed. “No, sir. Can we come in?”

The nonthreatening and deferential manner of my approach seems to be working. He’s relaxed a little. He runs a hand through hair that’s probably needed to be washed for days. “Sure. Sorry. Of course.” He steps aside so we can enter, which we do. “I’m a little out of it. I’ve been ill and I was napping. I thought the pounding on the door was from a dream.”

“Sorry about that, sir,” I say, giving him my “shrug” smile, the one that says, What can you do? “It’s a habit we develop. You see, if we knock hard enough and no one answers, we can assume they’re either hurt or dead or possibly drugged.” I’m making this up on the spot, but right now it’s all about feeding Alan’s observation machine. I know he’s watching every tic and eye movement Hollister makes.

Hollister stares at me, taking in the idea of needing to learn to knock hard enough to determine if someone’s dead or just sleeping. “Wow,” he says.

“Where can we talk, sir?” I ask, prodding him gently.

“This way,” he says, turning and walking toward the back of the house.

We follow, and I take in the surrounds. It’s a beautiful home in that SoCal way. Light-hardwood floors polished to a mirror sheen. Vaulted ceilings with no acoustic popcorn. Recessed lighting. A stairway with wood railing and beige carpeting leads up to a second floor. It’s a big house. I’d guess five bedrooms. Probably three up top, including the master, and two downstairs. Nice.

We pass the kitchen, which is spacious and gleaming; granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances shine. It’s not cold, though, I notice. There are knickknacks and plants and mismatched doilies. It’s not the kitchen of a neat freak. The refrigerator door is covered with various things held down by various magnets. A God Bless This Home plaque hangs on the wall.

We reach the living room, which matches the rest of the house. A fifty-inch plasma TV faces a large sectional couch. I see an Xbox and a stack of games. A DVD shelf is filled with DVDs stored in agreeable disarray. A fine layer of dust covers the coffee table, probably three or four days’ worth.

I recognize this house. It’s the home of busy people, doing their best to balance time in the fight against entropy, and not doing a bad job. Sloppy imperfection is everywhere, but it never overwhelms, and the place is never dirty. I find the same thing every night when I get back to my own house.

Hollister indicates that we should sit on the couch. Alan puts himself in the position closest to Hollister. Burns sits next to him. I stay standing. Nothing like a little unevenness to keep things uncomfortable.

I glance into the backyard as Alan begins speaking. It’s a big backyard, devoid of trees but filled with lush green grass.

“Something happened yesterday, Mr. Hollister,” Alan says. “Do you remember what day your first wife went missing?”

“Heather?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hollister thinks about it, still sweating away. “Um … let’s see. It was after her cardio class. Middle of the week. Wednesday. Yes. Wednesday. Why?”

“Where were you at the time?”

A flash of anger passes over Hollister’s face, but he answers without hesitation. This is solid ground for him. “I was at home.”

“What were you doing at the time?”

Hollister’s quiet, remembering. “I was watching a movie. My sons were asleep. I was watching … Dirty Harry.”

Alan smiles. “Clint. My man. What’s your opinion? You think he was better as an actor or a director?”

Burns gives me a sideways look. I ignore him. He doesn’t know what Alan’s up to. I do.

Hollister seems as mystified but answers. “I think he’s better as a director. I love the Dirty Harry movies and the westerns, but he really came into his own as a director.”

“I agree. Which do you think is his best movie? As a director, I mean?”

Hollister considers it. Of course, the fact that he’s answering any of these questions at all makes me almost certain he’s guilty. The guilty, when confronted with an interrogation situation, jump at any chance to bond. They think being friendly will make us trust them more. Hollister is too desperate to be liked by Alan to wonder why the subject is Clint Eastwood.

“Mystic River, I guess.”

“Your wife Heather was found alive.” Alan shifts gears without bothering to acknowledge Hollister’s answer.

You could hear a pin drop. Hollister stares at Alan. He swallows once, a huge, nervous gulping, like a gagging fish. “She was found?” he finally says. “W-where?”

I frown. Found? Not found alive? Odd choice of words.

“She was pushed out of a car into a hotel parking lot. My colleagues and I were attending a wedding there. We think he chose that location because of its proximity to a large group of law enforcement.”

“Large group? What do you mean?”

Again, Hollister’s questions are very, very strange.

“Almost everyone attending was either FBI or LAPD.”

Hollister looks away. His eyes find me and then dart in another direction. He’s sweating more profusely now. I peer closer. Sweat stains have actually appeared on the underarms of his shirt.

“Wow,” he manages. “I don’t know what to say. This is kind of shocking.”

Kind of?

He points a finger at Burns, and his face twists in righteous indignation. “See! I told you I didn’t kill her. You kept persecuting me, but she’s alive. She’s fine.”

My mouth almost falls open. “I wouldn’t say she’s fine, sir. We think she’s been held in isolation for eight years. She’s in a psychotic state. Fine? I’m not sure that’s the best selection of words.”

I sense Alan’s eyes on me, warning me off. I rein myself in.

“You’re right,” Hollister says, holding a hand up in commiseration. “I’m sorry. I feel like a pinball in a pinball machine right now. It’s just …” He puts his hands together between his knees and looks down at them. “Eight years is a long time. When Heather disappeared, it nearly killed me. Then I was accused of being the one responsible for her disappearance and maybe her murder.” He looks at Burns. “I know you were just doing your job. I apologize for my outburst.”

“No problem,” Burns says, playing along, though I can sense his tenseness.

“Where is she?” he asks. “Is she injured? Can I see her?”

All the questions now that he should have asked from the start.

“She’s still being examined,” Alan says. “So far, she doesn’t show any signs of permanent physical harm, but her mental state is another matter. The doctors would prefer that she have no visitors right now.”

I’m always amazed at how simply Alan can change his mode of speaking. In normal situations, he’s very easygoing. A little bit of slang at times, a peppering of profanity. Man on the street. Now he sounds so formal, almost stilted.

“I understand,” Hollister says, agreeing a little too quickly for my taste. “Do you have any idea yet? About who might have done this to her?”

This is the question he really wants answered. Alan waits, letting the pause hang a little too long as he stares at Hollister. “No,” he finally says. “I’m afraid not. We’re hopeful that Ms. Hollister can shed some light on things when she is ready to start talking again. If she’s ever ready.”

Hollister leans forward, ever so slightly. It’s an almost imperceptible eagerness. “And?” he asks. “Do you think she’ll ever be ready?”

God, I marvel. Either this guy is the world’s worst liar or he’s still too shook up to get his bearings.

Again, that too-long pause from Alan. He lets it go long enough now that one of Hollister’s eyes twitches with tension. “That’s an unknown at the moment, I’m afraid.”

“I see,” Hollister replies. He smiles again, that awful, desperate grin. “Does anyone want a beer?” he asks. “I sure could use a beer!”

It’s utterly incongruous. Alan takes it in stride.

“We can’t, sir, but thank you. We’re almost done with what we came to find out—I mean, to do here. If I could just ask you to be patient a little while longer.”

Alan’s “slip of the tongue” was anything but. Hollister’s eye twitches again at the words find out.

“Uh, okay,” he says, staring at Alan. His mouth sounds as though it’s filled with cotton, overdry.

“Is there anything you can think of that might help us, sir? Heather’s reappearance is obviously a new development. Has anything happened in your life recently that might correspond to that? Has anyone contacted you, emailed you, left strange messages?”

“No, nothing like that,” Hollister says.

“Anything at all you can think of?”

“No, I’m afraid not. That’s the strange thing. Three days ago, everything was like it always is. Now everything has changed.”

This is the truth. I can hear it in his voice. The problem is, again, in his choice of words. Three days ago is too long a window. Heather showed up yesterday.

Alan nods in sympathy. “That’s how it goes sometimes,” he says. “Sometimes we’re sure we have all the bases covered, and then we make a mistake.”

“Uh-huh,” Hollister agrees, staring at Alan with a kind of dreadful fascination.

“Mr. Hollister, you have two sons, don’t you?”

“Yes. Avery and Dylan.”

“How do you think they’re going to react to this?”

“I have no idea.” Douglas Hollister’s affect has changed. His eyes have gone colder. His voice is flat. Why?

Alan’s picked up on this as well. “Mr. Hollister, where are Avery and Dylan right now?”

“At a friend’s.”

Alan stares at the man and I know something is up. For the first time since we’ve arrived, he breaks eye contact with Hollister. He looks at me. He is very, very troubled. He turns back to Hollister. “Let me just confer with my boss for a few moments, sir, and then we should be out of your hair. You and Detective Burns can catch up in the meantime.”

Hollister eyes Burns dubiously. “Yeah. Sure.”

Alan gets up and walks me into the kitchen. “We have a problem,” he says. “What?”

“He’s lying about Avery and Dylan being at a friend’s. Why? Who needs to lie about where their kids are?”

I’m slow to arrive at the answer he wants, but when I do, I freeze. “You think they’re here?”

Alan is quiet for a moment. “I think it’s a possibility, which is not good. Hollister’s obviously off the deep end. Something or someone’s got him bugalooed. Last time I saw behavior like this with a suspect while questioning him in his home, it turned out he’d killed his wife just before we arrived. Took a long time to answer the door, just like Hollister. Know why?”

“He was hiding the body?”

“Close. He was washing the blood off his hands. The body was stuffed behind the couch while we were interviewing him.”

“Jesus.” I feel my hackles go up at the pure creepiness of this. “What do you want to do?”

I focus my attention on Hollister, who’s holding up his end of a terse conversation with Burns. Probable cause is the name of the game. He invited us into his home, but we’re not here on a warrant. Evidence we can use is limited to what we can actually see.

“It’s time to turn up the heat,” I tell Alan. “We don’t have a legal reason, yet, to search his home. If we do it anyway, we run the risk of whatever we find being inadmissible. Somehow, we need to crack him here and now.”

“And if we don’t?”

I study Alan. “What’s your gut? Are the boys alive or dead?”

“Dead.” He says it without hesitation. “He emptied out when I brought up Avery and Dylan.”

“If you don’t break him, I’ll think of something.”

Alan cracks his knuckles, watching Hollister again. “I think the direct approach is the one to take at this point.” His voice is thoughtful. “I’ll start by explaining neurolinguistics to him. Then we’ll see.”

We head back out to the living room. Alan takes his seat again. I remain standing.

“Sorry about that,” Alan says.

“No problem,” Hollister replies. He looks relieved not to have to continue his conversation with Burns.

“I want to talk to you about neurolinguistic interviewing, Mr. Hollister.”

Hollister frowns. “Neuro what?”

“Neurolinguistic interviewing. There’s a lot of technical jargon, but I’ll simplify it for you. It’s a way of finding out when someone you are interviewing is using their cognitive process and when they’re remembering something. By cognitive process, I mean thinking. Creating an answer to a problem. Like, when I asked you earlier what movie was Eastwood’s best directing effort, you had to review the movies you’d seen and then come up with an answer based on the data you have. You follow?”

“I guess.”

“When you remember something, you don’t have to use the cognitive process. It’s a memory. You have to locate it. We access different parts of the brain for each function, and we have specific physiological reactions when we do that.” He leans forward. “It’s in the eyes.”

The tic in Hollister’s own eye starts again. “The eyes?” he repeats, somewhat moronically.

Alan nods. “Yes, sir. Most people, when they are remembering something, look up and to the right. When they’re solving a problem, they generally look down and to the left. It varies, but you ask each kind of question and establish a baseline. You know why?”

“So you can tell when they’re lying,” Hollister whispers, hollow-eyed and dreadful again.

“That’s right. If you ask them for a memory, and they access the cognitive function of their brain, that means they’re lying. When I asked you to remember what day your wife was abducted, for example, you weren’t lying. You were remembering.” He shrugs. “There’re other indicators, of course. Nervousness is an obvious one.” Alan smiles. “You were already nervous and sweating like a pig when we arrived. You said you were sick and napping, but I don’t think so.”

Hollister says nothing. He’s turned into the bird. Alan is the cobra.

“Here’s the thing I’m really concerned about, Mr. Hollister.” Alan moves closer, parting Hollister’s knees with one of his own, creating an unconscious threat to his manhood. “When I asked you about your sons? When I asked where Avery and Dylan are? You lied to me. I could see it. And that bothers me—us—Mr. Hollister. Why would you need to lie about the location of your sons?”

Hollister’s eyes have gone wide. His mouth is hanging open, though I doubt he realizes it. He’s falling apart right in front of us.

“We’re also trained to keep an eye on what we call ‘affect,’ Mr. Hollister. Do you know what that is? Roughly, it’s the observable effects of someone experiencing a particular emotion or emotions. You can have a bored affect, a sad affect, so on.” He moves in even closer, pushing his knee in further. It’s now only an inch or two away from Hollister’s crotch.

Hollister farts, once. He’s unaware of it. It’s a small toot, but it’s telling. You see this, and sometimes belching, in a highly skilled interrogation. The person doesn’t even have to be guilty. It’s a physiological reaction of fear.

“Your affect when I asked you about your sons went from fearful to a near total absence of emotion. Do you know who I see that kind of reaction in the most?” He cranes his neck forward, so that his nose is almost touching Hollister’s. “I see it in murderers.”

“Gahhh …” Hollister says.

He is shattering now. Most people have no idea how devastating an interrogation can be. Men have fainted dead away when faced with nothing more than an accusation and a badge.

“Jesus, he’s wetting himself,” Burns mutters.

I see the stain spreading before the smell reaches my nose. Alan doesn’t move.

“Where are Avery and Dylan’s bodies, sir?” Alan asks.

Hollister doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have the presence of mind for words. He extends his arm and he points. Upstairs.

I waste no time. I leave Douglas Hollister to Alan and Burns and I race up the beige-carpeted stairwell to the second floor. The lights are on in the upstairs hallway. The walls are white and covered in a patchwork of framed and carefully hung photos. I was wrong about the bedrooms. I see only two here: the double door of a master, and then a single door on the right at the end of the hallway. The other is a bathroom; I can tell because it’s open.

I begin with the master. I open the door and am hit with the faint odor of feces. I curl my nose and pull my gun and enter. It’s an unimaginative but entirely acceptable room. A ceiling fan hangs above a king-size bed. There’s a dark-blue accent wall, but the rest is white. All the furniture is wood, neither too old nor too new.

I’m never going to look at beige the same way again.

The humor doesn’t dispel the willies, and I almost fire my weapon when I hear the sound. It’s a snort, followed by a wet smacking noise. It’s coming from the master bathroom. I take a breath and clear my mind and head toward it. I reach the door, which is cracked, and I open it.

I see Avery and Dylan Hollister right away. I had expected it, but still, my heart sinks. The floor of the bathroom is carpeted with a thick shag, all the way up to the separate tub and shower. One of the boys is lying on his side, his face turned in to the carpet so that only the back of his head and his ears are visible. There is bruising around his neck. The other lies faceup, on his back, his eyes closed and his mouth open. I kneel down and check for a pulse on the first boy, hoping but not really expecting to find one. Nothing.

The smacking sounds start up again, bringing me to my feet, gun raised. They’re coming from the bathtub, which is a deep whirlpool tub. I inch over to it. I can see what I know to be a body bag inside the tub. A white tube sticks out of the bag. Suddenly the bag moves and a wet, gargling noise comes from it.

I holster my gun and climb inside the tub without thinking twice. My hands are shaking as I undo the zipper. The smell of feces is strong, but I ignore it. All I can think of is that someone’s alive inside there, maybe injured, and time’s an enemy. I push the flaps of the bag open and a horrible odor wafts out. I look down at the woman inside and I can feel the blood draining from my face. I feel dizzy for a moment.

I sit down on the edge of the tub. I want to call for Alan, but I seem to have lost my voice. All I can do is stare.

It’s Dana Hollister; I recognize her from the black-and-white photograph. She’s nude. Her eyes are empty and they stare into nothing, and her open mouth yaws, hungering at the level of instinct only, the plastic tube falling out and away.

“Dana?” I whisper.

No reply. She continues to stare without seeing. Drool runs freely from her mouth, and everything about her is a slackness and a void. Something terrible moves through me, a mix of grief and rage and misery. I kneel down next to her and open the bag farther. I don’t care about the smell. I just want to touch her, so she knows she’s not alone, if there’s anything in her that is still aware. I reach into the bag and grab her hand. I cradle it in one of mine, and I reach out and stroke her forehead. There is no reaction. Her mouth opens and closes once, that smacking sound.

I notice a hole above her eye but within the socket, and a single full-body shiver rocks me.

Is that what I think it is? It’s something I’ve seen before.

When the other boy—the one I hadn’t checked yet because Dana had surprised me—cries out softly, I almost fall backward off the tub in sheer terror. I recover, and I crawl over to him and feel for a pulse. I find it, weak and thready but there. He coughs twice, and his eyes flutter.

“Alan!” I yell. “Get up here, please! Right now!”

I wait until I hear the heavy thuds of his shoes on the stairs, and then I let myself weep a little. Grief, anxiety, fear. I cradle the boy in my arms and thank God for his moans. They mean he is alive. Dana Hollister grunts once. The other child stares into the carpet with sightless eyes.

What we do is primordial.