Dead End
Thirteen homes were scattered along Woodvale Lane, only twelve of which were inhabited. The remaining one, frequently referred to as "the old McCauley place," had been abandoned for more than two decades. Set back from the road, the dilapidated two-story structure could barely be seen from the street. It was as though it were hiding in the wild, overgrown landscape. Had the home been located on a busier street, no doubt the public would have protested to town officials and petitioned to have it torn down. However, few people ever drove past the eyesore. You see, Woodvale Lane was a dead end.
The dead end was not to be confused with the cul-de-sacs found in the more fashionable parts of town. These paved roads, which had streetlights and sidewalks, ended in large round circles so drivers could reverse direction without having to make tight three-point turns. In comparison, Woodvale Lane, a pothole-infested dirt road, came to an abrupt end at its border with the heavily wooded, state-protected game lands.
Although the houses on Woodvale were quite large, they were vestiges from a bygone era. They once belonged to the town's elite but were now in need of repair. Some required only a fresh coat of paint, whereas others needed a new roof, were missing a shutter or had a broken window pane. The lawns were unkempt; the grass was infrequently mowed, shrubs were not trimmed, weeds were not pulled and flowers had long since died.
Despite the street's reputation of being "on the other side of the tracks," the dead end was popular with many youngsters. Boys as young as eight or nine proved their mettle by walking its full length on dark, moonless nights without the benefit of a flashlight. Teenage boys often brought their girlfriends there for romantic trysts. Every year when scout troops volunteered to clear away trash and litter from the town's thoroughfares, they brought extra plastic bags to haul away the cigarette butts, empty beer bottles and cans, junk food wrappers, and used condoms found on the dead end.
It was the proximity to the game lands rather than the old houses along the road that evoked a sense of fear and mystery in the community's younger citizens. Nicknamed "the Forest of No Return," it was the site of the town's most puzzling mystery. Back in October of 1972, six-year-old Billy Sugrue went missing. Although the boy was last seen trick-or-treating on Schuyler Street, which was more than a mile away from Woodvale Lane, the mask from his Halloween costume was discovered where the road ended and the woods began.
A search party, consisting of local and state police as well as civilian volunteers, scoured the game lands for more than a week, but the boy was never found. Perversely, the prospect of meeting the same tragic end as the missing child made Woodvale Lane even more appealing to the foolhardy and reckless youngsters. Few could resist the lure of the unexplained, and even fewer were willing to refuse a dare and appear a coward in their peers' eyes.
Thus, for half a century, both the dead end and the Forest of No Return continued to fascinate the town's youth. The story of the missing six-year-old eventually became the cautionary tale parents relied on to keep their children safe. Few people knew what the boy looked like anymore, where he lived or who his family was. Some people doubted he ever existed and considered his disappearance nothing more than an urban legend.
All that was to change on Halloween of 2022: the day Billy Sugrue was finally found, fifty years to the day after he went missing!
* * *
At twelve years old, Roberto Cironi might be considered too old to go trick-or-treating; however, he and his friend Sal Lucci wanted one more night of free goodies before leaving behind their childhood and becoming teenagers.
"I'm starting out extra early this year," Roberto announced as the two boys walked home from school. "And I'm gonna stay out until nine. I wanna make up for the two years they canceled trick-or-treating because of COVID."
Although neither of the boys lived near Woodvale Lane, visiting the dead end on Halloween was a must. Rain or shine, children flocked to the notorious road every October 31. That year was no exception. Roberto, wearing the Pennywise costume his mother purchased online from Spirit Halloween, led the way.
"We'll go to Woodvale first, before any of the houses there run out of candy."
Despite leaving their homes while it was still daylight, the sun had set by the time they arrived at their destination. So as not to put a drain on his cell phone's battery by using the flashlight app, the seventh-grader carried his parents' Coleman camping lantern to light the way. When the boys turned the corner of Veterans Street and Woodvale, they saw the road was teeming with trick-or-treaters who had gotten there ahead of them. Roberto and Sal quickly visited the twelve inhabited homes, getting an assortment of snack-size Snickers, M&M's, Skittles, Laffy Taffy and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.
"Where to now?" Sal asked.
"Let's walk to the end of the road," Roberto suggested.
"Why? No one lives there. Let's go get more candy."
"We will. But first, I wanna see the Forest of No Return and the old McCauley place."
The two boys separated from the crowd of trick-or-treaters and walked down the uninhabited end of the dirt road toward the abandoned house. As they neared the woods, they saw a lone figure standing at the terminus of Woodvale Lane. Neither of them knew who he was. Judging by his small size, he was much younger than they were.
"Hey, are you lost?" Roberto called to him.
The child in the vintage Deputy Dawg costume did not answer.
"Are you here by yourself? Where are your friends?"
When he still did not receive a response, the twelve-year-old took out his cell phone and called the police. He and Sal then remained with the young boy until the patrol car got there.
"What's your name, son?" Officer Ollie Dunlap inquired as he reached out his hand and removed the child's mask.
"Billy," the boy replied in a barely audible whisper.
"Billy what?"
When the child repeated his first name, Ollie assumed that the boy was developmentally challenged.
"Why don't you come with me?" Ollie said, leading the child to his car.
Trusting the police officer to see that the young boy got home safely, Roberto and Sal walked back to Veterans Street. It was early yet, and they had many more houses to visit and candy to collect before the night came to an end.
* * *
"Is that the kid you found out on Woodvale Lane?" asked Lincoln Ostler, the aging desk sergeant, who was two months shy of retiring from the force.
"Yeah. He says his name is Billy," Officer Dunlap answered.
Sgt. Ostler took a good look at the youngster, and his face reddened with anger.
"Is this some kind of sick joke?" he demanded to know.
The twenty-seven-year-old patrolman stared back at him with a confused look.
"No. Why? What's wrong?"
"Come here, son," Lincoln said, ignoring Ollie's question. "What's your name?"
"Billy."
"I want to know your real name."
"Billy," he repeated.
"And where did you get this costume? It's Deputy Dawg, isn't it?"
The child solemnly nodded his head.
"Any parents call the station to report a missing kid?" Officer Dunlap asked.
"Enough is enough," Lincoln told him. "Take this boy home."
"I would if I knew where he lived, but he won't even tell me his last name."
"Quit pulling my leg or I'll report you to the chief."
"I'm not joking around."
"You're telling me you actually found this kid on Woodvale Lane, dressed the way he is?"
"Yes. So, he's wearing an old costume. What's the big deal?"
Sgt. Ostler brought up a file on his computer and angled the monitor so that the young officer could read it.
"Missing child," Ollie read aloud. "Billy Sugrue, six years old, last seen at on Schuyler Street, wearing a Deputy Dawg costume. Halloween mask was later found on Woodvale Lane."
"That's him!" the patrolman cried with excitement. "I bet his parents will be relieved to learn that he's unharmed."
"Did you look at the date of the report?" the desk sergeant asked.
"November 1, 1972? That's impossible!"
"Billy Sugrue went missing on Halloween night—fifty years ago. Now, do you still expect me to believe you found that little kid out on Woodvale Lane?"
* * *
Georges LeMat handed out the last of the two-ounce-size bags of Wise potato chips and turned off the light above his front door.
"That's it. Everything is gone," the sixty-year-old French Canadian announced in a voice that sounded like a bad imitation of Maurice Chevalier.
"Good," his wife, Bridget, declared. "I hate Halloween."
"I suppose if I were you, I'd feel the same way. Why don't I make us both a cup of hot cocoa?"
"I'd rather have a glass of wine if it's all the same to you."
"Fine. I think we still have that bottle of Pink Catawba in the fridge."
"I'll get it. Why don't you start a fire?"
Bridget opened the drawer and was looking through the accumulation of cooking utensils for the corkscrew when the doorbell rang. A few minutes later, her husband ushered an unknown, middle-aged man into the kitchen.
"Mrs. LeMat?"
"Yes?"
"I'm Detective Nat Munsey. I've got some rather startling news for you."
"What is it?"
"We found your brother—at least we believe it's your brother."
"You've found his body after all this time? Where?"
"He's not dead; he's alive."
"Really? What happened to him? Where has he been?"
"As I said, we believe it's your brother. He said his name was Billy, and he fits the description in our records, but ...."
"But what?" Bridget asked impatiently.
"If he is your brother, then he hasn't aged. He's still a little boy."
"You're right. I don't believe it."
"What has the child told you?" Georges asked.
"Nothing. All we've been able to get out of him is his first name. The doctors say he's suffering from some form of traumatic shock."
"I don't know who you found, but it's obviously not my brother," Bridget insisted. "Billy would be fifty-six years old now."
"A simple buccal swab to compare your DNA ...."
"No!" she cried.
"Don't you want to know the truth?"
"I already know it. My brother is dead and has been for fifty years. His body is out there somewhere, probably buried in an unmarked grave on Woodvale Lane or in the Forest of No Return."
Georges, who had always been able to make his wife see reason, stepped in.
"Think of the child," he said. "He may not be your brother, but he is someone's son. If the test confirms his DNA does not match yours, the police can then concentrate on learning his true identity and returning him to his family."
"I suppose you're right," she conceded. "I remember how my parents and I suffered when Billy went missing. It took years for us to get back to living a somewhat 'normal' life."
Minutes later, the detective swabbed the inside of Bridget's mouth and then left the LeMat home with a sample of her DNA.
* * *
"Are you absolutely sure?" Detective Munsey asked, confounded by the news. "I've heard there are sometimes mix-ups in the lab."
"Not in this case," the geneticist replied. "I ran the test myself. The samples indicate the two people are closely related."
"Could it be a niece-nephew relationship?"
"No. The DNA is too similar. Based on my experience, I'd say these are two people who have the same parents."
How is it possible? Nat wondered. That little boy can't be Billy Sugrue!
The detective searched his imagination for a possible theory. Perhaps the child was a different brother from the one who went missing back in 1972. But then the parents had to have been in their seventies when he was born. A seventy-something-year-old man could father a child. Mick Jagger had done so at seventy-three. But it was highly unlikely that a woman of that age would become a mother. Then what was the explanation?
"Well?" Police Chief Santiago Ortiz asked when the detective entered his office. "Is it the same kid?"
"Apparently so. Don't ask me what happened to him though."
"But I am asking you. You're the detective on the case. It's your job to find out."
"This isn't like solving a normal crime, Chief. This is some Twilight Zone shit!"
"Then start thinking outside the box."
"Can't I at least have some help on this one?"
"Sure. I'll assign Horner to work with you."
"The rookie? He's not a detective; he's a traffic cop."
"Like just about every business in town, we're short-staffed. The only difference is that we don't have a HELP WANTED sign on our front door. You want help? Take Poindexter."
"Poindexter!" the detective mumbled. "Who the hell names their kid Poindexter?"
Having been dismissed, Nat Munsey went to talk to the dispatcher.
"Get in touch with Patrolman Horner for me," he told her. "Tell him I need to see him here at the station."
Unlike the seasoned detective, the rookie police officer was thrilled to be working the Billy Sugrue case.
"It sure beats handing out speeding tickets!" he exclaimed.
"You don't think for one moment that we're going to solve this, do you?"
"I don't know, but I'd like to try."
"Okay, kid. But we're going to do this my way. We ignore the Stephen King aspects of the case and treat it like a normal abduction."
"Which means?"
"That it doesn't matter how old the kid was back in 1972 or how old he is now. We stick to facts. We don't look for answers to questions that have none."
"So, basically, we're solving a fifty-year-old cold case."
"Yeah, but this time, with any luck, we can question the victim."
Accompanied by young Poindexter, Nat paid a second visit to the LeMat house. Upon their arrival, the detective confirmed the boy's identity. However, not even the results of the DNA test convinced Bridget that the child found on Woodvale Lane was her brother.
"There must be a mistake," she insisted.
The detective was unwilling to argue with her.
"Perhaps I should talk to your parents."
"My father died seven years ago, and my mother is in a nursing home. She's got dementia."
"I'm sorry. Do you think she remembers anything about the day your brother was abducted?"
"Why? Do you plan on questioning her?" Bridget asked.
"I don't want to, but I might need to."
"Must we go through all this again? Isn't the information already in your files?"
It was the rookie who suggested a different approach to the case.
"Mrs. LeMat is right," Poindexter said after the two police officers returned to the detective's unmarked car. "All that she and her parents knew about the abduction is already on record."
"You're out of the academy for less than a year, and you're telling me how to run an investigation?"
"I'm suggesting we might find more answers at the place where the child was found."
"Woodvale Lane?" Nat asked.
"Woodvale Lane."
* * *
"There's been no change in the patient's condition," Detective Munsey announced after getting off the phone with the doctor in charge. "Let's go talk to forensics and see if they've found anything."
"I think my time would be better spent here at the computer," the rookie replied. "I'll see what I can find out about the residents who live on Woodvale Lane. Maybe some of the people who were there in 1972 still live there."
"Good idea. We're going to have to question them next."
Of the twelve inhabited homes on the dead-end road, only three had the same owners over the past fifty years. Mary Louise Beecham, an eighty-five-year-old widow, lived at 4 Woodvale Lane. The two policemen paid her a call that afternoon.
"I remember when that dear little boy went missing," Mary Louise said. "It was so sad!"
"Did you know him?" Nat asked.
"No. But I remember reading about him in the paper."
An hour and two cups of coffee later, the two policemen left the house.
"That was a waste of time," Poindexter declared. "She talked a lot but said nothing useful."
"She's an old woman, a widow. She's probably lonely. We might be the only people she's talked to all week."
The detective then interviewed the Hackmans who lived at 6 Woodvale. Like their neighbor, Mrs. Beecham, they had heard of the kidnapping but had no personal knowledge about it. That left only Mrs. and Mrs. Springhall at Number 11. However, the police could not question the couple because, like many octogenarians, they spent the colder months in Florida. They left on the first of November and would not return until April.
"I could give them a call and see what they know," Poindexter offered.
"I'll take care of that. I want you to go back to the station and find the current addresses of the people who were living in the other houses back in 1972. Hopefully, most of them are still alive."
Two days later, the rookie had compiled a list of names, addresses and phone numbers. For those residents who had died, he had information on their next of kin.
"There's only one house on the street that has no traceable trail," Poindexter announced.
"Let me guess," Nat laughed. "The old McCauley place."
"That's the one. Cillian McCauley died back in 1970. His daughter, Bronwen, inherited her father's home but lost it for nonpayment of taxes in 1973. Since then, there's been no record of her."
The detective was intrigued.
"Is she missing?"
"No report has ever been filed, and her name does not appear on any missing persons databases."
"What about DMV records?"
"She never had a driver's license, nor was there ever a car registration in her name. That's not all. Bronwen never registered to vote and had no known bank accounts, credit cards or insurance policies. I couldn't even find a magazine subscription for her. Except for her school records and temporary ownership of the house, it's as though she never existed."
"Curiouser and curiouser!" Nat exclaimed, quoting Alice in Wonderland.
"We started this case with one mystery," Poindexter pointed out. "Now, we have two."
"Perhaps we should go back and revisit the talkative Mrs. Beecham," the detective suggested.
"Whatever for?"
"I want to discuss Bronwen with her. I have a feeling the old woman might have some useful information for us, after all."
* * *
The lonely widow beamed with joy when she saw the two policemen standing on her stoop.
"I baked a Bundt cake this morning," she announced. "I'll make a pot of coffee, and we'll have some while we talk."
"Thank you, Mrs. Beecham," the detective said.
"Please call me Mary Louise."
Nat smiled, nodded his head and turned on the charm.
"Have you come about the missing boy again?" the old woman asked as she placed a large slice of coffeecake onto a plate and passed it to the detective.
"Yes. As you know, we've been questioning the people who lived in this neighborhood back in 1972, just on the off-chance that they might remember something about the disappearance. We've managed to track down most of them, but we did hit a brick wall when we came to the last house on the street."
"The old McCauley place, you mean?"
"Yes. We know Cillian died in '70, but we understand he left everything to his daughter. Did you know Bronwen at all?"
The widow's eyes twinkled merrily, and Nat sensed that not only did she know some juicy tidbit about the girl but that she was also dying to tell him.
"I'm not one to gossip," she began, "but I could tell you stories about that one."
"Please do."
"Bronwen was always a strange child, a pretty girl but odd. Probably because her mother passed away when she was only three."
"Odd? How so?"
"For one thing, she was a loner. None of the other kids on the street bothered with her. When she was a teenager, she became a hippie. She was only fourteen when ran off to live in a commune. She came back two years later. Pregnant."
"And she lived in the house with her father?"
"Yes. She was still very much a free spirit. At first, people were amused by all of her earth mother nonsense."
"Earth mother? What was that all about?"
"She claimed to believe in some crazy pagan religion, one that worshiped a female deity—no doubt she picked it up at the commune. People laughed at her, and kids called her a witch. As I said, she was always odd. I'd see her from time to time. Her hair hung down her back almost to her waist. And she dressed like a gypsy: long skirt, baggy blouse, bare feet in the summer and sandals the rest of the year."
"You say she was a hippie. Was she known to take drugs?"
"Not that I'm aware of. There were two things I know for sure about her. One, she liked to make pottery. She had her own potter's wheel and kiln. I'm no art critic, mind you, but I thought she had talent. She always sold out all her wares at the craft festival. And number two, she loved her son. She doted on that boy. I would go so far as to say, he was her entire world."
"And what about him?" the detective asked after taking a bite from his second slice of Bundt cake.
"What a beautiful, angelic child he was!" Mary Louise exclaimed. "The two of them—mother and son—seemed so happy together. Then in 1969, things changed. That was the year Manson's family committed those horrible murders. After that, people came to fear and distrust hippies. They no longer saw Bronwen as a harmless crackpot. Some wanted to chase her away; others avoided her like the plague."
"And then what happened?"
"I don't know. It wasn't long after that Billy Sugrue went missing. His disappearance was all people talked about then. They pretty much forgot about the hippie mother and her child. She became a recluse. I only saw her three or four times after that."
"Do you know what eventually happened to her?"
"I wish I could tell you, but I have no idea what became of her—or her boy."
* * *
"There's no record of Bronwen ever having a kid," Poindexter announced after a thorough computer search. "There's no birth certificate and no school records. I could see if any of the doctors from the area are still alive. Maybe one of them might remember him."
"No. Let's just take Mrs. Beecham at her word and assume there was a child," Nat suggested. "That makes three people who went missing: Billy Sugrue, Bronwen and her son. My gut tells me these disappearances are all related."
"What about Cillian McCauley? You think he was involved somehow?"
"I don't see how since he died before Billy went missing. We have a death certificate for him and a grave in Pine Crest Cemetery. And his daughter and grandson continued to live in the house after he was gone. We know that for a fact since Mrs. Beecham saw them there."
"So, Cillian is in the clear. Where do we go from here?" the rookie asked.
"Last night, I spoke to the Springhalls, the couple down in Florida. They lived right next door to McCauley. They told me Bronwen and her father got on well. She left home not to be free of him but to get away from the townspeople. Old man McCauley welcomed her back home with open arms. It didn't even bother him that she was pregnant. As far as they know, he was a loving father and grandfather."
"So, what do you think happened?" Poindexter asked.
"I don't know," Nat replied with frustration. "But I want to get inside the McCauley house and see if I can find any answers there."
The detective used a crowbar to pry the boards loose from the front door. The stench of rot and dust assaulted the two police officers when they crossed the threshold. The smell was so bad, they covered their noses and mouths with the disposable face masks they had been required to wear during the height of the COVID pandemic.
"Be careful where you walk," Nat warned. "These floorboards don't look too sturdy."
They found evidence of a child in every room on the first floor: toy cars, coloring books, a deflated rubber ball and other toys. On the fireplace mantel, there were several framed photographs of a dark-haired, blue-eyed child, ranging in age from newborn to approximately five years.
"That must be the son," Poindexter assumed.
The two men climbed the staircase, gingerly testing each step as they ascended. In the master bedroom, they found women's clothes. No doubt that was where Bronwen slept. The second bedroom belonged to the boy. Baby animals had been painted on the walls, probably by the mother. Toys were scattered on the floor, and there were child-size shirts and pants in the closet. What caught Nat's attention, however, was the two twin-sized beds.
When the policemen exited the house, they took off their masks and breathed in the fresh air.
"We now know without a doubt that there was a kid," Poindexter announced.
"Twin beds," the detective muttered.
"What?"
"Twin beds. Not one—two."
"You don't think ...."
"Bronwen's son slept in one. Who slept in the other?"
As they headed to the car, Detective Munsey looked around the yard. His eyes fell on the old barn, some distance from the house.
"I wonder what's in there," he said.
"Let's go see," the rookie suggested.
The door creaked as they pulled it open. Inside was a kiln, a potter's wheel and several large bags of clay. There was also a table on which tools, brushes, glazes and paints were arrayed, and a shelf where pieces of pottery in various stages of completion were stored.
"This must have been Bronwen's studio," Poindexter concluded.
Shining his cell phone's flashlight's beam on the earthen floor, the detective ventured inside the barn. At the rear of the building, he found another shelf that contained only one finished piece. The sealed vessel resembled a funeral urn. There appeared to be a name ornately carved in it, but it was unreadable beneath fifty years of dust.
He took a step closer and heard a crunch beneath his feet. He looked down and saw fragments of broken pottery. Suddenly, the beam of light illuminated a human hand.
"Jesus Christ!" Nat exclaimed.
"What is it?" Poindexter asked.
"There's a body here."
The two men soon discovered that there were, in fact, two bodies: one of a middle-aged man and the other of an old woman. Neither was badly decomposed.
"It doesn't look like they've been dead long," the rookie observed. "I wonder who they are."
"Judging by their ages, I'd say we found Bronwen and her son."
* * *
"Well? How did they die?" Detective Munsey asked Santiago Ortiz, the medical examiner.
"Honestly? I don't know. I've never seen anything like this. It's as though the organs in their bodies just ... exploded! I can't explain it."
"I'm not surprised. Nothing about this case makes any sense. Three people vanished back in the Seventies. First, Billy Sugrue reappears out of nowhere, having never aged a day in fifty years, and now these two show up dead from an unknown cause. Where have they been all this time? Not in that house; it's been boarded up for decades."
"I wish I had some answers for you, but I don't," Dr. Ortiz said. "I'm completely stumped."
Another dead end, Nat thought. I'm never going to know what happened.
It was Billy Sugrue who would solve the mystery for him. However, the solution created more questions than it answered. Although in a semi-catatonic state for nearly a week after he was found, on the morning of November 6, the child recovered his senses. It was as though a spell had been broken.
"Where's my mother?" he asked the nurse.
"Let me get the doctor," she answered and ran out of the room.
The police would not be able to question the child for another three days, during which time medical doctors and child psychiatrists examined the boy.
"He's still adjusting to his new reality," the head psychiatrist warned Nat Munsey. "If you notice your questions are beginning to upset him, back off. We don't want him shutting down again."
"Hi, Billy," the detective said as he took a seat beside the boy's hospital bed. "My name is Nat Munsey. I'd like to talk to you about where you've been living and who you've been living with."
"I've been staying with Timothy and Aunt Bronwen."
"I met your sister, Bridget. She never mentioned an Aunt Bronwen."
"She's not my real aunt. I just call her that."
"When and where did you meet Aunt Bronwen?"
"It was on Halloween, years and years ago. I was trick-or-treating. My mother bought me a Deputy Dawg costume."
"I've seen it. It's a nice costume."
"I was at the end of Schuyler Street when I saw Timothy. He was walking with his mother, Aunt Bronwen. She asked me if I wanted to go trick-or-treating with them. I called to my sister and told her where I was going, but she was busy talking to her friends, and I don't think she heard me."
"Your sister was supposed to be watching you, wasn't she?"
"Yeah. Mom was home, handing out candy, and she asked Bridget to keep an eye on me."
"And where did your Aunt Bronwen take you?"
"To her house on Woodvale Lane. It was a big house, and there was a barn out back. We didn't go trick-or-treating there, though. Instead, we went inside the house, and I played with Timothy. Aunt Bronwen made us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. After we ate them, she gave us milk and chocolate chip cookies."
"You played in the house with Timothy. Then where did you go?"
"We would go to the barn sometimes, but we weren't supposed to play there. That's where Aunt Bronwen kept our urns."
"Your urns? What were they?"
"They were clay pots she made. There was one for each of us, and we had our names on them."
"I saw one of those urns in the barn."
"That was mine."
"What happened to the other two?" Nat asked.
Billy hung his head as though he had done something wrong and feared he would be punished.
"We didn't mean to do it," he cried. "It was an accident. We were just playing. That's all."
"What did you do?"
"We were playing hide and seek, and I was 'it.' I closed my eyes and counted to ten. Then I heard a crash. Timothy bumped into the shelf, and two of the urns crashed on the floor. Aunt Bronwen came running into the barn. Her hair was turning color, from black to white, and her skin was getting all wrinkled. She screamed when she saw Timothy."
"Why? What was wrong with him?"
"He ... he was changing. He got taller and older. Then ... then ...."
"What happened?"
"They both fell down, and they never got up again."
* * *
After many hours of questioning, Detective Munsey pieced together the bizarre and unbelievable account of Billy Sugrue's abduction and imprisonment. Bronwen, who was described as "odd," by the gregarious Mrs. Beecham, was not just a hippie who worshiped a pagan goddess; she was a practicing witch.
During her childhood and teenage years, she was shunned and ridiculed by the townspeople. With her son approaching school age, she swore he would never have to endure such treatment. She found a friend for him and then cast a spell on the two children and herself. Like the fabled Dorian Gray, they lived without aging, their life essence kept sealed in a clay urn and carefully stored on a shelf in the barn. When Bronwen's and Timothy's urns were broken, though, the shock of rapidly aging killed them.
For the past fifty years, all three of them had lived at 13 Woodvale Lane, but they existed on another plane of reality. With a population of only three, their world was vastly different from our own. Their house was not dilapidated and boarded up; it was in immaculate, pristine condition. There were no neighbors to harass them, no board of education requiring Timothy to be enrolled in school, no tax collectors from the town demanding payment and no police detectives looking for a missing child.
"For all intents and purposes, they were invisible," Nat told Poindexter who was glad to be going back on traffic duty.
"But what about Billy Sugrue? Why could we suddenly see him after fifty years?"
"I assume once Bronwen died, the spell died with her."
"Why didn't he age then?" Patrolman Horner asked.
"Because his urn wasn't broken."
"What's going to happen to him now?"
"Bridget LeMat finally accepts the fact that the child is her brother. She and her husband are going to look after him. To avoid a lot of questions, they plan on moving to another state and raising him as their grandson. Billy will be given a new name and a revised birth certificate."
"Sounds like the smart thing to do. But how will she explain the fact that he doesn't age?"
"Maybe they won't have to. It was suggested that drilling a tiny hole in the top of the urn would slowly release the boy's life essence, and he would age at a somewhat normal rate."
"Normal?" Poindexter laughed. "I don't think anything about that kid will ever be normal."
"Probably not," Nat agreed. "But at least living somewhere else as William LeMat, he might have a fighting chance."
Salem was a hippie back in the '60s. But rather than hang around San Francisco's Haight-Ashbury district with the rest of the hippies, he preferred Ghirardelli Square (and the chocolate company from which it got its name).
