Page 27 of Nineteen Seventy-Six

“He’s killed twelve girls, Colleen. Four more are missing.” Evangeline swallowed. “I knew one of them. Leanne Berringer. We’re in the same program and have two classes together.” She looked out the window of her apartment, the one facing the brick façade of campus. “Had.”

“Evangeline.” Colleen’s words came out breathless, almost a whisper. “How the hell did I miss this? Twelve girls?”

“Like you said, you’ve been busy,” Evangeline replied. “And sixteen, really. Fact is, he doesn’t let them live, and the ones who went missing most recently are beyond the threshold of any hopeful recovery.”

“You sound like an expert, and that breaks my heart.”

“He rapes them, Colleen. Over and over. And then he strangles them with their own clothing. Their nylons, or scarves, or knee socks. Every one.”

“Evie.” Colleen shuffled around in the background. “Wait, maybe I did hear something about this. But I thought it was Washington. Or Utah.”

“That’s another guy.”

“Is it? Evangeline, what if it is the same guy?”

“That guy, the one you’re talking about, he, uh… he’s also a necrophile. Ours only does it when they’re alive.”

“Dear God.”

“Colleen, they can’t seem to catch him. I don’t know why. I’m not a cop. But what I do know is that we’re all terrified, and every time I hear about another girl going missing, I relive what happened to me in that warehouse over and over and over again. I’ve tried using logic to tell myself it’s not going to happen to me, that I’m safe, but I’m not safe. No young college women in Cambridge are safe right now, and I’m spiraling.”

Colleen absorbed this instead of responding immediately. Evangeline appreciated her restraint, because Colleen’s natural inclination was to go into solve mode when someone presented a problem. Evangeline didn’t want platitudes. She needed practical advice, and when in the right frame of mind, Colleen was good with that, too.

“You want control,” Colleen said. “No, you need it.”

Evangeline nodded into the phone. She wound the cord around her hand so tight the color of her flesh turned white.

“I understand why this situation feels like your power is being taken from you,” Colleen said.

“Yes.”

Colleen lowered her voice. “So. You take it back.”

Four strollers. Three adults.

Olivia, mostly through body language and a few words peppered into half-sentences, made it clear that, at fifteen months, she didn’t need a stroller, thank you very much. Maureen mouthed the words, oh yes she does, over her daughter’s head as she handed her off to Colleen. Earlier, while Maureen packed the diaper bag, she told Colleen that Olivia was already a handful. “For my sins. I think I’m getting ready to raise myself, Colleen. She’s all sass, no sense.”

Colleen let Olivia, the oldest of the cousins, stand at her side during the parade, their little secret. Nicolas, Anasofiya, and Amelia lay in a parallel line in their strollers, in various stages of sleep and curiosity as the activities rolled by.

Noah positioned himself between Nicolas and Amelia, alternately checking in on each of them, while Elizabeth hovered protectively over Anasofiya. In her fear over Augustus’ obsessive state, she’d absorbed some of these behaviors for herself. Her eyes conveyed the possibility that anyone, at any time, could harm her niece, and she’d hardly relaxed at all since they arrived. Colleen was surprised Elizabeth even managed to get Ana sprung from the house at all.

The Brother Martin band passed by playing “Three Cheers for the Red, White, and Blue” in their colorful, patriotic uniforms. Colleen and Noah clapped and sang along as they leaned into the strollers, enjoying the wonder on the faces of the little ones. Olivia clapped, too, but kept losing her balance, so Colleen knelt, taking her hands in hers, and they clapped together.

“Three cheers for the red, white, and blue! Or the red is the blood of our broooothers,” they sang, and Colleen remembered how both Charles and Augustus went to Brother Martin. Augustus, through graduation. Charles, until he was kicked out. Neither had been in a band, but Charles did play the drums for a month before losing interest.

Signs everywhere, hanging from poles and dangling from power lines, in bold cursive, announced the two-hundredth anniversary of the United States of America. Vendors were set up on every corner, selling patches, T-shirts, banners, and other memorabilia Colleen imagined would sit on shelves for years to come. The Spirit of 76. Happy Birthday Liberty. 1776-1976. Take Your Tea and Shove It. All variety of slogans, in storefront windows, in the backs of cars. Mayor Schiro blocked off the Quarter on all sides, allowing only store traffic in or out of the quadrant from the river to Canal, from Esplanade to North Rampart. The St. Charles Streetcar was so packed they’d had to wait three cars for one that had room.

The Preservation Hall group was next, and they played their trumpets, horns, and clarinets with zeal, as everyone around erupted into When the Saints Go Marching In.

“Oh when those Saints!” the singers yelled, and the crowd responded, “Oh, when those Saints!”

“Go marching in!”

“Go marching in!’

Noah disappeared for about fifteen minutes and returned to a group of baton twirlers doing their routine to “I Wish I Was in Dixieland.”

“I wish I was in Dixie! Hooray! Hooray!” sang the crowd, enthusiasm building with every word.

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