December Park(107)

When we reached December Park, we flew through the intersection and hooked a left onto Solomon’s Bend Road. Evening crept across the horizon, making the distant trees look like woodcut carvings, and the baseball players and kite-flying kids had gone.

Riding side by side, Peter and I took the bike path that curved down into Solomon’s Field. Drunkard’s Pond was wreathed in three-foot-tall cattails, and the water appeared dark and mysterious in the encroaching dusk.

“There they are,” Peter said, pointing to a figure standing before the mouth of the underpass waving his arms. It was Scott.

Our bike tires eating up the earth, we cut across the field and coasted to a bumpy stop next to the underpass. Michael stood just inside it, halfway cloaked in shadow. Their bikes leaned against the black stone walls of the tunnel.

“What gives?” I said, still straddling my bike.

“There’s someone in the woods,” Scott said.

“At Echo Base,” Michael added.

“Who is it?” Peter asked.

“Some guy,” Scott said. He described him—a man in his thirties with short, sandy hair, wearing dark-colored cargo pants and a black shirt. Neither Scott nor Michael had recognized him.

“We were walking through the woods over to Echo Base when we saw him just kind of . . . well, looking around at all our stuff,” Michael said. “He was opening one of the trash bags when he looked up and saw us watching him through the trees.”

“He didn’t say anything,” Scott said. “That’s when Michael and I took off and came here.”

“Is he still there?” Peter asked.

“How should we know?” Michael said.

“Well, should we go back and look?”

“Seriously?” Michael said. “It’ll be dark soon and I gotta get home. Besides, you really wanna be in those woods with some weirdo who’s rooting around in our stuff?”

“What if it’s the Piper?” Peter said.

“All the more reason,” Michael said. “I’m not keen on having my skull bashed in tonight.”

“Mikey’s right,” I said. “I need to get home, too. We can check things out tomorrow.”

“All right,” Peter said, though he seemed uncertain.

“Who’s there?” someone called and we all jumped. A man walked toward us through the underpass, his legs spaced wide apart, his hands loose at his sides. “Let’s see you.”

Michael jumped out from beneath the tunnel and joined us on the grass.

“Let’s see all of you.” The man raised one hand and made a come hither gesture. When he stepped out from beneath the underpass, we could see he was a uniformed police officer. “What are you kids doing down here?”

“We’re just hanging out,” Michael said. Then, as conversational as you please, he added, “What’s up, dude?”

Looking right past Michael, the cop pointed at the walkie-talkie on Peter’s belt. “What do you got, son?”

Peter glanced down at the handheld. “Uh, a walkie-talkie, sir.”

“You boys vandalizing anything?”

“No, sir.”

“Got any spray paint? Anything like that?”

“No, sir,” Peter repeated.

The cop jerked a thumb over his shoulder but kept his eyes on us. “That backpack belong to one of you?”

“It’s mine,” Scott said.

“School’s out,” the cop said, as if he’d caught us in a lie. He had a tired, creased face with cold eyes beneath heavy lids.

“It’s for scavenger hunting,” Michael piped up. “We’re looking for treasure.”

“Yeah?” the cop said. “Find anything?”

Michael frowned at the irony of it. “No, sir. Not a thing.”

“You kids shouldn’t be down here, especially after dark. You know you’re supposed to stay away from enclosed places like this, don’t you?” He outlined the opening of the underpass with one finger, in case we were ignorant about what “enclosed places” meant.

“Yes, sir,” I vocalized from the back of my crew. “We’re sorry, sir.”

“You boys should know better.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re Sal Mazzone’s boy, ain’t you?”

I swallowed a lump of spit that felt like a walnut. “Yes, sir.”

“I know you know better than to play down here.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Don’t be sorry. Just skedaddle. I won’t tell your pops.”

“Thanks.”

The cop glanced at Scott’s and Michael’s bikes leaning against the wall of the underpass. “Then get on home.”

Scott and Michael got their bikes out and joined Peter and me in the grass.

“Do me a favor and don’t cut across the park.” The cop pointed up the embankment toward Solomon’s Bend Road. “It’s getting too dark. Stick to the roadways.”

The four of us rolled our bikes across Solomon’s Field. Still standing at the mouth of the underpass, the cop watched us go.

When we hit Solomon’s Bend Road, Michael said, “That guy came out of nowhere. Gives me the creeps.”