December Park(111)

Michael shrugged. “Maybe everyone is. Maybe we’re the only five people in the whole city who aren’t responsible for the deaths of all those kids.” Then his eyes narrowed. “Except you, Mazzone. If I had to guess, I’d say you’re in on it, too.”

I jerked a thumb at Scott. “He’s the morbid obsessive, remember?”

Michael rubbed his chin, his gaze shifting to Scott. “Hmmm . . .”

“We need to go to Echo Base and see why that guy was snooping around,” Scott said.

“I’m gonna be pissed if he stole our stuff,” Michael said.

“It’s mostly garbage we found in the woods,” Peter said. “Why would someone want to steal it?”

Our waitress swaggered over to our booth, planted both hands flat on the table, and glared at us. “Okay, here’s the deal. You little f*ckers always sit here and order sodas or share a plate of fries, then stiff me on the tip. Order some real food and pay for the goddamn service, or go haunt another dive. You get me?”

Her brazenness shocked us all into temporary silence.

“I’ve got . . . uh . . .” Michael fished around in his pocket. He tossed a few coins, a plastic army man, and a button that said Eat Bertha’s Mussels on the table.

“Here,” Peter said, rolling a half-eaten package of Life Savers onto the table.

“Oh, wait.” Scott beamed. From one pocket he produced a mix tape that was covered in stickers, and from his other pocket he took out a few Pogs.

The waitress’s expression did not falter.

I pulled ten dollars out of my pocket and slid it over to her.

She eyeballed it like it was a trap, then shot her cool glance in my direction.

“It’s all I got,” I told her.

“Brilliant,” she said flatly, scooping up the ten-spot as well as the Life Savers before sauntering away.

Michael examined the army man and the button. “I don’t think these are my pants,” he said after a minute.





When we arrived at Echo Base, we were surprised to find that our stuff was pretty much how we left it. We checked the trash bags and the nylon beer cooler to see if anything was missing, but it didn’t appear as if anything was.

Scott walked around the clearing, searching for footprints. But the ground was overgrown with bushes, weeds, and ivy, making it impossible to locate a single footprint in the dirt. Defeated, he gave up after only ten minutes.

“Maybe it was just some guy out for a walk through the woods who happened to stumble on this stuff,” Peter said. He sat down on the concrete statue head and rocked back and forth on it.

“No, man,” Scott said. “A guy just out for a walk wouldn’t start opening up muddy trash bags, would he? It was like he was looking for something.”

“But nothing’s missing,” I said. “What would he be looking for?”

“This,” Adrian said. He pulled taut the length of shoelace he wore around his neck. Courtney Cole’s heart-shaped locket twinkled in the sunlight.

“But how would he know we had it?” Peter asked.

“Because he’s been following us,” Adrian said. “How else would he know we’ve been hanging around down here?”

“You’re just trying to give me the heebie-jeebies,” Michael said.

I looked around, wondering if there might in fact be someone secreted away beyond the depths of trees. A person could hide anywhere. My grandfather’s voice spoke up in my head, talking about shooting snipers down from trees during the war. Unnerved, I glanced up at the treetops.

“It makes sense,” Scott said, nodding. “If we’ve been doing this right, then we’ve been visiting all the places the Piper would have gone, too.”

“And there was that day Angie and I were at the Werewolf House,” Adrian said. “Remember those footsteps that came halfway down the stairs?”

“Yeah,” I said, certain I knew where he was going with this. Because I had already said it to Peter yesterday . . .

“What if it wasn’t that bully after all?” Adrian said.

“Keener,” I said.

“Yeah. What if it wasn’t him? What if that was the Piper instead?”

“Man,” Michael said, turning toward me with an oddly forlorn expression. “Your English teacher is a homicidal child killer. Bummer. Personally, I was holding out hope it was Principal Unglesbee.”

“It’s not Mr. Mattingly,” I said. “He’s got a wife.”

“Serial killers can’t have wives?” Michael said. “They can’t be married? Is that some rule or something?”

“John Wayne Gacy had two wives,” Scott said.

Michael frowned. “At the same time?”

“No, dummy,” Scott said. “And Ted Bundy had a serious girlfriend.”

“Quit making shit up,” Michael scolded him.

“It’s not Mr. Mattingly,” I said again, ignoring them.

“He was at the Werewolf House yesterday,” Peter added, though skeptically.

“Yeah, but he wasn’t the guy who was down here going through our stuff. So which one is it? They can’t both be the Piper.”

“What if they are?” Adrian said. He tucked the locket inside his shirt. “Who’s to say the Piper can’t be two people?”