December Park(121)

“It’ll be easier to balance if you go faster,” I told him.

“Okay,” he said, but he didn’t pick up the pace at all.

“How come you don’t have a bike?”

“I used to.”

“What happened to it? Was it stolen back in Chicago?”

“No. We left it in the garage when we moved away. We never took anything from the garage. Not even the car.”

Because his dad killed himself in there, I thought.

When we arrived at the depot it was already late afternoon, and there was a smear of dark clouds along the horizon. Something about the way the building stood there made me think that perhaps it had been waiting for us to return since yesterday. It looked somehow . . . anticipatory.

“Wow,” Adrian marveled. “That is one scary-looking place.”

We dumped our bikes on the ground and approached the depot together. Our sneakers crushed the white gravel to powder. All around us, insects buzzed and hummed and chirruped in the tall grass, and larger animals moved around deep in the trees. The whole world seemed abuzz with life.

Except for inside, I thought, recalling the sheet draped over the form of a human being, those fingers protruding from beneath it . . .

Peter and I led them around the side of the building where the double doors stood. In the fading daylight, the building was the color of tree bark, its filthy windowpanes like pools of roofing tar. The whole thing looked like one big warning sign. I knew the others could feel it, too. It seemed no one wanted to get any closer to it, and we were all content standing here in the tall grass while crickets ricocheted off our shins.

Eventually, Peter pointed at the doors. “That’s the lock, Michael.”

“If it’s locked,” Scott said, “then how’s the killer getting in and out?”

“We don’t know.” There was a surprising tremor in Peter’s voice. “We don’t know if anyone’s been in there at all.”

“Except for the body,” I said.

“Well, yeah,” Peter said. “Except for that.”

“Where’s the body?” Adrian said.

Peter said, “Come on,” and we all went to the window on the left side of the double doors. After wiping a streak of grime away from the glass, Peter looked in for several seconds without saying a word.

Suddenly I was certain that the body would no longer be in there, that we had either imagined it or someone had reclaimed it. I thought about the noises Peter and I had heard in the surrounding woods, prompting our departure, and it seemed possible that the Piper had been watching us, and he had taken the body away with him in the night so it wouldn’t be here if we returned. This notion caused a chill to ripple through me.

“There it is,” Peter said after what seemed like an eternity. “Come look.”

They took turns—Scott first and seemingly quite anxious; Michael next, who said he didn’t see it but then cut himself off, muttering, “Holy crap”; and lastly, Adrian stood on his tiptoes and gazed through the filth-caked window. He remained there the longest, not speaking. His reflection in the muddied glass was of a terrified ghost staring out at us.

“You see it?” Peter called to him.

“Yes,” Adrian said in a small voice. So perhaps he was just taking his time and letting the reality sink in.

Perhaps we all were.

This isn’t really happening, is it? This can’t be real.

“We need to go in there,” Adrian said, climbing down from the window. We stood in a rough circle in the gravel at the base of the building. I felt itchy, uncomfortable. “We need to pull back that sheet and see who it is.”

I didn’t want to. The realization struck me like lightning. Whose body was under that sheet? How long had they been there?

What would they look like?

I don’t want to.

Michael tittered nervously. “This thing just became real, huh?” Then, without prompting, he went over to the double doors and began fiddling with the combination lock.

Adrian shucked off his backpack and opened it at his feet. “Looks pretty dark in there.” He pulled out two flashlights and handed one to Scott.

“Quick,” I told Peter. “Give me a cigarette.” Then I was suddenly embarrassed by the urgency in my voice.

If Peter noticed, he didn’t comment. He handed me a Camel, handed another one to Scott, then stuck one in his own mouth.

“You got another?” Adrian asked.

“For real?” Peter said, lighting his smoke. “I thought they caused cancer?”

Adrian chewed on the inside of his cheek. “They do but I guess anyone can go anytime. For any reason.”

Peter handed Adrian his lit cigarette, then stuck a fresh one in his own mouth. Adrian examined the glowing red ember at its tip before sticking it between his lips where it hung crookedly like a heavy stick jammed in mud.

“You suck it,” I said, “and inhale it.”

“Does it burn?”

“No, not really. I mean, I guess it feels warm.”

Adrian’s cheeks narrowed as he inhaled. An instant later he was sputtering and gagging in the reeds.

We laughed, and Michael turned and watched us from over one shoulder while I clubbed Adrian a number of times on the back.

“You okay?” I tried to stifle my laughter.