December Park(124)

“Quit being a dumbass,” Michael groaned, kicking the boards off him, “and help me up.”

Peter took one of Michael’s hands and yanked him to his feet while around them the cloud of dust continued to settle.

Scott said, “Guys?”

He shone his flashlight on the part of the wall that was revealed after Michael had knocked the boards away from it. The boards had been piled on top of a bench, some busted bits of plaster, chairs missing a few legs, and a toppled coatrack. But those items didn’t catch our attention. It was the bicycle. Its chrome finish dulled beneath a layer of gray dust, its tires flattened, it looked incongruous among the rest of the detritus inside the depot.

Peter and Michael moved quickly away from the spot, as if proximity would bring about their own deaths.

Scott’s flashlight beam shook as I approached the bike. It was a Mongoose, similar in style to Michael’s bike, with worn blue handgrips and a narrow plastic racing seat. There were uncountable stickers on the bike’s frame, mostly of rock bands and local sports teams. I bent closer to the bike, blowing the dust off one sticker in particular.

Scott came up behind me, his flashlight beam steadying on the bike.

The sticker that had attracted my attention was one I had seen countless times in the past, though now it held some sort of talismanic power over me. Glenrock Bulldogs was written in maroon on a gold background. Beneath the lettering was the droopy-cheeked face of an American bulldog, the mascot of Glenrock High School.

“It’s Jason Hughes’s bike,” Scott said from over my shoulder, reading my mind.

Adrian walked up beside me, his flashlight’s beam melding into Scott’s and my own. He reached out to touch the bicycle— “Are you crazy?” Peter castigated. “Don’t touch it.”

Adrian jerked his hand away as if burned.

“That shit’s evidence,” Peter continued, lowering his voice.

“That could be anyone’s bike,” said Michael. But the tone of his voice suggested he didn’t believe his own words.

Adrian shifted his flashlight to the pile of boards and beams that Michael had knocked over. “It’s like they were set up to cover the spot.” Then his light locked onto a piece that looked like the unfinished leg of a wooden chair. Adrian picked it up. There were nails protruding from it. One-handed, he swung it like a mace.

“Remember the busted-up chairs at the Werewolf House?” I said to Adrian. “The ones stacked up in a pile almost to the ceiling?” I nodded at the chair leg he was wielding like a cudgel. “That’s the same kind of leg.”

Adrian stopped and looked down the length of the chair leg.

“Put it down,” Peter said. “We shouldn’t touch any of this stuff. Seriously.”

Adrian dropped the wooden leg and took two steps backward to rejoin our huddle.

“Someone was killed here.” It was Scott, his voice low and shaky. “I can totally feel it.”

Again, I thought about Charles telling me how places soak up badness like a sponge soaks up water. Looking at the discarded bicycle with the Glenrock Bulldogs sticker on it, I wondered what horrors this old run-down railway depot had seen. Perhaps the worst of its horrors had not been so long ago after all . . .

“We need to tell the cops,” Peter said.

“No way,” said Scott, turning his flashlight onto Peter’s face. “We found it. This is our investigation.”

“You sound ridiculous. If this is Jason Hughes’s bike, then the cops need to know about it.”

“It’s not his bike,” Michael said, still trying to convince himself along with the rest of us. “It can’t be.”

“We’ve done enough,” Peter went on. “We tell the police what we found and let them take it from here. I mean, what if this bike leads them to the Piper? What if there’s, like, fingerprints on it or something? Do you really want to be responsible for keeping that information from them? It could save people’s lives.”

“But what if it leads us to the Piper first?” Scott countered. “Isn’t that what this whole thing is about?”

Peter ran a hand through his hair. When he met my eyes, I saw his features soften. “I’ll leave it up to you, Angie. Your dad’s a cop. We can tell him what we found . . . or we can keep doing what we’re doing while that sicko is still out there going after kids.”

I looked from him to Scott, then over to Adrian, who was staring at me with Scott’s matched intensity. I surprised myself when I said, “I think we should keep this to ourselves. Let’s keep doing what we’re doing and find the Piper on our own.”

If it had been anyone else but me who had said this, Peter would have continued with his argument—and it certainly was a good argument—but he always trusted my opinions and had my back. Always.

“Okay,” he said flatly, and I could tell he agreed with me against his better judgment. It made me feel as though I had just doomed all five of us. “So what do we do with the bike? Just leave it here?”

“We can write another note to your English teacher,” Michael suggested, “telling him we found the bike.”

“No. Mr. Mattingly didn’t move into town until August. Jason Hughes disappeared in June. Mr. Mattingly’s ruled out.” I felt much relief at saying this.