December Park(132)

“Dude,” Michael bleated, bouncing up on his heels. He had stolen crêpe streamers from one of the victory booths and had them taped to his arms and shoulders, three-foot-long tendrils flapping in the wind. “The fireworks, man! They’re gonna start in a half hour.”

“I gotta be home by curfew,” I said.

“Curfew’s lifted.”

“Not my dad’s curfew.” I sucked at my lower lip and watched the people slowly migrating toward the water. Blankets were spread out in the grass. A few kids tossed around a Frisbee with their parents. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

“Later, skater,” Michael said. He flicked Scott’s earlobe and said, “Let’s get a spot closer to the show.”

“I’ll go with you,” Adrian said to me.

“Thanks,” I said, “but you don’t have to.”

“No one goes around alone,” he said. “Remember?”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “I’ll go, too.”

“Really, you guys don’t have to—”

“Who wants to look at some stupid fireworks, anyway?” Peter said.

Scott looked out across the water and at the floating barge on which the fireworks display was set up. Then he looked at Peter and me. “Yeah,” he said. There was a dollop of ketchup in one corner of his mouth. “It’s just a bunch of bright lights flashing in the sky. Big deal.”

“Are you kidding?” Michael countered. “Fireworks are the best part. Loud noises make all the babies cry.”

“You’re a psychopath,” Peter told him.

“Let’s just catch the first five minutes.”

“Do what you want,” I said, already heading up Third Avenue against the crowd.

My friends rushed up to flank me on either side, their footfalls falling in step with mine.

“You’re right,” Michael commented, holding his arms out so that the crêpe streamers flared out. “Fireworks are for pussies.”

Because I felt someone watching me, I turned around and glanced over my shoulder. The crowd was headed in the opposite direction, so I glimpsed mostly the backs of people’s heads. But one person stood among them, facing me, with an eerily stoic expression.

It was the police officer I’d nearly bumped into at the hot dog booth.

My pace slowed enough so that my friends paused, too.

Peter followed my gaze, then tugged at my arm. “You looking for your girlfriend?” he said in a singsong voice.

“I recognize that cop,” I said . . . and just saying it aloud brought it all back to me in a rush. This was the same cop who had been at the Ransoms’ house on New Year’s Eve when my father and I arrived. He had been the first one on the scene.

Peter frowned. “So what? Half the cops in this town know who you are.”

“That’s not the same thing,” I said.

“That’s him,” Scott said. “Michael, take a look.”

“Yeah,” Michael said, nodding. “Yeah, that’s him, all right.”

“Him who?” I said.

“The guy Michael and I saw in the woods. The guy who was going through our stuff.”

“You didn’t say he was a police officer,” Peter said.

“He wasn’t wearing a uniform,” Scott said. “But that’s definitely him.”

“Sure is,” said Michael.

Adrian swallowed audibly. “Why is he staring at us?”

“He’s not,” Peter said, though I didn’t think he sounded too convinced himself.

At that moment, the police officer turned and blended into the crowd. A moment later, he was gone.





Chapter Twenty-Six


The Confrontation





You said yourself that the Piper could be a cop,” Scott reminded me as the five of us walked home. The evening sky was full of stars, though there was still a banner of pinkish orange out in the west. The streetlights came on, the traffic lessened, and soon we heard the fireworks exploding over the water.

“Yeah, but I wasn’t being serious,” I said.

“So the same guy who was searching through our stuff down in the woods just happens to be first on the scene the night Aaron Ransom disappears?”

“It does sound suspicious,” Peter added.

“Why would the Piper be the first on the scene to his own crime?” I said.

“To make sure he didn’t leave any evidence behind,” Michael said.

I shot him a glare. “You’re on this bandwagon now, too?”

“Hey! I saw him down in the woods that day. This shit is real, Angie. Just because you don’t want to believe cops can be serial killers—”

“What do I care if it’s a cop or not?” I said.

“Well, because of your dad,” Michael said.

“My dad’s not the Piper, you dipshit.”

Michael turned to Adrian. “What do you think? You’ve been pretty quiet.”

After a few more moments of silence, Adrian said, “If the killer is a cop, we’re in a lot of trouble.”

When we reached Solomon’s Bend Road, we were faced with the decision of either following the road all the way around the park to the highway or cutting across Solomon’s Field. I didn’t think I would make it home on time if we went the long way, so we opted for the shortcut.