December Park(133)

Solomon’s Field was dotted with lampposts at intervals along a paved running track. On the street above, arc lights cast pools of sodium light onto the grass. The mouth of the underpass looked like a train tunnel that had been bored through the base of a mountain. As we drew closer to it, the signs posted along the walkway seemed to radiate out of the dark—

Park Closes at Dusk

By Order of the Harting Farms Police Department



Just as we were about to enter the underpass, someone called out, “Holy hell! Look who’s here!”

We all froze.

“Holy hell,” Nathan Keener said again, materializing out of the dark. He stood spotlighted in the glow of light that spilled down from the road above, the light assigning a ghastly paleness to his complexion. He looked like a vampire.

Denny Sallis and Eric Falconette were with him, all three of them clutching a bottle of Budweiser. Sallis’s face hosted a devious smirk that spoke of bad intentions, and while that was awful enough, it was no match for the psychotic wheels I saw turning behind the dead eyes of Eric Falconette. Sallis took a swig from his beer bottle, then lobbed it in our direction.

“Is that you, Mazzone?” Keener said. His body seemed to fold over into a compact missile shape, his head forward on his neck, his shoulders slightly bladed as if he were preparing to jackknife off a high dive. He dug his boots into the dirt and crunched some dry sticks. For one horrific moment, I thought he was going to charge me like a bull. “Seems you and me got some unfinished business, huh?”

“You the one who f*cked up his truck?” Sallis executed two wobbly steps in our direction, and I could see that he was drunk, stoned, or possibly both. “He the piece of shit did that to your truck, Nate?”

“Get over here,” Keener growled at me—actually growled. Teeth clenched, cheeks quivering. I could feel his eyes drilling into mine, and there was nothing but fiery golden hate shimmering in the depths of his pupils. “The rest of you get the f*ck outta here.”

No one moved.

“I said split, f*ckers,” Keener said.

“You split,” Adrian said. His oversized glasses did little to cover up the fear on his face.

Keener’s head swung in Adrian’s direction. “What’d you say, you little faggot?”

“I said you split.” Frightened or not, his voice didn’t falter.

“You little queer,” Keener said, his teeth still clenched. “You little cocksucker. I’ll kill you, too, you talk to me like that again.”

Adrian stood his ground. “You’re not welcome here.”

Jesus Christ, he’s going to get himself killed, I thought. Keener will kill both of us.

Denny Sallis bleated laughter. His teeth looked like baked beans.

Keener looked stunned. “Not welcome here? What the f*ck is that?”

“This park is ours,” Adrian said. “Now leave us alone. We weren’t bothering you.”

“Shut up,” Peter muttered.

Keener lifted his beer bottle and, holding it by the neck, cracked it against the stone wall of the underpass. The bottle broke, leaving him holding a jagged weapon that glinted in the lamplight. “How ’bout this? How ’bout I cut your f*cking throats? All of you. I’ll carve your f*cking eyes out of your skulls.”

Michael made a sudden movement with his right arm, and Keener’s squared head swiveled in his direction. But Falconette kept his eyes on me, sighted in his crosshairs.

Michael held up his switchblade, the one Scott had purchased for him in the spring.

Sallis broke out into fresh laughter. He was like a busted toy, unable to do anything else.

“You’ve gotta be f*ckin’ kidding me,” Keener said. He sounded almost irritated. “I want to know which one of you motherf*ckers messed up my truck.”

“We didn’t do anything to your truck,” I said, finding my voice at last.

“Bullshit.” He pointed the busted bottle in Scott’s direction. “Spill it.”

“We didn’t do shit,” Scott said. His fists were clenched at his side.

“Get lost,” Adrian said again. This time his voice cracked. He looked like he was about to be ill.

“Let’s open ’em up, Nate.” Falconette’s voice was disconcertingly calm. “Let’s cut off some pieces.”

“There’s five of us,” Michael said, “and three of you. And I got a knife.”

“So do I,” Scott said, whipping his butterfly knife out from his pocket. He twirled the blade like a pro.

“Yeah,” Peter said, pulling his switchblade from his pocket. The blade sprung out with a hollow clunk. “Get the f*ck outta here and leave us the hell alone.”

Sallis’s laughter died for good this time—it cranked to a slow and reedy whine until it wound down altogether. He shifted his bleary eyes to his discarded beer bottle, which was now lodged in the mud. He clumsily went for it, but Scott was closer, and he kicked it across the grass and into the shadows. Sallis stopped in mid-leap, a look of confusion etched onto his face.

“You little shits don’t have the balls,” Keener said.

“You little faggots,” Sallis cried.

Adrian opened his knife and held it awkwardly at his side. I popped out the rusted blade of my knife, extended it so I was sure I had Keener’s attention, then turned it upside down and let it fall to the ground. It struck the mud blade-first.