December Park(140)

But nothing happened. With my airplane in tow, I turned and kicked up clods of dirt as I ran toward the slope of green lawn that trailed to the edge of the cliff.

Later around the dinner table, when my father asked what I’d done all afternoon, I told him about flying the plane over the cliffs. “Did you know there’s a building back there?” I asked him.

“Stay away from it,” he told me flatly. He looked at Charles, who had been listening to my story with uncharacteristic interest. “You and your friends go in there to play, you could get hurt. Or worse.”

In bed that night, I thought about the shape I’d seen—or thought I’d seen—passing behind one of the eye-socket–shaped windows, and it only brought my father’s voice back to me: you could get hurt. Or worse . . .

@

Back in the school’s rear parking lot and still shaken by the prospect of what we’d seen in the B Hall display case, we all agreed that we needed to go to the old building and see for ourselves if there were statues up there, too.

As expected, Adrian and Scott wanted to head out right away, but I had to finish my shift at the store. Also, Michael had homework, and Peter complained that he had chores to do at home. Reluctantly, Adrian and Scott agreed to wait until seven to meet at our rendezvous point.

Back at Secondhand Thrift, I shambled through the rest of my day in a fog, my mind on things other than used clothing that needed price stickers, old Perry Como LPs, and the model of a Spanish warship Callibaugh was piecing together in the office.

It was around ten after four when someone entered. I looked up from behind the cash register, where I was stapling receipts, and felt disbelief wash over me. It was the police officer who had been watching my friends and me in Market Square on the Fourth of July. The same cop who had been first on the scene the night Aaron Ransom was taken by the Piper and had been digging through our stuff at Echo Base.

Since the disappearance of Howie Holt in June, it was common to see uniformed officers patrolling the streets and going in and out of local shops. But I found it impossible to convince myself that this was merely a coincidence. I hoped grouchy old Callibaugh would emerge from his office and help disperse the atmospheric tension.

The cop approached the counter and leveled a hard gaze at me. His face looked too young. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-one. “They got you here alone tonight, kid?”

“The owner’s in the back.”

The cop surveyed the counter, and I could tell he was just casually taking it all in and not looking for something in particular. Eventually, he dropped a pack of cinnamon Dentyne onto the counter, along with some change. “I’ll just take this.”

That’s not all, I thought. You’re here for a reason. I can smell it on you. You’ve been following us around for quite a while now, haven’t you?

I rang up the gum and gave the cop his change, anxious to be rid of him.

“Have a good night and be safe,” he said, moving toward the door. He slipped the pack of gum in his pocket. “Don’t forget the curfew,” he added before stepping outside.

Through the storefront windows, I watched him continue down the block, roving like an alley cat at a casual, disinterested pace.

I slipped out from behind the counter and went to the front windows. It looked like the cop was heading toward the Wet Dog Pub, which already had its happy hour sign glowing in the window, but then he cut down an alley between the pub and Patty’s Laundromat. I was at too much of an angle to see into the alleyway.

I went back behind the counter, grabbed a blank envelope, then paused as I listened for any indication that Callibaugh might come out of his office anytime soon. All was quiet. The old guy might have fallen asleep. He’d done it before, waking up at his desk with pieces of a model ship glued to his face.

I went outside, hurried up the block to the mailbox that stood on the corner of Second and Children Street, and dropped the envelope inside . . . then looked across the street and straight down the mouth of the alley.

I had expected the alley to be empty but it was not. There was a police car tucked away in there, its front grille facing the street. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought the cop was sitting behind the wheel.

This did not make me feel better.

Trying to keep a casual pace, I walked back to the store. Once inside, I pressed my forehead against the window to see if the cop might emerge from the alley. He didn’t.

“You,” said Callibaugh, coming up behind me and nearly sending me straight through the roof, “are like a pathetic little puppy in the window of a pet store. Do tell. What is it you find so fascinating on the corner? Or is it just the concept that it’s summer and you’re in here while others are enjoying the last remaining hours of daylight?”

“That must be it,” I said. “Can I use the phone again?”

“Why not? Say, would you like to borrow my car, too?”

“I’m sorry. I could use the pay phone across the street.”

His face softened and he winked at me. “I’m joking with you. How’s your grandpa?”

“He’s great.”

“Wonderful. He owes me thirty dollars from a night of poker.”

“I didn’t realize he still played poker.”

“He doesn’t. He’s owed me since 1985. Go on. Use the phone.”