December Park(142)

Scott left the store, got on his bike, and pedaled down the block in the opposite direction of the alley where the police cruiser sat waiting for me.





At five o’clock, I closed down the register, then poked my head in through the half-open doorway of Callibaugh’s office. I caught him in the process of excavating a particularly stubborn booger from his left nostril. I cleared my throat, and Callibaugh, startled, popped his big forefinger from his nose.

“I’m heading home now,” I told him.

Callibaugh blinked and shuffled around the paperwork on top of his desk. He brushed some papers aside to reveal an open history textbook. He pointed to the reproduction of an oil painting that showed two ironclad ships firing at each other in the water. “Your friend is a smart little bugger. Clumsy . . . but smart.”

I went to the stockroom, retrieved my bike, and rolled it out onto the street. Mid-July and the sun was still a blazing ball beyond the tops of the buildings even at this hour. In my right hand I had the walkie-talkie wrapped in Scott’s ball cap. I turned it on, heard the brief static hum, then climbed onto my bike. I keyed the Talk button with my thumb and said, “I’m heading out. Over.”

“Roger that,” Scott’s voice crackled over the handheld. “I’ve got your back. Over.”

I pedaled slowly toward the intersection of Second Avenue and Children Street. The happy hour crowd had gathered outside the Wet Dog Pub, and a number of people walked home from work. As I waited for the traffic light to change, I glanced at the mouth of the alleyway. The police car was still there. No one seemed to notice it, but I sensed a strong wrongness coming off it and wafting out of that dark alley like a stink.

When the light changed, I rode across and coasted down Second Avenue, passing the library and Market Square, which looked eerily quiet. Twice I glanced over my shoulder to see if the police car had pulled out of the alley. But it wasn’t pursuing me.

I cut straight through Market Square, the tires of my bike crunching over discarded Styrofoam cups and empty potato chip bags. Men in rubber waders stood in the water fishing while along the beach some kids tossed around a football. At the end of Market Square I picked up Third Avenue, which curled around the waterfront toward my side of town.

Wrapped inside Scott’s ball cap, the walkie-talkie squawked. “The police car just pulled out,” Scott said. “Over.”

Again, I glanced behind me. I was on the curved portion of Third Avenue so I couldn’t see beyond Market Square. If the cop was indeed following me, he was being awfully cautious.

I keyed the handheld and said, “Roger that. Over.”

It was an uphill ride on Third Avenue, and I lifted myself off my bike seat and pedaled harder. I decided to take Solomon’s Bend Road out to Counterpoint Lane and afford the cop the opportunity to keep up with me. I wanted to know if this guy was actually following me or if I was jumping to conclusions.

“He just crossed Market Square,” Scott said over the walkie-talkie.

I thumbed the button on the side of the handheld and shouted, “Okay.”

“And he just turned up Third Ave,” Scott said. In his excitement, he had stopped saying “over” at the end of each broadcast. This was suddenly not a game anymore.

I looked over my shoulder and saw a car at the bottom of the hill.

Up ahead, the lights changed at the intersection. A few cars puttered through. I slowed down and rolled up onto the curb. I wanted to look behind me again, but I didn’t want to let on that I had spotted the cop car. Instead, I spoke into the walkie-talkie. “What’s he doing now?”

A few seconds passed. “He’s slowing down. He’s . . . wait . . . He’s pulling up alongside the curb,” Scott said.

“I’m stopped at the traffic light,” I said into the radio.

“He must be waiting for you to go,” Scott returned.

When the lights changed, I crossed the intersection and continued up the block toward the turnoff onto Solomon’s Bend Road.

“He’s moving again,” Scott said.

This can’t be happening, I thought.

Rush hour traffic backed up on Solomon’s Bend Road. I couldn’t see how the police car would get through the mess to keep up with me. I biked past Harting Farms Elementary, Stanton School, and the entrance to Shipley’s Crossing before Scott’s voice broke out over the walkie-talkie: “Whoa, man, you’re like a wanted felon. He just put his lights on and is driving up the middle of the road.”

“You’re kidding me,” I said.

“Swear to God. I mean, he’s moving pretty slowly still . . . but people are getting out of his way. It’s unbelievable.”

I wound down Solomon’s Bend Road, passing the quaint little houses with their flower gardens and picket fences. Up ahead, I saw the vast tree line that designated the woods and December Park. A part of me wanted to cut into Solomon’s Field and hide in the underpass until the coast was clear. When I came to the turnoff that banked down toward the park, I resisted that urge and continued straight.

“He turned his lights off,” Scott said. “Where are you?”

I gave him my location.

“What if he tries to stop you?” Scott asked.

“I don’t think he will,” I said. “I think he’s trying to keep his distance.”