December Park(15)

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I blurted. “I lost track of time.”

“Sit down for a minute,” he said.

I moved across the porch toward him, all too aware and terrified of the odor of smoke wafting off my skin and my clothes, and sat directly in front of him in one of the other wicker chairs. I could see by the bluish light of the moon the weathered and hardened features that melded together to comprise the face of my father. It was a patchwork of lines, the dual pits beneath his formidable brow only hinting at the place where his eyes were. I was shocked by how old he looked.

He still wore his dress shirt and necktie from work, as the moonlight reflected off the tie clip and the gold badge at his hip, and this caused me to hang my head and fold my hands between my knees, shamed. I never felt more childish than when I was confronted by my father.

“Where’ve you been?” he said casually, evenly.

“Out with the guys. Just like I said.”

“Specifically,” he said.

“The Shallows.” It came out before I could come up with a suitable lie. My dad didn’t like me going down there at night since he knew that was where kids often got drunk, smoked dope, and had sex.

“I heard you and your friends were there when they took that girl out of the woods today.”

“Yes,” I said, wondering if my grandmother or one of the cops had said something to him. Either way and for whatever reason, I felt guilty.

“I’m sorry you had to see it,” he said.

“Has she been . . . identified yet? Like, do you know who she . . . she is?”

“Courtney Cole,” he said.

I didn’t recognize the name. Nonetheless, having a name to go along with the body I’d seen only deepened the reality of it. I had been picturing her broken face and dented head ever since this afternoon. “Did she go to Stanton?”

“No, she was from the Palisades. She went to Girls’ Holy Cross. She was fifteen. I guess you probably wouldn’t have known her.”

The Palisades was the southernmost part of Harting Farms. My grandmother had taken me there as a child to play, and my limited memory resurrected an image of a glistening field of grass and stately tamaracks, where swans carved paths through the mirrored surface of a beautiful man-made lake. To think of someone from the Palisades—someone my age, no less—having been murdered was almost beyond my ability to comprehend.

I just sat there, trying not to let my leg tap, trying not to pick at my fingernails. “Do her parents know? I mean . . . well, you found her parents?” I wasn’t sure why this question jumped into my head, though I wondered if it had something to do with the man in the navy-blue sweater who had been talking to Mr. Pastore at the deli.

“Yes.” Again my father shifted in the darkness.

“So . . . what happened to her?” This was what I really wanted to know. And for a moment I actually thought he was going to tell me. But I should have known better.

“Someone did something horrible to her,” he replied, his voice low. “It’s a sick and terrible thing. You don’t need to know the details.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“When you go out,” my father said, “you’re always with your friends, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good. That’s good. You should stay with your friends.”

“Dad,” I began, and my voice cracked. “Does this have anything to do with those other kids who went missing? The person everybody’s calling the Piper.”

“It’s too early to tell. But you’re old enough to know the facts. I don’t have to sugarcoat anything for you anymore, do I?”

“No, sir,” I said, my voice terribly weak.

“There’s something going on around here. Something bad. When you go out, stay with your friends in populated areas, preferably at their houses. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“You stay away from remote places—the woods, the locks down at the poorer end of town, the bike path, and all the parks after dark. Stay away from those empty cabins along the Cape and the Shallows and the old railway station at the end of Farrington Road. And that bridge by Deaver’s Pond where the homeless go in the winter. I don’t want you hanging around by that underpass, not with your friends and certainly not alone. You understand me?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“I’m being serious, Angelo. I want you to understand.”

“I understand,” I told him. “I promise.”

“I’m telling you this because I want you to be careful and be aware.”

“I know,” I said.

His nod was almost imperceptible in the darkness. “Good. Now get up to bed.”

For a second I thought it was a trick. I had anticipated a shouting match or at the very least a stern reprimand about breaking curfew.

My father must have registered my uncertainty; when I didn’t immediately get out of the chair, he pointed at me and swiped his finger toward the door, as though I were a dog in need of specific instruction.

I stood and went to the door, turned the knob carefully. My grandparents’ bedroom was on the ground floor, and my frequent nighttime escapes from the house over the years had schooled me in the proper technique to avoid the moaning hinges: turn the knob and pull up, lifting the door in its frame, then push inward. Silent as a nun’s prayer.