December Park(155)

But it was real-life noise that yanked me from the nightmare. I jumped out of bed and peered out one open window at the moonlit sea that was our backyard. I had made it there just in time to see a figure pass from the pin oaks at one end of the house into shadows behind the shed. I distinctly heard the figure drag something along the wooden framework of the shed while tromping down broken branches in the underbrush.

Flying away from the window, I snatched my shorts off my desk chair and climbed into them. Downstairs, I unlocked the door to the back porch and peeled it open on squealing hinges. I traced the wall, found the outdoor light switch, flipped it on. The porch lit up, but the yard beyond remained as black as the deepest parts of the Chesapeake.

Standing in the open doorway, I held my breath and willed my heart to stop beating as I surveyed the property. A vision came to me: of creeping up on the trespasser behind the shed while brandishing my grandfather’s samurai sword. It was both ridiculous and wholly probable and my limbs began to tremble.

A hand fell on my shoulder, and I cried out like a little girl.

“What are you doing?” It was my father, half-asleep and wearing nothing but his threadbare briefs.

“I . . . thought I heard . . . someone . . .” And I wished I hadn’t said thought, as it inevitably brought my certainty into question. “I mean, I heard someone. I saw someone go behind the shed.”

But it was too late. My father was unconvinced. “There’s no one there. Go to bed.” He turned me around with the hand that was still on my shoulder.

Without protest, I reentered the house while he closed and locked the door. Then he shut off the porch light but remained lingering at the door, gazing out at the yard.

I paused in the hallway and stared at the matted hair on the back of his head.

“Go to bed,” he repeated without turning to me.

Silently, I went upstairs.





Chapter Thirty-Two


Adrian Gardiner





Sunday morning, I awoke with a dagger of guilt in my chest. I hadn’t seen Adrian since he ran off Thursday evening as we were walking home after our search of the Patapsco Institute. The day after, I had knocked on his front door. His mother’s car wasn’t in the driveway and no one answered, so I surmised Adrian was ignoring me.

His disappointment wasn’t totally alien to me. After all this time, my preoccupation with the Piper had only strengthened. In a way, my friends and I had become a part of the Piper. And the Piper had become a part of us all.

After breakfast, I got dressed and summoned the courage to return to the Gardiner house. I knocked on the front door and waited for several minutes.

Just when I thought no one would answer, Doreen Gardiner peeked out. Her eyes were dead headlamps, and her skin was the color and texture of uncooked pie crust. When she spoke, I caught a whiff of alcohol on her breath. “Adrian isn’t here.”

This time, I didn’t bother asking where he went. Instead, I thanked her and bounded off the porch.





During Mass at St. Nonnatus, I glanced at Michael who was bookended by his parents in one of the pews. His eyes met mine. I just shook my head. When Father Evangeline had everyone come up to receive the Eucharist, I made sure to slide into line right behind Michael.

“Still no word from Poindexter?” he whispered over his shoulder.

“No. I went to his house this morning, but his mom said he wasn’t home.”

“Maybe she shipped him off to see those head doctors again.”

“Maybe.” Yet it didn’t help calm my nerves, nor did it dispel the sense of guilt I carried with me for betraying him.

“Have you thought about what you’re gonna tell your dad?”

“No.”

“We’re gonna get in big trouble.”

“I guess,” I said.

“Scott wants to catch a movie at the Juniper later. You in?”

“Sure.”

Behind me in line, my grandmother squeezed my shoulder, which was my cue that I needed to stop talking.





When I got home from church, I changed out of my good clothes, then retrieved my bike from the wall of ivy at the side of the house. It promised to be another scorcher. The sun was high and full in the sky, the horizon a startling red that looked as serious as an arterial wound beyond the trees and houses on Worth Street.

At the intersection, I hooked a right onto Haven, then felt my legs go rubbery as I spied a familiar pickup on the shoulder of the road. Instinct caused me to squeeze the hand brakes and let up on the pedals. Nathan Keener . . .

I slowed as I passed it. No one was in the cab, though the interior dome light was on. It was parked at a hasty angle, the passenger side tires over the curb. I surveyed the surrounding yards, not putting it past Keener to use his truck as a decoy while he sprung out at me from behind a parked car or a bristling hedgerow. The strange part was, following our fight on July Fourth, I had come to believe that all bets had been settled between us. Had I miscalculated? That seemed the most disconcerting of all.

My hackles still raised, I continued up the street. When the bells of St. Nonnatus chimed noon, I nearly rocketed out of my bike seat and blasted off into the atmosphere. Even when I made it to the highway and the Superstore plaza, I was still certain I was the unwitting fool in the middle of an elaborate trap set by Nathan Keener. Was I being followed even now?