December Park(30)

I told him about the night before, and I could see the anger welling just below the surface of his face as the story progressed. By the time I’d finished, his normally ruddy complexion had transitioned to a purple rash-like blotchiness that seemed to originate somewhere below his neckline.

Peter pushed the half-eaten plate away. “That son of a bitch coward, jumping you when you’re alone. He must have been following us and waiting for the right time.”

I had been thinking the same thing. I even recalled seeing a pickup coast by the Harting Farms sign last night after we’d switched the letters. In hindsight, I thought it might have been Keener’s truck.

“We gotta get that *. Like, for real. Payback’s a bitch.” Peter hooked one finger into his shirt collar and stretched it away from his neck. I nearly expected a cartoon mushroom cloud of steam to belch out. “What’s his community service?”

“He and his friends gotta scrub the graffiti off the back of the Generous Superstore. Either that or paint over it.”

Peter shook his head. “And that dumb f*ck blames you?”

I shrugged, trying damned hard to look disinterested and not upset all of a sudden. “He thinks I ratted him out to my dad. He knows I saw them spraying the store.”

“But, well, you didn’t rat them out, did you?”

“Of course not.”

“That overgrown f*ck. We could set his truck on fire.”

“Chill out,” I said. “I’m in no mood to go to juvie over it.”

“But you can’t just not do anything about it.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m pretty sure I busted Carl Nance’s kneecap before I got away.”

Peter arched his eyebrows. “No shit?”

“I got him pretty good,” I said, “and I think I heard it pop.”

“Good for you. I hope he’s in a wheelchair the next time I see him. Those *s.” Though still visibly angry, Peter’s appetite had evidently returned, because he scooped up a mound of egg. “I’m assuming your dad doesn’t know anything about this.”

I snagged a strip of bacon off the plate. “Nope. Wasn’t in the mood to get into it with him. That’s why I left before he woke up.”

“So then the plan is to hide from him all week until your face heals up?”

“I have no plan.”

“Maybe we can catch a movie at the Juniper. They’re showing all those old horror flicks for Halloween, remember?”

“Cool,” I said.

“After that, we can figure out what to do about your face. Maybe Scott will have an idea. He’s on his way over here.”

When Scott arrived almost twenty minutes later, winded and chapped from biking halfway across town, he plunked down beside Peter, who was in the middle of eating a fresh order of breakfast.

Scott plucked a sausage link from his plate. “Jesus, Angie, what happened to your face?”

“Sorry,” I said. “You missed the reenactment.”

“Nathan Keener and his ballet troupe jumped him last night after we all split up,” Peter informed him.

“Goddamn it. He tuned you up good.”

I rolled my shoulders and pursed my lips. “Apparently it looks worse than it feels.”

“What’d your dad say?” he asked, snatching another of Peter’s sausage links.

This time, Peter shot him a disapproving look.

“He hasn’t seen me yet.”

“You think he’ll arrest Keener and his friends for assault?”

“Christ,” I said. “That’s the last thing I need.”

“Then what are you gonna tell him?”

“Beats me. You got any ideas?”

Scott narrowed his eyes and scrutinized my face while chewing slowly and methodically on the last bit of sausage. Then his eyes brightened and he snapped his fingers. “You could pretend it’s fake. Like, it’s your Halloween costume.”

“What’s he supposed to be?” Peter quipped. “A guy who got his ass kicked?”

“No, man,” Scott said. “Your dad’s got those old boxing gloves in the basement, right? You can say you’re a boxer.”

“Nice,” I said, frowning. “And what am I supposed to do tomorrow? Pretend I’m still in character?”

“You can pretend you’re one of the Piper’s victims,” Peter suggested. “The one who got away.”

“That isn’t funny,” I told him.

“You guys realize he’s real, right?” Scott said. “The cops finding that girl’s body in Satan’s Forest proves it. No one can say those other kids just ran away anymore. We’re not dealing with runaways or even a kidnapper. We’ve got our very own serial killer.” The look on his face suggested he was delighted at the prospect.

“Just because a girl was murdered doesn’t mean those other three kids were killed,” I said. “It doesn’t even mean they’re related.”

“That’s what everybody’s saying,” Peter added.

“Not everybody,” Scott said. “The newspapers think they’re all related. You should talk to your stepdad,” he said, turning to Peter. Peter’s stepfather worked for the Washington Post.