December Park(31)

“Ed the Jew works in the goddamned classifieds,” Peter countered. “What would he know? Unless the killer’s taken out an ad because he’s selling a bicycle or a used washing machine . . .”

“The cops haven’t suggested that they’re related,” I said.

“No offense to your dad,” Scott said, “but the cops, they don’t know everything. I mean, if they did, they would have found those other kids, right?”

I sucked some of my Coke up through a straw and said, “Yeah, I guess.”

“If those three other kids didn’t run away,” Peter said, “and they were actually murdered by some nut—”

“Serial killer,” Scott interjected.

“Yeah, serial killer,” said Peter. “If they were murdered, then where are their bodies? The police would have found them by now.”

“Maybe they’re hidden,” Scott said. “Maybe they’re down in the woods just like that Cole girl, only the cops haven’t found them.”

“Impossible,” I said. “The police spent two days going through the whole woods. They had dogs with them and everything.” I knew this because I had ridden my bike to the park and watched the uniformed police officers comb the area with cadaver dogs straining their leashes.

“Drug-sniffing dogs?” Peter said.

“Body-sniffing dogs,” I said.

Peter raised his eyebrows and looked impressed.

“So maybe the other bodies are hidden someplace else.” Scott was unwilling to be deterred. Once he wrapped his mind around something, he never let it go.

“Like where?” I said.

“Like anywhere. I don’t know. Maybe he chopped the others up into fish food and dumped ’em in the Chesapeake.”

“What about their bones?” Peter said. “You can’t chop up bones and feed them to fish.”

“You can smash bones. You can burn them, too. Or maybe the Piper just threw them in the bay, too. Do bones float or sink?” He looked at me.

“How the hell should I know?” I said. “How many bodies you think I’ve disposed of?”

“And where would he be doing all this chopping?” Peter asked. “In his house?”

“Sure,” Scott said. “Why not?”

“If this killer of yours is chopping up bodies and dumping the pieces into the bay, how come he left that Cole girl in the woods?” I said.

“Maybe he didn’t do it on purpose,” Scott said. “Maybe she would have never been found if that drunk MacMillan chick hadn’t driven her car off the road and into the woods.”

“Okay,” I conceded. “That’s a good point. But it still doesn’t mean those other three kids were murdered.”

“Yeah?” Scott said. “So let me ask you. If there’s no chance those other kids were killed, why were the cops searching the woods with cadaver dogs after they found the Cole girl? What else were they looking for?”

Peter and I exchanged glances.

Then, for the second time that morning, something slammed against the plate-glass window, causing the three of us to bounce up in our seats. Pressed against the glass, pink and hairless like two Easter hams, were the quivering twin lobes of Michael Sugarland’s bare ass. Watching our expressions from over his shoulder, he exploded with laughter, his mouth so wide I could count the fillings in his molars. He dragged his buttocks along the glass, and the sound was like the rubber heel of a sneaker skidding on a gymnasium floor.

As luck would have it, this was at the same moment our waitress arrived and placed the check at the corner of our table.

“Lovely,” she said and turned quickly away.





We caught a double feature at the Juniper, This Island Earth and The Incredible Shrinking Man.

During the intermission, Scott leaned close to me and said, “He must live right here in town.”

“Who?”

“The killer,” he said, his breath smelling of buttered popcorn. “The Piper. Don’t you think so?”

I didn’t answer.





There was a moving van in the driveway of the old Dunbar house next door by the time I pedaled home. It was about time, seeing how the new neighbors had been moving around inside the house for weeks now. I assumed they were old, since most of the old people I knew—including my grandparents—didn’t venture outside the house very much.

I drew figure eights in the street on my bike as the movers hauled furniture and cardboard boxes into the house, hoping to catch sight of our new neighbors. At one point I thought I saw someone in an upstairs window peering down at me. I stopped in the middle of the street and looked up. There was certainly a face, white and round yet otherwise indistinct, in the window. To my surprise, it looked like a child, maybe even someone my own age. I waved, then immediately felt like an imbecile when the moon face retreated into darkness.

One of the movers grunted and stepped down the ramp at the back of the truck. He carried two cardboard boxes, one stacked on top of the other. Printed in block capitals in black marker on both boxes were the words comic books. One corner of my mouth tugged upward in a half smile.

I pedaled to my house, hopping the lip of the driveway and coasting up onto the lawn. The air smelled strongly of fireplaces, and a lazy plume of blackish smoke spiraled out of the Mathersons’ chimney across the street. I stowed my bike against the side of our house, then went inside.