December Park(40)

She looked up sharply at my dad. When she recognized him, she stood.

The uniformed cop turned toward us, glancing at my dad, then me.

“It’s okay, Rebecca,” my father said, intercepting her and gripping her forearms just as he’d done to the woman in the rhinestone-studded sweatshirt by the quarry only moments ago. He turned to the cop. “We’ve got guys on the way?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get out front and check the nearby yards. Ask some of those people on the front lawn to help you out.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And have someone go over to the Torinos’ place for statements.”

The officer nodded, shot another glance at me—Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?—then hurried out.

“What happened, Rebecca?”

She began crying. It was miserable. Her face appeared to collapse straight down the middle, her eyes smeary and indistinct in their sockets.

For the first time I noticed a small black dog under the table. At the sound of Rebecca Ransom’s sobs, the dog became frantic, running around the legs of the table and weaving around the chairs. It barked twice—more squeaks than barks—then fell silent.

My dad backed Rebecca Ransom toward one of the chairs and guided her into it. “Calm down, hon,” he said, his voice impossibly calm. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

I deciphered most of what happened through Rebecca’s erratic retelling: at around ten o’clock, Aaron had gone over to the Torinos’ house for a New Year’s Eve party. She had instructed him to be home immediately after midnight. When he didn’t show up, Rebecca telephoned Mrs. Torino and asked to speak with Aaron. Mrs. Torino informed her that he had never shown up. That was when Rebecca had called the police.

“Was he on his bike?” my father asked.

“No. He was taking over a rum cake and he walked. Oh, Jesus . . .”

“Did you tell all this to the officer who was here?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sending someone to sit with you.” He turned toward me. “Come on, Angelo.”

I followed him through the house and out the door. More people had gathered in the street and on the neighbors’ lawns, some of them carrying flashlights. The uniformed cop was speaking to a group of them, pointing in various directions around the neighborhood.

As my dad and I crossed the lawn to join them, two more police cars slid up Bessel Avenue, lights and sirens whirling. My dad paused by the Ransoms’ mailbox and flipped back the flap of his barn coat. He took his handgun from the waistband of his jeans, jerked the slide, and stuck it back in his pants. When his eyes met mine, there was a confused mix of compassion, sorrow, and angst in them. Yet on the surface he remained calm.

All of a sudden, and to my great horror, I found that I was close to tears.

“It’s okay,” said my father in a calming voice. “You stick close to me. Right on my heels.”

Numb, I nodded.

My father hurried into the street. He approached one of the police cars that had just pulled up and spoke to the officer behind the wheel. The officer handed him what looked like a trucker’s CB radio handset. My dad brought it up to his mouth, keyed the button. When he spoke, his voice was transmitted over a loudspeaker hidden among the rack of lights on the roof of the car.

“We’re looking for Aaron Ransom,” he addressed the crowd. “Everyone, fan out. Check the streets and make your way through yards. If you see any neighbors, have them turn on all outdoor lights—floodlights, porch lights, anything. Four groups, searching north, south, east, west. You’ll each have an officer leading the group. Stay with your group. No one should go off by themselves.”

He looked out over the crowd, perhaps gauging the frightened and aggressive faces, then added, “Don’t take any weapons. If you’ve got a handgun, leave it at home.” He tossed the handset back in through the open driver’s side window.

“What do we do?” I asked him when he faced me.

“Head up Bessel toward the Torinos’ house,” said my dad, already moving up the block. I hurried after him. Several neighbors joined us, the beams of their flashlights crisscrossing the night. Everyone jumped as more fireworks exploded over the horizon.

A woman shouted up ahead. A crowd gathered around her, and some of the men waved at us. One of the police cruisers drifted toward them, and several men—my father included—broke out into a run. I ran after them, my face burning.

My dad stopped when he reached the crowd. They stood in a semicircle around something in the street. As soon as I realized this, I felt my legs stiffen up. My heart was jackhammering. Shoulders thumped by me, jostling me as I slowed to a near standstill in the middle of Bessel Avenue. Up and down the block, porch lights came on.

“Oh, my God,” said one woman. She wandered away from the crowd, her hands to her mouth, her eyes wide and fearful. “Oh, God, Rebecca . . .”

I approached the crowd, coming up alongside my dad. I spotted something small and dark, shoved up against the curb.

My dad placed a hand on my chest, arresting my progress. “Stay,” he said, then pushed himself through the crowd. He bent down and examined the thing on the ground.

I managed to squeeze between two men and saw what he was looking at.

It was the rum cake. A ceramic plate lay in pieces in the gutter. It looked like someone had tried to kick the smashed cake and the pieces of plate into the sewer.