December Park(77)

“More trees,” I said, plucking the cigarette from Scott’s mouth and sticking it into my own.

“There’s neighborhoods back there, too,” Peter said, pointing to the west.

“Which neighborhoods? Like, did any of the missing kids live there?”

Peter and I had ridden our bikes through all the missing kids’ neighborhoods, so we both nodded.

“Two blocks over is Shore Acre Road,” I said. “The Demorest kid lived out that way. He was the first one to go missing back in August.”

“But it’s totally residential,” Peter countered. “Angie and I went up and down every street. Unless the killer lives in one of the houses, he ain’t hiding out anywhere.”

“Maybe he does live in one of those houses,” Scott interjected. “For all we know, he could just be a normal guy most of the time, right? Isn’t that why Michael’s been making a list of suspects?”

“My list!” Michael dug his notepad out of the rear pocket of his jeans. He flipped through the pages, scanning the notes. “Old lady Schubert. She’s the only one who lives on Shore Acre Road.”

“Yes, of course,” Peter said. “She probably ran the Cole girl over in her wheelchair, then clubbed her to death with her cane.”

Michael frowned. “Why would she have a cane if she’s in a wheelchair?”

Peter rolled his eyes.

“If the killer lives on this side of the highway and also killed the Cole girl here, why was her body found in the Dead Woods?” Scott asked, taking the cigarette back from me. “It doesn’t make sense.”

We all considered this in mutual silence for nearly a full minute. The rain continued to come down in sheets.

“Unless,” I suggested, “the cops are right, and he killed Courtney in the park after all, and he was planning to carry her body back here, where maybe he lives.”

“Yeah?” Adrian said.

“Well, think about it. He kills her in December Park, carries her through the woods toward Counterpoint Lane but decides not to risk it and leaves her there. Maybe he takes the heart-shaped locket with him but drops it as he crosses the street.”

“Not the street,” Adrian said. “The tunnel. He would have used the tunnel so no one would have seen him.”

“But why would he just drop her in the woods?” Peter said. “He didn’t do that with anyone else. Why leave her body for police to find but hide the others?”

No one had an explanation for that.

Adrian pointed east, toward the heavy black shroud of trees. “What’s over that way?”

“More woods,” I said.

“Okay, but what’s beyond the woods?”

“The Butterfield farm. Then the Shallows.”

“What’s the Shallows?”

“An inlet with a beach and a marina. Some houses.”

Adrian sucked on his lower lip and looked west, where Shore Acre Road and the Demorest house were hidden behind the rain and the trees.

“What’s the plan for all this junk, anyway?” Michael said, holding up his mud-streaked shopping bag. He opened it, and I peered inside, glimpsing the mossy tennis ball, a soggy cardboard juice box, and several rust-orange bottle caps.

“We hang on to it, keep it as evidence,” said Adrian.

Michael shrugged.

We stood around in silence, listening to the rain. We had reached an impasse.

“So what do we do now?” Scott asked eventually.

“I’m out of cigarettes and I’m hungry,” Peter said. “Let’s run over to the Quickman.”

We sprinted across the loading docks in the rain and hopped onto the awning-covered sidewalk of the plaza’s strip mall. Lightning slammed down beyond the trees on the far side of the highway. A moment later, the sky roared.

“Hey,” Scott said, pausing in front of the RadioShack. A TV in the window informed us of Kurt Cobain’s suicide, and we all watched in silent disbelief. Scott undid the Nirvana patch he had on the sleeve of his jacket and pinned it over his heart.

“What happens now?” Peter asked no one in particular. It seemed that while we weren’t looking, occupied as we were with the Piper, the world had stolen something important from us.

After a time, and in contemplative silence, we continued on our way toward the Quickman, though none of us felt much like eating anymore.





Chapter Thirteen


Discoveries





The following day, I was bum-rushed by Mr. Mattingly out in the hallway after his class let out. “Do you have a minute, Angelo?”

“I guess,” I said. I nodded at Adrian to go on without me.

Adrian looked at Mr. Mattingly with something akin to distrust in his eyes. Then he turned and merged into the sea of students.

Mr. Mattingly’s smile was warm. “We’ve got about two and a half more months left before the end of the school year. I was wondering if you’d given any further thought to what we’d discussed about next year.”

“AP English?” I shrugged and tried my damnedest to look disinterested when, in truth, I had been dreading this confrontation since Mr. Mattingly had first approached me about it. It had been so long, I had mistakenly thought he’d forgotten about it. “No, not really. It kind of slipped my mind.”