December Park(84)

“How come we’re going down here?” I asked.

“Just checking up on all the quiet places,” said my dad.

Houses fell away, and the roadway narrowed as tree boughs stretched out toward the car. Through the windshield, wisps of clouds threaded in front of the full moon. When we reached the fences around the quarry, my dad turned on a side-mounted floodlight and panned its beam back and forth across the grounds. On the far side of the quarry, giant limestone monoliths looked like something on a lunar landscape.

“Hang tight a sec,” my dad said, leaning over my lap and opening the glove compartment. A flashlight rolled into his hand. He winked at me, then climbed out of the car. Clicking the flashlight on, he went over to the gates in the fence. The flashlight’s beam reflected off the large No Trespassing sign screwed into the fence. A large, rusted chain was knotted around the posts and secured with a padlock. My dad checked the lock by tugging on it. Seemingly satisfied, he returned to the car.

“Do you ever see anything when you’re out patrolling?” I asked.

“Not really. Usually teenagers getting into trouble. Nothing exciting.” He tucked the flashlight between the door and the driver’s seat, then turned the car around. We headed back up Worth Street. “Got a birthday coming up, huh?” His voice was low, resonant.

“Yeah,” I said. “I almost forgot.”

“Anything special you want to do?”

“Maybe we could go to The Wagon Wheel.” It was my favorite steak house in town.

“Don’t see why not.” He cracked the window to get some air circulating in the car, then depressed the cigarette lighter under the dashboard. “Your English teacher left a message for me this afternoon. I’m gonna give him a call on Monday, but before I do, is there anything you want to tell me?”

“Oh.”

He took a cigarette from the breast pocket of his shirt and stuck it between his lips. When the lighter popped, he touched it to the tip of the cigarette. Bluish smoke whirled out the partially open window. “Something bad?”

“Well, no. Mr. Mattingly wants me to take Advanced Placement English next year.”

“Is that right?”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to cut it, but he seems to think so.”

“Why don’t you think you can cut it?”

“It’s mostly seniors in those classes.”

“Don’t you think you’re smart enough? You’re always reading. You’re a smart kid.”

“I guess.”

“Is it up to you? Your choice to take the class?”

“Yeah.”

“What will you do?”

“I told him to put my name in for it.”

He exhaled smoke out the window. “That’s good. I’m glad.”

We drove up Bessel Avenue past Aaron Ransom’s house. At the far end of the neighborhood, my father turned onto one of the wooded roads. He clicked the floodlight on, causing shadows to shift deep in the woods.

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

“Sure, pal.”

“My friends and I heard about this kid Jason Hughes from Glenrock, who went missing last summer. People thought he just ran away back then, but now some kids from school are thinking something might have happened to him.”

“So what’s the question?”

“Just that, well . . . is he part of all this, too?”

“All this?”

“You know—the Piper.”

My dad frowned. “Well, Glenrock isn’t our jurisdiction. But, no, we know nothing about this kid from Glenrock.”

“Do you think the killer’s from town?” I asked. “Like, has he lived here very long? Or are you guys looking for someone new, someone who just moved in around the time the murders started?” Michael’s theory still haunted me. I hated that my mind summoned Mr. Mattingly’s considerate face as I asked the question.

“You interested in law enforcement all of a sudden?”

Because Charles had been a good student, a football player, a soldier, and because my father had had a closer relationship with him than he had ever had with me, I said, “Yes.”

“Isn’t that something,” my dad said, and I couldn’t tell if he was pleased or making fun of me.

“But what do you think? The cops, I mean. What do the cops think?”

“It’s good thinking on your part. But are these the questions you really want to ask me? Because if you ever want to talk to me about stuff . . . The department has a therapist who’s been speaking to some of the kids at the local schools. If you want, you could speak with her, too.”

“A therapist?”

After Courtney Cole had turned up dead, Stanton School had brought in a psychologist to speak to any students who needed to talk. The psychologist, a meaty-armed woman with an alcoholic’s ruddy complexion, spent a few weeks in the front office. A few kids had actually sought her out.

“She’s just there to listen and to answer any questions or concerns you might have. I’m talking about serious things, Angie, not rumors you and your friends hear in school.” He glanced at me. “Do you have any questions?”

“Did you ever shoot anybody?”

He laughed. “I didn’t mean those kinds of questions. I meant about what’s been going on in town. You were friends with the Ransom boy, weren’t you?”