December Park(93)

“The boy’s old enough. When I was his age, I was being shot at by the Japanee in the jungles.” As far as my grandfather was concerned, there was no s in Japanese. “No one said I was too young, did they? When the Japanee started shooting from the trees, they didn’t think I was too young, did they?”

I looked at my dad to gauge his approval. His expression was one of resignation. He knew better than to argue with the whims of my grandfather, though it was obvious he disapproved of the gift.

“Can I hold it?”

“It’s yours, isn’t it?” said my grandfather. “But be careful with it.”

It was heavy. I needed both hands to hold it. The prospect of wielding it and chopping things up with it like they did in the movies struck me as virtually impossible. Nevertheless, I was anxious to give it a try. “Can I go chop at the woodpile with it?”

“Are you outta your head?” my grandfather barked. “That thing’s a goddamn priceless souvenir!”

“Watch your language,” my grandmother scolded him.

“A family heirloom,” my grandfather continued.

“Not our family,” corrected my grandmother.

“Go put it in your room,” my dad said evenly. He ran his thumb along the rim of his coffee mug. “Keep it under your bed for now. When I get a chance, we can hang it on your wall.”

“Over my bed?” I asked, hopeful.

“Lord,” commented my grandfather, stomping into the living room with an extra slice of pie. “The kid’s gonna decapitate himself.”





On some random night, Adrian called me up. Living right next door, he’d never telephoned me before, so it took me a few moments to place his voice.

“Why are you calling?” I said. “You wanna hang out, just come over.”

“Can’t,” he said. “Doing a puzzle with Mom.”

“So what’s up?”

“Don’t freak out,” he said, “but I think there’s someone outside your house.”

I thought I’d misheard him. “What?”

“I thought I saw someone walk around the side of your house just two minutes ago. I went outside to take a look but I couldn’t see anything. And then my mom called me back in.”

“Jesus. Was it Keener?” I went to our own kitchen windows and peered out onto the street. It was dark, and I could see no sign of Nathan Keener’s truck. However, had he the foresight to park at the end of the street, where the asphalt concluded at the fenced-in rock quarry, I wouldn’t have been able to see him.

“I don’t think so,” Adrian said.

“Okay. I’ll go check it out. Call me back if you see him again.”

“Yeah, I will. Just be careful.”

“Sure will.”

I hung up, then went to the rear of the house. I saw nothing through the windows. The porch door squealed when I opened it. I swiped the wall for the light switch. The porch lights came on, illuminating the wicker chairs and a few feet of lawn near the porch. But beyond that, the world was a black and sightless void.

“Somebody out here?” I called, and instantly felt foolish.

I crept down the porch steps and out onto the lawn. It was a warm night, the air scented with honeysuckle and spruce. I went around to the side of the house where the big pin oaks brushed against the aluminum siding. Suddenly I was no longer thinking about Keener but the kids who’d disappeared. I remembered the dream I’d had and how I had woken and looked out my window where I had imagined—or thought I had imagined—a man standing in the yard, staring at my bedroom window.

I went around to the front of the house. The light from the windows threw illumination on the lawn. The street was just as dark and empty as it had appeared from the kitchen window. Lights were on at the Gardiners’ house, and I thought I glimpsed Adrian’s round head silhouetted in one of the downstairs windows.

I stood perfectly still and even held my breath while I surveyed the property. There were certainly enough places to hide, especially at night. Anyone could be out here. When a slight breeze rustled the trees, I tried to decipher human speech in the issuance but knew that I was only making shit up. Scaring myself.

“Angelo!” My father’s voice echoed over the rooftop from the backyard. I heard the back porch door swing shut on its spring-loaded hinges. “Are you out here?”

“Yeah,” I called. “I’m . . . I’m taking out the trash.”

He said something unintelligible. Then the porch door squealed and slammed shut again. I heard his heavy footfalls through the house’s aluminum siding.

There’s no one out here. Adrian’s eyes were playing tricks on him, and now my mind is playing tricks on me. The place is desolate.

I was trying to convince myself. It wasn’t working.

Shivering despite the warm night air, I dragged the trash cans down to the curb, then hurried inside, glancing over my shoulder as I went.





Book Three


The Piper’s Song





(June 1994)





From the Harting Farms Caller, June 2, 1994: Another Missing Child, Still No Leads



Howard Matthew Holt, 13, was reported missing by his mother, Susan Holt, when the boy failed to return home from school yesterday afternoon. This is the most recent in a string of disappearances that have plagued Harting Farms since last autumn. Holt’s disappearance is the first since another local boy, Aaron Ransom, 15, went missing on New Year’s Eve and the body of Courtney Cole, also 15, was discovered in the woods by December Park last October. Previously, three other teenagers had disappeared from the city. No other bodies have been found.