December Park(99)

“What is it?” I said.

He knew better than to lie to me. “It’s just something I’ve been thinking about. I don’t want you to take it the wrong way because I know you like him and everything . . .”

“Michael?” I said, confused.

“No, dummy. I’m talking about Adrian. I mean, I like him, too, but do you think . . . I mean . . . do you think there’s something wrong with him?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s so intent on this whole thing with the Piper. You know, figuring all this stuff out on our own.”

“It’s just something to do,” I said.

“No, it’s more than that. I’ve been thinking about that locket he found and the top of that fence post and how it belonged to the Werewolf House.”

“What about it?”

“What if those things are really important? Like, important enough to solve that girl’s murder and find those other missing kids?”

“Isn’t that the point? Isn’t that why we’re doing it?”

“Maybe at first. But it was just for fun. If we found stuff that could help the police catch this guy, we should probably tell someone.”

“We can’t tell the police,” I said. “I’m not even supposed to be hanging around in the woods or going out to the Werewolf House, let alone inside it. My dad would kill me.”

Peter looked at me. I suddenly remembered him from Charles’s funeral, how he’d shown up with his mother and stepfather at the church in a suit that didn’t quite fit him and a clip-on necktie with boats on it. It had been the only time I’d ever seen his wild red hair combed. He had said nothing at all to me that day, but he sat down next to me on the church steps afterward. We had watched the traffic creep along Augustine Avenue, and he’d given me a Tootsie Pop, which he’d produced from the inner lining of his too-big suit jacket.

“Do you really think something’s happened to him?” Peter asked. “Something bad?”

“His mom would have contacted the police if he’s been gone this long.” Though saying this, I wasn’t sure whether I believed it or not. When I glanced over at Peter, I could tell something else was needling at his brain. “What is it now?”

“Tell me,” he said. “Why do you need this so badly?”

“Need what?”

“To find the Piper.”

“I don’t,” I said, realizing as I spoke the words that I didn’t believe them myself. Yet I repeated them nonetheless. “I don’t.”





That night during dinner, I casually mentioned to my dad that I hadn’t seen Adrian all week.

“Maybe he got a summer job,” said my dad, scraping the tines of his fork against his plate as he shepherded his peas. “In fact, I’d like to hear your thoughts on that matter.”

“On where Adrian went?”

“No. On getting a summer job. Have you put in any applications?”

“No, I haven’t.” I’d been so preoccupied with my friends and with what we pretended was our investigation that I hadn’t even thought about it.

“Got any ideas where you could go?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about that bagel place you worked at before?”

“They’re not hiring,” I said, not knowing if this was the truth or not. I didn’t want to drag my butt out of bed at four in the morning during my summer vacation.

“Well, you’ve got to go somewhere.”

My grandmother got up, refilled everyone’s coffee, then sat back down.

At the head of the table, my grandfather watched me. It looked like he wanted to say something, but in a rare display of restraint, he kept his mouth shut.

“But what about Adrian?” I said, bringing the conversation back around. “Would the police know if something happened to him?”

My dad sipped his fresh coffee, then set it down on the table. “Is that what this is about? You think something happened to your friend?”

“Which friend is this?” asked my grandmother.

“The boy next door,” said my dad. “I’m sure he’s fine, Angie.”

Later, as I cleared the table and helped my grandmother do the dishes, I couldn’t help but wonder how brilliant it would be for the Piper to strike again so soon after his last abduction. While it seemed the whole world was looking for Howie Holt, the Piper could have swooped in, gobbled up Adrian, and no one would even know he was missing. Unless, of course, his mother went to the police.

When I was done with the dishes, I brought my grandfather’s pipe and tobacco pouch out to where he reclined in one of the wicker chairs on the back porch. The yard was dark, silent. Cicadas and crickets exchanged dialogue.

My grandfather smiled as he took the pipe and tobacco from me. I turned to go back inside but he said, “No, no—have a seat.”

I sat beside him. My father had gone upstairs for an early shower, and my grandmother was just settling into the den to watch Murder, She Wrote on the tube, so the house was quiet through the open porch windows.

My grandfather tamped his pipe against one arm of the chair, and flecks of white ash drifted to the floor. With gnarled and lumpy fingers, he opened the tobacco pouch, pinched out some tobacco, and used his thumb to shove it way down into the pipe’s bowl. Next, he took a box of wooden matches from the breast pocket of his flannel shirt—since he was on blood thinners, he always wore heavy clothing, even in the summer—and shook it so that the matches inside sounded like maracas.