by Ronald Malfi
Adrian nodded.
“You found the locket in October, so why did you wait until now to say something about it to me?” Yet one look at him—at the downtrodden puppy expression he perpetually wore—gave me my answer. It was the reason he’d asked me to share a personal secret with him: so he knew he could trust me. It had taken him all these months to build up his courage and his trust. I sighed. “Do you know anything about these woods?”
“No. What should I know about them?”
“They’re huge. They start here, but they run along the highway and go all the way out to the cliffs that overlook the bay. I’m not sure where they found her exactly, because I only saw them carry her out. But even if they found her right here, that doesn’t mean she was killed here. And that still doesn’t mean there’s anything left for us to find.”
“You said they brought her body up at the intersection,” he said. “If she was found a mile away, they wouldn’t have brought her up over there, right? She must have been found close to this spot.”
“But that doesn’t mean she was killed right here,” I repeated.
“It doesn’t matter,” Adrian said. “There still might be things left behind.”
I sighed again, rubbing my palms against the thighs of my corduroys. I felt the cold radiating through my body. Darkness was drawing closer around us, and stars were beginning to poke through the sky.
“Some people say these woods are haunted,” I told him, looking around at the ancient trees, their leafless black branches crisscrossing high over our heads and intersecting over the pale face of the moon. “December Park, too. They call this the Dead Woods now because of the Cole girl, but it had other names before: Satan’s Forest, Ghost Park, the Black Lands.
“When I was younger, Charles used to scare me with stories about devil worshippers coming down here and sacrificing chickens and goats and whatever else they could get their hands on. I didn’t necessarily believe him, but it worked in keeping me away from the woods until I was a little older. Fuck, those stories used to give me nightmares.
“Then there’s the girls’ school on the other side of the park, out by the cliffs,” I continued. “People died in a fire there after World War II, after it had been converted to a hospital or something, and it’s been closed ever since. It could be that the ghost stories originated from there. I think many of them did. Or maybe the history of a place like that tends to fuel those kinds of stories, makes them real.”
He seemed unimpressed with the folklore of my hometown.
“Come on,” I said, rising. “Let me show you something.”
I led him deeper into the woods, wending around fallen trees and overgrown holly bushes that were full and prickly even in the dead of winter. I remained conscious of the daylight slipping away, and I knew we should head home soon.
We came to a narrow little brook that snaked through the underbrush, its water level shallow and crusted with muddy ice. “Watch your step,” I warned and easily hopped over the brook. Adrian followed.
Eventually we arrived at our destination. I hunted around for several moments, sniffing like a bloodhound for a scent, until I came upon a scraggy overgrown mess of leafless bushes. I crouched down and pushed the poking branches aside, then waved Adrian over. He dropped to his knees directly beside me.
“What is it?” he asked, his voice just one notch above a whisper. This close, I could smell the sourness of his breath.
“One of the headless statues,” I said.
Indeed, the thing that lay supine on the ground, entwined with brown veins of ivy, was a life-sized concrete statue of a man in a suit and tie, a square concrete base at the end of its tapered legs. It wasn’t wholly intact, and there were crumbled bits of concrete scattered around the body as if leprosy had caused pieces of it to slough off. Most noticeable was the fact that the head was missing, a rusted metal pipe jutting up from the figure’s concrete neck. “There’s a bunch of them, and they’re scattered all over the place. You can find them if you know where to look.”
“Where’d they come from?”
“I don’t know. They’ve always been here.”
“Are all their heads missing?”
“Yeah. Creepy, huh?”
“Who did that to them?”
“I have no idea.”
Adrian reached out, his fingers hovering over the concrete dummy. Eventually, he touched it. “It’s cold.” He removed his hand. White powder from the stone came off on his palm, which he rubbed down the length of his pants. “Do you think these were . . . I mean, you know . . . used in some kind of devil worshipping séance or something? Like black magic or conjuring spirits? That stuff your brother told you about.”
“I guess it’s possible. But like I said, I don’t believe those devil worship stories anymore. That was just Charles trying to scare me.” I straightened out my legs and felt the cold stiffening my muscles. “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is kids play down here in the summer, but hardly anyone knows these statues exist. Mostly, it’s just me and my friends who know about them. So finding some tiny clue that connects to whatever happened to Courtney Cole or any of those other kids that the police have missed is a crazy long shot.”
“But you found the statues, just like I found the locket.” He smiled. “Things can be found.”
I chewed at my lower lip while staring at him.
“You don’t have to help if you don’t want to,” he said, the smile vanishing.
Suddenly, I felt like a jerk. “Cut it out, man. Yeah, I’ll help you look around.”
And there it was again—that crooked smile. “You mean it?”
“Sure. But not tonight. We need to get back. It’ll be dark soon.”
Adrian stuffed the locket back into his parka. “Do you really think these woods are haunted?”
“Nah. It’s just superstition.”
He nodded but his expression was not one of agreement. He surveyed the dark woods around us, a creeping unease all too evident on his face.
“Come on,” I said, leading him back in the direction we had come.
Together we rolled my bike up the embankment and through the busted section of guardrail. I wheeled my bike across the street, then paused on the shoulder of the road. “Show me where you found it.”
Adrian pointed down into the ravine, where the runoff had frozen to mud-streaked ice and the weeds were the color of straw. The mouth of the drainage tunnel that ran beneath the highway was curtained in dead ivy and brown vines and nearly four feet in diameter. Blackish water trickled from the mouth of the tunnel and turned the dirt to marshland. “Right down there.”
“Let’s get home.”
I steadied my bike while Adrian climbed onto the handlebars. This time there was no quarreling. Dropping down onto my seat, I began pedaling, and with the cold firmly ingrained in my bones, it was like trying to start some enormous and antiquated machine.
By the time we arrived at the foot of Adrian’s driveway, my leg muscles were sore and I was winded. I eased the bike to a halt, and Adrian hopped off the handlebars.
“Hey.” He played with the zipper on his parka. “You’re not gonna tell your dad about the locket, are you?”
“No,” I said.
“You promise?”
I touched the tip of my nose. “I promise. But if it’s really hers, then I still think you should turn it into the police. Or at least think about it. It may help them catch this guy. And that would be good. But, no, I won’t say anything.”
“Okay. I’ll think about it.”
“Cool.”
Adrian looked lost in contemplation. I waited for him to say something more. When he didn’t, I said, “See you later, skater.”
“Yeah.”
“No. You say, ‘After a while, pedophile.’”
“What’s a pedophile?”
“It’s like a pervert.”
“Oh . . .”
“So . . . see you later, skater.”
“After a
while, pedophile.”
I turned and wheeled my bike up the slope of lawn that connected our yards. After I stowed my bike in the ivy at the side of the house, I watched Adrian mount the porch steps of the old Dunbar house. When he reached the front door, he cracked it open only the slightest bit and vanished into the slender band of blackness within.
Chapter Nine
The Heart-Shaped Locket
Late for school the following day, I eventually caught up with the guys in the cafeteria. Peter, Scott, and Michael were seated at a table in the back playing Uno.
“Missed you in first period,” Peter said, dealing me in the next hand. “Thought you might be skipping the whole day.”
“I had to finish a paper for English.”
“Where’s Poindexter?” said Michael. He used the nickname without malice. Since that day at Drunkard’s Pond and the forging of our unseemly friendships last month, Adrian had sat at our lunch table every day.
“I guess he’s not here yet,” I said, looking around.
Michael laid down a card, leaving one left in his hand. “Uno.”
Peter dropped a Draw Four on Michael, who let out a pathetic little groan. Apparently, Peter knew what color card Michael had remaining in his hand, because when he called red, Michael balked and accused Peter of cheating.
“Like hell,” Peter said.
“Like hell, like hell.” Michael glanced behind him. Directly at his back was one of the plate-glass windows that made up the east wall of the cafeteria. “You can see my card reflecting in the glass.”
“Bullshit. Draw four.”
“I’m not drawing shit. I want to switch seats. Angie, switch seats with me.”
“Forget it.”
“Draw,” Peter cajoled. “Draw, draw, draw, draw, draw, you dork.”
Scowling, Michael selected four cards from the deck. “I’d like to crowbar your face in, Galloway.”
“You won’t be able to lift a crowbar after I break both your arms,” Peter countered.
“Okay,” Michael said, suddenly beaming. He threw an elbow onto the tabletop, his open hand held out in front of his face, fingers wiggling. “Arm wrestle.”
“I’m not touching that hand,” Peter said.
Scott and I laughed.
“You big coward wimp bitch,” Michael taunted. It was easy to see that he was fighting off laughter, too.
The truth was, no one in our small group would dare arm wrestle Michael Sugarland. Not just because he was freakishly strong—which he was, particularly for someone so wiry—but because we had all been present when he had arm wrestled David Schumacher in the cafeteria last year.
David had incrementally ratcheted Michael’s hand closer and closer to the tabletop until a gleam flared behind Michael’s wild eyes. He had darted forward and popped David’s thumb into his mouth and sucked for all he was worth. David was obviously mortified and shocked. His wrist went limp, and the match was quickly overturned. The undisputed winner, Michael was awarded David’s brown-bag lunch for the remainder of the week, which he opted not to eat. Instead, he wadded the bag into a ball and aimed for the industrial trash can beside our table, practicing his free throws, while David watched him with stormy contempt.
Peter won the hand, and the cards were collected, shuffled, dealt out again.
“Look,” I said finally, “I gotta tell you guys something, but you gotta promise that it stays between us.”
Michael rolled his eyes and said, “If you’re gonna tell us you’re gay, we already know.”
I shot him a look. “Come on. I’m serious. Swear it.”
Peter and Scott both put their index fingers to their noses and in unison said, “I swear.”
“You, too, Michael,” I said.
“Aren’t we just a little bit old for the nose-swearing thing?” he said.
“Just do it.”
Michael blew the loose strands of hair off his forehead, casually pressed his index finger against the tip of his nose, and intoned in a nasally resignation, “I swear. Okay?”
“Listen. Adrian found something. It might be important. I’m not sure.”
“What is it?” Peter said disinterestedly.
“A heart-shaped locket,” I said, “and he thinks it belonged to Courtney Cole.”
They all looked at me over the fans of their cards. It was almost comical.
“Wait. What?” Peter said. “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“A locket?” Scott said, furrowing his brow. “Like a charm for a necklace.”
“Yeah.”
“Why does he think it’s hers?”
“Because he discovered it in the ditch beside Counterpoint Lane a couple of days before the cops found her body.”
Michael slammed his cards down on the table. “Bullshit.”
“And you saw it?” Peter said. “You saw the locket?”
“Yeah.”
“What did it look like?”
Sliding my sandwich out of my lunch bag, I said, “Just a locket in the shape of a heart. It had a little clasp on top, like where you’d hang it from a chain, but it was broken. Adrian thinks it must have broken during a struggle with the killer.”
“Holy shit,” Scott said.
“What the heck does Adrian know?” Michael said. “That could be anybody’s locket.”
“I guess so,” I said, unwrapping my sandwich. Peppers and eggs on a toasted roll. My lunch bag was always the greasiest at our table, but my lunches were the envy of them all.
“This is amazing,” Scott said, looking intently at me from across the table. He had his Orioles baseball cap cocked backward on his head, and for the first time I noticed a fine fuzz of hair across his upper lip—very faint but certainly present. “Her actual locket? I gotta see this thing.”
“Didn’t you hear what I just said?” Michael scolded. “It isn’t her locket. It’s gotta be a coincidence. The police would have found it and taken it as evidence if it was hers.”
“They wouldn’t have been searching for evidence at that point,” I informed him. “Her body wasn’t found yet, remember?”
“It still sounds like bullshit to me,” Michael grumbled.
“Yeah, well, I still wanna see it,” Scott said. He looked at Peter. “What do you think?”
“As much as it pains me to say it, Michael’s probably right. It’s just a coincidence.”
“A coincidence that Adrian found it just as she goes missing and in the same general area?” Scott countered. “Come on, guys. You’ve got to admit there’s a possibility this actually is that girl’s locket.”
“We’re not saying it isn’t possible,” said Peter. “We’re just saying it isn’t very probable.”
“You guys are no fun.” Scott grabbed his backpack off the bench and stood up.
“Hey,” Michael said. “Where’re you going?”
“To the library.”
“For what?”
“Research,” he said, turning his cap around to the front. He tugged the straps of his backpack over his shoulders, gave us a broad smile, then marched out of the cafeteria.
“Spoilsport,” said Michael.
In fifth period science, Scott came into the classroom a few minutes after the bell.
Mr. Johnson, who had been scribbling nonsense on the big chalkboard at the front of the room, glanced over his shoulder as Scott sidled between the desks until he plunked down in his seat. “You’re late, Mr. Steeple. I trust you have a hall pass?”
“No, sir.”
Mr. Johnson turned away from the blackboard and folded his arms across his chest. Not one for fashion, he wore shit-colored slacks and a similarly colored polo shirt buttoned all the way to the top. The highlight of his ensemble was the toupee that sat crookedly on his head. “Care to provide me with a suitable explanation as to why you’re late, then?”
“Well,” Scott said, sliding his textbook out of his backpack, “I had diarrhea.”
Murmured laughte
r greeted his response.
Mr. Johnson’s face tightened. “I suppose you think that’s humorous.”
Looking as earnest as I had ever seen him, Scott said, “God, no. You should have seen it.”
Full-fledged laughter erupted. In the seats behind me, Michael and Peter cackled like hyenas.
“Okay, okay,” Mr. Johnson said, taking a piece of chalk from the pocket of his slacks. “Settle down.” He bowed slightly in Scott’s direction. “Thank you for that humorous little interlude, Mr. Steeple. It’s quite refreshing to have someone other than your friend Mr. Sugarland performing for a change.”
“Cock knocker,” Michael whispered, leaning forward so that he was close to my ear.
I choked down a laugh and stared at my open textbook.
“Anyway . . . ,” Mr. Johnson went on, returning to the chalkboard.
Moments later, I saw Scott hand off a folded slip of paper to the girl beside him. He pointed at me and she nodded, passing the paper along. It eventually found its way to me when the fat red-freckled hand of Margot Clementine dropped it into my open textbook.
I glanced at the front of the classroom to make sure Mr. Johnson was suitably occupied, then unfolded the paper. It was a photocopy of the article detailing the discovery of Courtney Cole, the one that had been published in the Caller in October. I recognized it right away by the black-and-white photo of Courtney. In it, she smiled prettily, her hair done nicely in a dark cascade that framed her attractive face.
Someone—presumably Scott—had drawn an arrow in bright red marker beside the photo, pointing to a slender chain that hung from the girl’s neck.
“Big deal,” said Michael. “Half the girls her age wear necklaces. That doesn’t mean anything.”
The four of us were heading across the quad to our next classes, our coats zipped up and our breath leaving vapor trails in the crisp afternoon air.
“But what if the newspaper cut the bottom half of the picture off?” Scott said. “The half that shows she’s wearing a heart-shaped locket.”
Michael plucked a drinking straw out from behind his ear and popped it into his mouth. “Well, I guess we’ll never know, will we?”