by Ronald Malfi
“I don’t know.”
“There’s no other excuse.” He peered out the window. “He’s been there all day?”
“I don’t know,” I said again.
“You think he followed you to Stanton?”
“Maybe. Or maybe he picked me up on my way back. I was riding too fast and wasn’t paying attention.”
“What if he’s got our statue head right there in his police car?”
“Don’t go looking for trouble. Just stick to the plan.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Scott grumbled. As he dragged his backpack off the counter, he accidentally knocked one of Callibaugh’s model ships to the floor, where it broke into half a dozen small plastic pieces.
“Oh shit,” I groaned, staring across the store at Callibaugh, who stared back at me with eyes like dinner plates.
Scott bent down, picked up the pieces, and set them atop the counter. “Sorry, man,” he said to me just as Callibaugh marshaled right up behind him. Scott spun around and looked at Callibaugh’s incredulous face. “Sorry, sir,” Scott said to him.
“After a history of noble battles,” said Callibaugh, “the ill-fated USS Monitor is finally, sadly decommissioned.”
“That’s the CSS Virginia, sir,” Scott said.
Callibaugh’s gray eyebrows triggered back and forth. “You speak nonsense.”
“The Monitor had a flat freeboard with only the turret and pilothouse sticking up.” Scott pointed to the broken model. “This ship’s hull is more triangular, like the Virginia.”
Callibaugh made a sound way back in his throat that approximated a grunt of approval. “Well, then, it is the ill-fated Virginia that is finally, sadly decommissioned.”
“The Virginia wasn’t decommissioned. It was blown up off the coast of Craney Island during the Civil War,” Scott informed him.
Callibaugh smiled sourly. “Go home.” He gathered up the remnants of his poor warship and retreated to his office, presumably to resurrect the great ship with some modeling glue and tenderness.
Scott left the store, got on his bike, and pedaled down the block in the opposite direction of the alley where the police cruiser sat waiting for me.
At five o’clock, I closed down the register, then poked my head in through the half-open doorway of Callibaugh’s office. I caught him in the process of excavating a particularly stubborn booger from his left nostril. I cleared my throat, and Callibaugh, startled, popped his big forefinger from his nose.
“I’m heading home now,” I told him.
Callibaugh blinked and shuffled around the paperwork on top of his desk. He brushed some papers aside to reveal an open history textbook. He pointed to the reproduction of an oil painting that showed two ironclad ships firing at each other in the water. “Your friend is a smart little bugger. Clumsy . . . but smart.”
I went to the stockroom, retrieved my bike, and rolled it out onto the street. Mid-July and the sun was still a blazing ball beyond the tops of the buildings even at this hour. In my right hand I had the walkie-talkie wrapped in Scott’s ball cap. I turned it on, heard the brief static hum, then climbed onto my bike. I keyed the Talk button with my thumb and said, “I’m heading out. Over.”
“Roger that,” Scott’s voice crackled over the handheld. “I’ve got your back. Over.”
I pedaled slowly toward the intersection of Second Avenue and Children Street. The happy hour crowd had gathered outside the Wet Dog Pub, and a number of people walked home from work. As I waited for the traffic light to change, I glanced at the mouth of the alleyway. The police car was still there. No one seemed to notice it, but I sensed a strong wrongness coming off it and wafting out of that dark alley like a stink.
When the light changed, I rode across and coasted down Second Avenue, passing the library and Market Square, which looked eerily quiet. Twice I glanced over my shoulder to see if the police car had pulled out of the alley. But it wasn’t pursuing me.
I cut straight through Market Square, the tires of my bike crunching over discarded Styrofoam cups and empty potato chip bags. Men in rubber waders stood in the water fishing while along the beach some kids tossed around a football. At the end of Market Square I picked up Third Avenue, which curled around the waterfront toward my side of town.
Wrapped inside Scott’s ball cap, the walkie-talkie squawked. “The police car just pulled out,” Scott said. “Over.”
Again, I glanced behind me. I was on the curved portion of Third Avenue so I couldn’t see beyond Market Square. If the cop was indeed following me, he was being awfully cautious.
I keyed the handheld and said, “Roger that. Over.”
It was an uphill ride on Third Avenue, and I lifted myself off my bike seat and pedaled harder. I decided to take Solomon’s Bend Road out to Counterpoint Lane and afford the cop the opportunity to keep up with me. I wanted to know if this guy was actually following me or if I was jumping to conclusions.
“He just crossed Market Square,” Scott said over the walkie-talkie.
I thumbed the button on the side of the handheld and shouted, “Okay.”
“And he just turned up Third Ave,” Scott said. In his excitement, he had stopped saying “over” at the end of each broadcast. This was suddenly not a game anymore.
I looked over my shoulder and saw a car at the bottom of the hill.
Up ahead, the lights changed at the intersection. A few cars puttered through. I slowed down and rolled up onto the curb. I wanted to look behind me again, but I didn’t want to let on that I had spotted the cop car. Instead, I spoke into the walkie-talkie. “What’s he doing now?”
A few seconds passed. “He’s slowing down. He’s . . . wait . . . He’s pulling up alongside the curb,” Scott said.
“I’m stopped at the traffic light,” I said into the radio.
“He must be waiting for you to go,” Scott returned.
When the lights changed, I crossed the intersection and continued up the block toward the turnoff onto Solomon’s Bend Road.
“He’s moving again,” Scott said.
This can’t be happening, I thought.
Rush hour traffic backed up on Solomon’s Bend Road. I couldn’t see how the police car would get through the mess to keep up with me. I biked past Harting Farms Elementary, Stanton School, and the entrance to Shipley’s Crossing before Scott’s voice broke out over the walkie-talkie: “Whoa, man, you’re like a wanted felon. He just put his lights on and is driving up the middle of the road.”
“You’re kidding me,” I said.
“Swear to God. I mean, he’s moving pretty slowly still . . . but people are getting out of his way. It’s unbelievable.”
I wound down Solomon’s Bend Road, passing the quaint little houses with their flower gardens and picket fences. Up ahead, I saw the vast tree line that designated the woods and December Park. A part of me wanted to cut into Solomon’s Field and hide in the underpass until the coast was clear. When I came to the turnoff that banked down toward the park, I resisted that urge and continued straight.
“He turned his lights off,” Scott said. “Where are you?”
I gave him my location.
“What if he tries to stop you?” Scott asked.
“I don’t think he will,” I said. “I think he’s trying to keep his distance.”
Scott said something else but it was garbled.
I keyed the radio and said, “What was that? Repeat.”
Silence.
I slowed as I crossed the overpass. To my left, Solomon’s Field was quiet, the surface of Drunkard’s Pond undisturbed. It was strange, not seeing the homeless folks around the water’s edge. To my right, December Park was desolate. The woods stretched far out toward the cliffs. The Patapsco Institute is back there, I reminded myself.
Looking over my shoulder, I saw a vehicle approaching at a slow pace. Sunlight glinted off the chrome grille.
I brought the walkie-talkie to my mouth and said, “Scott? You still there?”
More silence. Maybe we wer
e too far apart now.
I could lose him when I cross the highway, I thought, picturing the cop getting snared at a traffic light if I went through without waiting for the lights to change. Suddenly, I didn’t want to play this game anymore.
Behind me, the police car drew nearer.
I hopped onto the curb and slowed my pace. This part of the road was a single lane that bowed over the park; there weren’t many places for the cop to keep hidden. It was just him and me out here now.
I slowed nearly to a stop.
The police car eased up beside me, the windows down, the engine purring. The cop behind the wheel had on sunglasses. He didn’t even glance at me—he just kept motoring down the road.
The whole thing struck me as false. Any normal cop would have looked at me, a lone kid biking over the park after five in the evening.
The police car slowed to a near stop when it reached Counterpoint Lane, right around the place where they had brought up the body of Courtney Cole. I got the impression that the cop was positioning the car to create a roadblock.
I contemplated turning around. But then I caught sight of the tunnel beneath the street—the tunnel the five of us had traversed that one fated day in April, where Adrian had recovered the broken fleur-de-lis from the Werewolf House’s fence.
Without giving it a second thought, I sped around the cop car, crossed Counterpoint Lane, and rode down the embankment on the other side of the road. The mouth of the tunnel grew wider, blacker. I pedaled faster. I could only hope that I had estimated the size of the tunnel correctly . . .
Crouching over the handlebars of my bike, I shot straight into the tunnel. The world around me went pitch-black. The sounds of summer vanished. The tunnel was so narrow that my handgrips nearly scraped the walls. I couldn’t sit upright because the roof would have taken my head off. I merely kept my head down, the handlebars straight, and pedaled as fast as I could. Sweat peeled down my back.
The walkie-talkie crackled, but Scott’s voice did not come on.
I focused on the pinpoint of daylight at the far end of the tunnel and continued to pedal. I knew I was under the highway when the sound of roaring engines and whirring tires filled my ears.
I exited out the other side into the ravine behind the Generous Superstore. The past several days had been dry and hot, and the ravine was a steaming plate of baked mud and scorching white rocks. I bounded up the embankment, my breath whistling from my throat. When I reached the road, I stopped. My T-shirt clung to my chest.
I put on Scott’s ball cap and brought the walkie-talkie to my mouth. “Hey, Scott—you there? Come in! Over!”
Nothing.
“Scott,” I tried again. “Hey. Come on, man. Where are you?”
It seemed like an eternity before his voice came over the radio. “I’m here. Where’d you go?”
“I took the tunnel under the highway,” I said. “I’m behind the Superstore. What happened to you?”
“I was having a hard time keeping up. I’m cutting across the park now.”
“What happened to the cop?”
“Wait for me,” he said. “Over.”
I pressed the button again and said, “Scott? Scott?”
Once again: no answer.
I watched cars glide back and forth across the plaza’s parking lot. Some kids I recognized from school leaned against the plate-glass windows outside the Quickman, smoking cigarettes and laughing. I let my heartbeat regain its normal rhythm while I waited.
Seven or eight minutes later, Scott biked across the Superstore plaza. When he saw me he waved one hand high over his head.
I waved back. My muscles still felt tense and I couldn’t stop sweating.
“Jesus Christ, that was something, huh?” he said as he rolled across the street and brought his bike to a stop beside mine.
“What about the cop?” I said.
“Oh, he was following you, all right. When I got to Counterpoint Lane, he was out of his car peering down the embankment. I didn’t realize why until you told me you’d taken the tunnel.”
“Holy shit. I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” he said. “That cop was after you.”
“What do we do?”
“I don’t know. I guess we’ll have to see what the others think later tonight.” Scott checked his wristwatch. “We’re still getting together after dinner to check out that Patapsco place, right?”
“That’s the plan,” I said, although, decidedly, I’d had enough excitement for one afternoon.
He took the walkie-talkie from me and tucked it inside his backpack with the other one. “I’ll see you then. I gotta go.” He plucked the ball cap off my head and pulled it down on his. “Watch your back.”
“Yeah,” I said. “You, too.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Patapsco Institute (Part One)
My grandmother prepared oven-roasted chicken dressed with peas, a plate of sweet potato patties (extra crispy), and a salad. With my father working late, it was just my grandparents and me again. I shoveled the food down, keeping one eye on the clock. I didn’t want to be late for our meeting at the park.
“Look at this kid,” my grandfather commented once I’d set my fork down on my empty plate. “Keep eating like that, you’ll need a new wardrobe when school starts up in the fall.”
“Can I be excused?”
“Can you?” retorted my grandmother.
“May I?”
“Are you going somewhere?” she asked.
“Just hanging out with the guys.” I tried to make my voice sound as bland as possible. “You know. Same old stuff.”
My grandmother glanced at the same clock I’d been gazing at throughout dinner. “Only a couple of hours before curfew.”
“I know.”
“Let the kid go, for Christ’s sake,” my grandfather chimed in. He was trying to fish something out of his coffee with one finger.
“Go on,” said my grandmother. “Just be careful, Angelo.”
Three minutes later, I knocked on Adrian’s front door. His mother answered, and I felt my testicles retreat up into my abdomen, as if I’d just waded into freezing water.
“Oh, hi. Can Adrian come out?”
“Adrian’s not home.”
“Oh.” Yet I remained on the porch, stupefied. “I was supposed to pick him up after dinner. We’re going to the park.”
“He’s not home,” she repeated in that same emotionless and dilatory voice. I imagined giant grubby worms eating through her brain, indiscriminately brushing up against the cranial switches that controlled her speech.
“Oh. Do you know where he—?”
She shut the door in my face.
Confused, I rolled my bike down the Gardiners’ driveway and coasted up Worth Street. The sun was beginning to set, but the evening hadn’t cooled off all that much. It had been a cold winter, and now we were in the middle of a hot summer. For whatever reason, I recalled that peculiar phrase my father had muttered to me on the morning of July Fourth—No rest for the wicked. I thought maybe I was beginning to understand it.
As I rode to December Park it occurred to me that unlike last summer (or the summers before that), we hadn’t yet engaged in any of our usual summertime activities—no stealing johnboats from the slips at the Cape (they were always chained to pilings, but Michael had no problem cracking the combination locks); no Capture the Flag or citywide tag that typically lasted all summer; no afternoons languishing beneath the sun at Shoulder Beach; no late nights listening to Andrew Dice Clay cassettes in Peter’s basement.
I supposed the Piper was to blame for some of it, but it was also apparent that we had changed things, too. We. All of us. Years ago, we had outgrown the Kiss Wars and the games of tag. We had outgrown a lot.
It was exactly seven o’clock when I reached the outskirts of December Park. The park grounds were vacant except for the scraps of trash and the swings that swayed ghostlike in the breeze. It looked like a circus had ju
st picked up and left town. Metal glinted in the fading daylight by the cusp of the woods, and I saw Peter leaning his bike against a tree. Behind him, the ground swelled up to a vast incline studded with elms and bushy fir trees. Back there somewhere, hunkered down like a beast in waiting, was the Patapsco Institute, the ugly twin sister of Stanton School.
From the Solomon’s Bend Road side of the park, I watched Michael and Scott swoop down the hill on their bikes. They joined me, and the three of us biked toward Peter, our legs pumping, my sweat-soaked T-shirt cooling in the wind.
Peter snatched a leafy branch off the ground and waved it like a checkered flag as Michael, Scott, and I blew by him. Michael raised his hands in victory, balancing the Mongoose with just his legs, even though Scott had beaten him to the finish line. We circled back around, breathing heavily, and dropped our bikes in the dirt.
“Where’s Adrian?” Peter asked me.
“I have no idea. I went to his house, but his mom said he wasn’t home.”
As if on cue, Adrian marched out of the woods, grinning. He had his Incredible Hulk backpack strapped to his shoulders and wore a wide grin. “Hey, guys!”
“What the hell, man?” I scolded him. “I said I was gonna pick you up.”
“I got anxious. I’ve been down here for a couple hours.” He glanced over his shoulder. “But I’m not so sure there’s a building back there.”
“There is,” Michael assured him.
“What happened to not going off into secluded places alone?” I said.
“I told you, I got anxious. No big deal.”
“Tell ’em what happened,” Scott said to me.
I told them about the cop coming into the thrift store and following me home. Scott added the part about the cop looking into the ravine after I’d ditched him.
“You’ve gotta be shittin’ me,” Peter said. “Are you sure this is the same cop?”
“I’m positive,” I said.
“So what do we do?”
I shook my head.
“Does this mean he’s the Piper?” Michael said.
“I don’t know what it means,” I said, “but it’s definitely suspicious, right?”