Spindle Lane. Mark Reefe

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СКАЧАТЬ wanna go too!”

      In unison, Paul and I sighed and turned to Katie, who was now sitting upright on the couch beaming at us.

      “We don’t have to take your sister, do we?”

      I smiled at her and spoke in a voice only Paul could hear. “That’s a big nooo. Even if we somehow managed to lug her there, we’d be stuck splashing around in the shallow end all day. Gimme a sec.”

      I spoke up. “Hey, Katie, Mom is going to the pool in a little while. It would be better if you went with her. See, you can’t ride a bike yet, and you’re too little to walk all the way there.”

      Katie’s plump face scrunched up. “But I want to go with you! I don’t want to wait!”

      This wasn’t working. When reasoning fell flat, experience taught me nothing worked better than a little bribe to help calm my sister. “Listen. If you wait for Mom, I promise to buy you some candy at the snack bar when you get there.”

      The wrinkles disappeared, replaced with a pair of crescent-shaped dimples. “Can I get a candy necklace? That way I can wear it while I eat it.”

      Messing up her Dutch-boy haircut, I said, “Whatever you want, stinky.”

      I crept through the bedroom my brother and I shared so as not to disturb Sleeping Beauty while retrieving my suit. Stubbing my toe on the corner of my bed, I narrowly avoided face-planting into my brother’s backside and earning an immediate retaliatory butt whooping. After a quick wardrobe change, I was ready to roll. On the way out the door, I shouted, “Paul and I are going to the pool!”

      I wasn’t sure if Mom heard because we didn’t wait for an answer. We were too pumped. It was the beginning of summer vacation and Belair Bath and Tennis—or BBT as it was known locally—was calling to us to spend the day in a chlorine-infused, water-up-the-nose frenzy of aquatic activities and associated mayhem. With five-feet-deep swimming lanes, a diving well plummeting to twelve, and a snack bar serving the best crinkle-cut fries around, it was the perfect refuge on a hot summer’s day in Prince George’s County. There was also the slimmest of chances we might spot Melissa Casey and her crew there. Just like Paul and me, Melissa was going to be a sophomore at Bowie High, but with her feathered Farrah Fawcett hair and tight designer jeans, she already acted and looked more like a senior. True, she was light years out of my league, but the last time we saw her at the pool I swore she was checking me out. Paul claims I was suffering from sunstroke.

      “Morning, boys! Looks like you two are on a mission.”

      It wasn’t unusual to see Edward Hutchinson in the neighborhood, but it was strange to hear him and even stranger to talk to him. He was always either pruning his rosebushes, watering his flowers, or sitting on his porch in his rocker and smoking his pipe. I’d probably only ever spoken to the old man three or four times in my life, and even then all I said was a simple hello or good morning. It’s not that he was mean or particularly creepy. He was just…distant, a background feature of the neighborhood, just like his roses or the streetlights. He reminded me of The Professor from Gilligan’s Island, but about thirty or so years older with silver hair and skin that looked like you could make a catcher’s mitt out of it.

      “Yes, sir. On our way to the pool,” I answered.

      Paul said nothing. He didn’t have to. I saw his thinly veiled look of disgust from the corner of my eye.

      “Well, don’t let me slow you and your tongue-tied friend down.” Mr. Hutchison threw me a wink as he passed the two of us. “Remember, son, only that day dawns to which we are awake.”

      Before I had a chance to think about the old man’s strange words, I felt an elbow to my ribcage along with Paul’s hushed voice. “You stoned? You know better than to talk to spooky Hutchinson. You get on his bad side and he’ll chop you up and shove you in his basement just like he did with his old lady.”

      Mr. Hutchinson’s wife vanished without a trace ten years ago. From what our parents had told us, an investigation that stretched over a year offered no clues as to her fate. Some adults claimed Abigail Hutchinson left her husband of forty-plus years for another man. In those stories, the guy was usually a rich foreigner who whisked her away to his estate somewhere in South America or the Caribbean or someplace like that. Others believed she died of natural causes and that a grief-stricken Mr. Hutchinson took her body to a secret location where he buried it in a private ceremony. As for my friends, the general consensus was Mr. Hutchinson had murdered his wife in some berserk Texas Chainsaw Massacre rampage involving a wide assortment of power tools, masks made of human skin, and enough blood to make Stephen King queasy. It made for great storytelling, but I found it the least likely explanation based on the little I knew of the old timer. From what I’d been told, he loved his wife, and her death crushed him.

       “I don’t know why you’re so mean to him. He seems nice to me. I feel kind of bad for the guy.”

      “That’s how they get you. You feel all sorry for them, and that’s why you don’t see it coming until it’s too late.” Paul slid an index finger across his neck. “Then it’s good night, John-Boy, and you’re nothing but a three-piece skin suit for the old man.”

      Having received my morning dose of crazy from Paul, I hopped on the Blue Beast and rode off. Looney Tunes followed close behind on his hand-me-down Huffy. We turned onto Spangler Lane as a summer breeze whipped up, stirring memories of the prior night’s events. I fell silent as the hungry shriek of the bike trail beast echoed in my mind. No way in hell a person could have made that sound…

      “Ground control to Major Tom.”

      I looked over at Paul. “Huh?”

      “Dude, you’ve been riding for the past five minutes with that zombie-stare. I’m pretty sure you ate a bug and didn’t even notice.”

      I shook my head to clear it of the bone-chilling cry. “You been over to White Marsh lately?”

      “You mean the park? Nah, too far away. If I want to play baseball or soccer, I head to the churchyard.”

      “How about just on the bike trail part of it?”

      “Nope.”

      We hung a right on Belair Drive and entered the tree tunnel. Fifty-foot beech trees soared to our left and right, reaching out to one another until they meshed into an emerald blanket above us. Picking up the pace, we skipped over the curb onto a dirt path that paralleled the right side of the road.

      “Well, I was there last night, and I saw something pretty freaky.”

      “What kind of freaky? Aliens freaky? Ghost freaky? Third nipple freaky?”

      “Dude, what’s wrong with you? None of those. There was something in the bushes off the trail. It was hiding from me…I think.”

      “Why would anyone hide from you?”

      “Don’t know. I felt like maybe I caught it in the middle of something, something it didn’t want to be seen doing.”

      “Like what, spanking its monkey?”

      “No, goober. There were tracks in the dirt like something had been dragged off into the bushes.”

      “Maybe a body?”

      “Maybe…and СКАЧАТЬ