بخش 02 - فصل 17

17

His first idea had been to put the notebooks back in the buried trunk, but Pete rejected that almost immediately. If the police came with the search warrant Halliday had threatened, where might they try next when they didn’t find the notebooks in the house? All they’d have to do was go into the kitchen and see that undeveloped land beyond the backyard. The perfect spot. If they followed the path and saw a patch of freshly turned ground by the stream, it would be ballgame over. No, this way is better.

Scarier, though.

He pulls Tina’s old wagon down the sidewalk and turns left onto Elm. John Tighe, who lives on the corner of Sycamore and Elm, is out mowing his lawn. His son Bill is tossing a Frisbee to the family dog. It sails over the dog’s head and lands in the wagon, coming to rest between the two boxes.

‘Hum it!’ Billy Tighe shouts, cutting across the lawn. His brown hair bounces. ‘Hum it hard!’

Pete does so, but waves Billy off when he goes to throw him another. Someone honks at him when he turns onto Birch, and Pete almost jumps out of his skin, but it’s only Andrea Kellogg, the woman who does Linda Saubers’s hair once a month. Pete gives her a thumbs-up and what he hopes is a sunny grin. At least she doesn’t want to play Frisbee, he thinks.

And here is the Rec, a three-story brick box with a sign out front reading FOR SALE and CALL THOMAS SAUBERS REAL ESTATE, followed by his dad’s cell number. The first-floor windows have been blocked with plywood to keep kids from breaking them, but otherwise it still looks pretty good. A couple of tags on the bricks, sure, but the Rec was prime tagger territory even when it was open. The lawn in front is mowed. That’s Dad’s doing, Pete thinks with some pride. He probably hired some kid to do it. I would’ve done it for free, if he’d asked.

He parks the wagon at the foot of the steps, lugs the cartons up one at a time, and is pulling the keys out of his pocket when a beat-up Datsun pulls over. It’s Mr Evans, who used to coach Little League when there was still a league on this side of town. Pete played for him when Mr Evans coached the Zoney’s Go-Mart Zebras.

‘Hey, Centerfield!’ He’s leaned over to roll down the passenger window.

Shit, Pete thinks. Shit-shit-shit.

‘Hi, Coach Evans.’

‘What’re you doing? They opening the Rec up again?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Pete has prepared a story for this eventuality, but hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. ‘It’s some kind of political thing next week. League of Women Voters? Maybe a debate? I don’t know for sure.’

It’s at least plausible, because this is an election year with primaries just a couple of weeks away and municipal issues up the wazoo.

‘Plenty to argue about, that’s for sure.’ Mr Evans – overweight, friendly, never much of a strategist but big on team spirit and always happy to pass out sodas after games and practices – is wearing his old Zoney Zebras cap, now faded and lapped with sweat-stains. ‘Need a little help?’

Oh please no. Please.

‘Nah, I got it.’

‘Hey, I’m happy to lend a hand.’ Pete’s old coach turns off the Datsun’s engine and begins horsing his bulk across the seat, ready to jump out.

‘Really, Coach, I’m okay. If you help me, I’ll be done too soon and have to go back to class.’

Mr Evans laughs and slides back under the wheel. ‘I get that.’ He keys the engine and the Datsun farts blue smoke. ‘But you be sure and lock up tight once you’re done, y’hear?’

‘Right,’ Pete says. The keys to the Rec slip through his sweaty fingers and he bends to pick them up. When he straightens, Mr Evans is pulling away.

Thank you, God. And please don’t let him call up my dad to congratulate him on his civic-minded son.

The first key Pete tries won’t fit the lock. The second one does, but won’t turn. He wiggles it back and forth as sweat streams down his face and trickles, stinging, into his left eye. No joy. He’s thinking he may have to unbury the trunk after all – which will mean going back to the garage for tools – when the balky old lock finally decides to cooperate. He pushes open the door, carries the cartons inside, then goes back for the wagon. He doesn’t want anyone wondering what it’s doing sitting there at the foot of the steps.

The Rec’s big rooms have been almost completely cleaned out, which makes them seem even bigger. It’s hot inside with no air-conditioning, and the air tastes stale and dusty. With the windows blocked up, it’s also gloomy. Pete’s footfalls echo as he carries the cartons through the big main room where kids used to play boardgames and watch TV, then into the kitchen. The door leading down to the basement is also locked, but the key he tried first out front opens it, and at least the power is still on. A good thing, because he never thought to bring a flashlight.

He carries the first carton downstairs and sees something delightful: the basement is loaded with crap. Dozens of card tables are stacked against one wall, at least a hundred folding chairs are leaning in rows against another, there are old stereo components and outdated video game consoles, and, best of all, dozens of cartons pretty much like his. He looks in a few and sees old sports trophies, framed photos of intramural teams from the eighties and nineties, a set of beat-to-shit catcher’s gear, a jumble of LEGOs. Good God, there are even a few marked KITCHEN! Pete puts his cartons with these, where they look right at home.

Best I can do, he thinks. And if I can just get out of here without anyone coming in to ask me what the hell I’m up to, I think it will be good enough.

He locks the basement, then returns to the main door, listening to the echo of his footfalls and remembering all the times he brought Tina here so she wouldn’t have to listen to their parents argue. So neither of them would.

He peeps out at Birch Street, sees it’s empty, and lugs Tina’s wagon back down the steps. He returns to the main door, locks it, then heads back home, making sure to wave again to Mr Tighe. Waving is easier this time; he even gives Billy Tighe a couple of Frisbee throws. The dog steals the second one, making them all laugh. With the notebooks stored in the basement of the abandoned Rec, hidden among all those legitimate cartons, laughing is also easy. Pete feels fifty pounds lighter.

Maybe a hundred.