Michael shifted from foot to foot in his scruffy black sneakers. In the
past few weeks "When I'm finished" had been his father's standard
answer. "When will you be finished?"
"I don't know, but I'll be finished faster if you don't bother me."
Hell, Michael thought, wisely keeping the oath in his mind. Nobody had
time for anything anymore. His best friend was at his stupid
grandmother's, and his second best friend was sick with the dumb flu or
something. What good was a Saturday if you didn't get to fool around?
He tried, really, to take his father's advice. There was the Christmas
tree to look at, and all the presents stacked beneath it. Michael
picked up one with his name on it, the one wrapped in the paper with
goofy elves dancing all over it. He shook it, carefully. The rattle
was only slight but brought tremendous satisfaction.
He wanted a remote-controlled plane. It had been first on his Christmas
list and written in capital letters then underlined three times. Just
so his mom and dad knew he was serious. He was sure, dead sure, it was
inside that box.
He set it down again. It would be days before he could unwrap it, days
before he could take it outside and make it do loops and dives.
He needed something to do now.
There were baking smells in the kitchen, which pleased him. But he knew
if he wandered in there, his mother would rope him into rolling out
cookie dough or decorating gingerbread men. Girl stuff.
How was he ever supposed to play wide receiver for the L.A. Rams if
nobody passed him the stupid football, for crying out loud?
And what was so interesting about a bunch of dopey papers and pictures
anyway? Wandering back toward the desk, he ran his tongue over the
tooth he'd chipped the week before while practicing wheelies on his
three-speed. He liked the fact that his dad was a cop, and bragged
about it all the time. Of course, when he bragged he had his dad
shooting from the hip and locking up crazies like Charlie Manson for
life. It would be a sad state of affairs if he had to tell the gang
that his father typed out forms and studied files. Might as well be a
librarian.
Theking the football under his arm, he leaned over his father's
shoulder. He had an idea that if he made a pest of himself, his father
would push the papers aside and come outside. Then his gaze fell on the
picture of Darren McAvoy.
"Jeez. Is that a dead kid?"
"Michael!" Lou turned, but the lecture dried on his tongue as he looked
into his son's shocked and fascinated eyes. Going with instinct, he put
a hand on Michael's shoulder. "Yes."
"Wow. What happened? Did he get sick or something?"
"No." He wondered if he should feel guilty for using the tragedy of one
child as a lesson to another. "He was murdered."
"He's just a little kid. People aren't supposed to murder little kids."
"No. But sometimes they do."
Staring at the police photo, Michael faced his own mortality for the
first time in his whirlwind eleven years. "Why?"
Lou remembered telling Emma that there were no monsters. The longer he