husk Kreskey had become, knowing my own strength and physical power, I was neither.
“I don’t suppose you’d believe I just happened to be in the neighborhood,” I answered Harper.
“Camping?”
“That’s right.”
“Nice night for it.”
“Full moon.”
“You know they say these woods are haunted.”
“I believe it.”
“What’s in the pack?”
A gun. A big hunting knife. A length of rope. Duct tape. A big plastic tarp. If you download Tor, the engine that gets you to the dark web, you can learn almost anything about anything. How to build a bomb. How to mark someone for assassination. How to commit a murder without leaving a trace of physical evidence. Interestingly, this is also where you can find the sites that sell murderabilia, like the drawings Kreskey made of you. One sold for nearly $5000 the last time I checked. Or so they say. You can’t trust anyone on the dark web. Or anyone, anywhere, for that matter.
“Camping gear.”
“You won’t mind if I take a look.”
A moment passed between us, where I didn’t hand over the bag and he locked me in a knowing gaze that made me slouch my shoulders and want to slink away like a dominated dog.
“You’re out of your league, son,” he said, gaze sliding away and up to the stars.
I didn’t answer. As we stood there, the van pulled up and Kreskey lumbered out. A guard opened the door for him, then got back in his truck and drove away.
“What are you doing here, Detective Harper?”
“A few of us—retired guys, some still on the job,” he said. “We’re taking turns keeping an eye on our local monster. Can’t have anything like what happened to you kids happen again up here.”
He wasn’t a big man, especially. As Kreskey had, he’d seemed bigger when I was a kid. But I was taller than he was now, much bigger, obviously in better shape, a trained fighter. But he had an aura that all other men recognized. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill you; and so, he’d always win any fight.
“Problem is that there aren’t enough of us to be on him all the time. There are gaps. Wednesday nights, no one’s watching. Sunday nights, too.”
We stood awhile, watching the lights go on and off, watching Kreskey’s bulky shadow. The air was warm, smelled of green and rot. Stars blinked, milky and faded in the full moon.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
I didn’t answer him.
“I’ll just let you know right now. It’s not what you think. Not during. Not after.”
I noticed for the first time that he had something over his shoulder, a camping chair, that he unfolded. It was an impossible tiny triangle of cloth hanging between three poles. No way it could hold him, but it did.
“Too old for standing around all night,” he said, sinking down. “I’ve got this tonight. Why don’t you go back to school? Live the life you have. Study hard. Drink too much. Get a job. Love someone.”
I left that night. But I went back, as you know.
Today, Angel’s mother, Jennifer, asked if I would be present for the interview with the police detective investigating the disappearance of Billy Martin. I agreed, of course.
I’ve also done some of my own research. I asked Detective Harper to run background checks on Tom and Wendy Walters. They wouldn’t have police records most likely, otherwise they wouldn’t be candidates for foster parents. But he dug around some. Tom had a sealed (to everyone except Detective Harper) juvenile record—arson, petty theft, found with a gun in his locker and kicked out of school. Joined the military, dishonorably discharged, worked at a factory in town that manufactured ice trays, of all things.
Wendy was a high school dropout, worked at a grocery store, no record of any kind. They’d been married ten years. They didn’t exactly fit the foster parent profile of older, childless couples, usually of some means, looking to help kids since they couldn’t have their own. Of course, some folks were just looking for the money that came with caring for the kids. I’ve found this to be a rarity, though. Most people are well-meaning. Life often gets the better of them. The stress and struggle of it all, the voices in their heads—some of them crack under the burden. Life breaks them, and they do wrong.
“How long were you with the Walters, Angel?”
They sit at the table, Angel and the young detective—earnest, bald by choice, head shaved.
Angel looks at Jen, who smiles and nods.
“A little under a year, I