Nobody but me.
Brooke's room was on the second floor of their house, in the back-left corner, which meant that she had two windows—one on the side, facing the Petermans' house, which she always kept tightly curtained, and one on l he back, facing the woods, which she kept uncovered. We lived on the edge of town, so we had no rear neighbors, no other houses behind us, and no people at all for miles in that direction. Brooke thought no one could see her. I thought she was beautiful.
I watched her sit up into view, pushing aside the bedspread and stretching luxuriously before combing out her hair with her fingers. She slept in thick, gray sweats, which seemed like an oddly dull color for her. Sometimes she scratched her armpits or her butt—something no girl would ever do if she knew she were being watched. She made faces in her mirror; sometimes she danced a little. After a minute or two, she gathered up her clothes and left the room, headed for the shower.
I wondered if I could offer to shovel their snow, like I did with Mr. Crowley, so I could put it where I wanted it and grant myself more access to the yard. It would probably be suspicious, though, unless I did the whole street, and I didn't have time for that. I was far too busy as it was.
Each day I found a way to give Mr. Crowley a new note— some on his car, like before, others taped to his windows or shoved into doorways, higher than Kay could reach. After the second one, none of the notes were direct threats. Instead I sent him evidence that I knew what he was doing:
JEB JOLLEY-KIDNEY
DAVE BIRD-ARM
As I left him notes about the victims, I made sure to leave out the drifter he'd killed by the lake—partly because I didn't know his name, and partly because I was still afraid he'd seen my bike tracks in the snow, and I didn't want him to put two and two together.
On the last day of school I sent him a note that said:
GREG OLSON-STOMACH
This was the biggie, because Greg Olson's body hadn't been found yet—as far as Crowley knew, nobody knew about the stomach. After he read it, he locked himself in the house, brooding. The next morning he went to the hardware store and bought a couple of padlocks, adding extra security to his shed and cellar door. I was a little worried that he'd become too paranoid and I'd start to lose track of him, but no sooner was he finished locking up than he came to our house and gave me a new key to the shed.
"I've locked up the shed, John; can't be too careful these days." He handed me the key. "You know where the tools are, so just keep it clean like you always do, and thanks again for all your help."
"Thanks," I said. He still trusted me—I felt like whooping for joy. I gave him my best "surrogate grandson" smile. "I'll keep the snow shoveled."
My mom came down the stairs behind me. "Hello Mr. Crowley, is everything okay?"
"I've added some new locks," he said. "I'd recommend you do the same. That killer's still out there."
"We keep the mortuary locked up pretty tightly," said Mom, "and there's a good alarm system in the back where we keep the chemicals. I think we're okay."
"You got a good boy," he said, smiling. Then trouble clouded his face, and he glanced down the street suspiciously. "This town's not as safe as it used to be. I'm not trying to scare you, I just. . ." He looked back at us. "Just be careful." He turned and trudged back across the street, his shoulders heavy.
I closed the door and smiled.
I'd tricked him.
"Doing anything fun today?" asked Mom. I looked at her suspiciously, and she put up her hands innocently. "Just asking."
I brushed past her and climbed the stairs. "I'm going to read for a while." It was my standard excuse for spending hours at a time in my room, watching the Crowleys' house from my window. This time of day I couldn't get up close, so watching through the window was all I had.
"You've been spending too much time in your room," she said, following me up the stairs. "It's the first day of Christmas vacation—you should go out and do something fun."
This was new—what was she up to? I'd been out of the house almost as much as I was in it, creeping around outside Mr. Crowley's house, and Brooke's. Mom didn't know where I went or what I was doing, but she couldn't possibly think that I was spending too much time in my room. She had something else on her mind.
"There's that movie we keep seeing ads for," she said. "It finally made it to town yesterday. You could go see that."
I turned and stared at her again. What was she doing?
"I'm just saying it might be fun," she said, ducking into the kitchen to avoid my gaze. She was nervous. "If you want to go," she called out, "I've got some money for tickets."
'Tickets" is plural—was that her game? There's no way I was seeing a movie with my mom. "You can see it if you want," 1 said. "I want to finish this book." '