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one wall, at least a hundred folding chairs are leaning in rows against another, there are old stereo components and outdated video game consoles, and, best of all, dozens of cartons pretty much like his.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.
18
When Hodges lets himself into the outer office of the tiny suite on the seventh floor of the Turner Building on lower Marlborough Street, Holly is pacing worry-circles with a Bic jutting from her mouth. She stops when she sees him. ‘At last!’
‘Holly, we spoke on the phone just fifteen minutes ago.’ He gently takes the pen from her mouth and observes the bite marks incised on the cap.
‘It seems much longer. They’re in there. I’m pretty sure Barbara’s friend has been crying. Her eyes were all red when I brought them the Cokes. Go, Bill. Go go go.’
He won’t try to touch Holly, not when she’s like this. She’d jump out of her skin. Still, she’s so much better than when he first met her. Under the patient tutelage of Tanya Robinson, Jerome and Barbara’s mother, she’s even developed something approximating clothes sense.
‘I will,’ he says, ‘but I wouldn’t mind a head start. Do you have any idea what it’s about?’ There are many possibilities, because good kids aren’t always good kids. It could be minor shoplifting or weed. Maybe school bullying, or an uncle with Roman hands and Russian fingers. At least he can be sure (fairly sure, nothing is impossible) that Barbara’s friend hasn’t murdered anyone.
‘It’s about Tina’s brother. Tina, that’s Barbara’s friend’s name, did I tell you that?’ Holly misses his nod; she’s looking longingly at the pen. Denied it, she goes to work on her lower lip. ‘Tina thinks her brother stole some money.’
‘How old is the brother?’
‘In high school. That’s all I know. May I have my pen back?’
‘No. Go outside and smoke a cigarette.’
‘I don’t do that anymore.’ Her eyes shift up and to the left, a tell Hodges saw many times in his life as a cop. Oliver Madden even did it once or twice, come to think of it, and when it came to lying, Madden was a pro. ‘I qui—’
‘Just one. It’ll calm you down. Did you get them anything to eat?’
‘I didn’t think of it. I’m sor—’
‘No, that’s okay. Go back across the street and get some snacks. NutraBars, or something.’
‘NutraBars are dog treats, Bill.’
Patiently, he says, ‘Energy bars, then. Healthy stuff. No chocolate.’
‘Okay.’
She leaves in a swirl of skirts and low heels. Hodges takes a deep breath and goes into his office.
19
The girls are on the couch. Barbara is black and her friend Tina is white. His first amused thought is Salt and pepper in matching shakers. Only the shakers don’t quite match. Yes, they are wearing their hair in almost identical ponytails. Yes, they are wearing similar sneakers, whatever happens to be the in thing for tweenage girls this year. And yes, each of them is holding a magazine from his coffee table: Pursuit, the skip-tracing trade, hardly the usual reading material for young girls, but that’s okay, because it’s pretty clear that neither of them is actually reading.
Barbara is wearing her school uniform and looks relatively composed. The other one is wearing black slacks and a blue tee with a butterfly appliquéd on the front. Her face is pale, and her red-rimmed eyes look at him with a mixture of hope and terror that’s hard on the heart.