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in hand, to the gazebo in the center of MacIntyre Park, dear Lord, and there to place my lips against her lips and perform extremely pleasing acts . . .
    Awash with desire he faced in the privacy of his shower the fact that there was no hope. Amanda Bartlett would never pay him the least attention.
    "Ach du lieber Augustine —" And what was the rest? Two months out of school and he was already brain-dead in German. "Du lieber Amanda ..."
    You did not impress a girl like Amanda by being recording secretary of the German Club. Let's face it, Jerry had elaborate muscles and could prance the gridiron before her admiring gaze.
    When baby-faced William Neary came up to her and said, "Ich bin lieben —or lieber —uh ..." he could expect the proverbial wet Spaetzle.
    As the shower turned tepid his erection collapsed and he stepped out. He dried himself and pulled on his yellow cotton pajamas.
    Bedroom, bed. To sleep, perchance . . .

     
    * * *
     
    Because there were basement windows secluded at the back of the house Barton could take his time entering. He examined a window frame with his penlight, taking inventory of its various weaknesses. He did not want there to be any sign of entry or exit.
    He'd learned from his work with the missing children group that policemen felt ill-equipped to fathom the secrets of families and read the hearts of children; the most beloved child could decide to leave home, and for unknown reasons. A flower of youth might end by turning tricks on Sunset Boulevard or Lexington Avenue in the Fifties and nobody would ever know why.
    Barton intended to create the appearance that this particular kid had packed up and moved out. But before he did that, he had to face the tricky part; indeed, it was the best ruse he had ever contemplated.
    In his pockets he carried wire in various grades, a group of plastic cards of different thicknesses and even some old-fashioned skeleton keys he'd bought at a yard sale. Small-town locks were sometimes old enough to give up their secrets to these keys. Finding that the window was secure, he tried the storm door. He was pleased to discover that entering here could not be simpler: there was a padlock, but that had been locked onto the broken hook. The tongue of the hasp hung open. He took out his 3-In-1 Oil and oiled the hinges—very, very lightly. Then he wrapped some felt around the loose parts of the lock. He checked his other equipment: the cloth packs, the ether, the duct tape, the hammer, the bags.
    He was going to be a wonderful father to this boy. They would have a fabulous life together.
    Billy listened to the quiet. Everybody's light was out. Only Billy was still awake—as usual. He simply did not sleep as much as other people, at least not as much as the members of his own family did.
    He threw off his sheet and stepped into the faded shaft of moonlight that shone on his rug. He went to the window. The breeze was scented with the perfume of corn tassels. He loved  the night, and was all too aware that this night fell at the end of his last childhood summer. In October he would be thirteen. He'd heard his father and mother talking one night, and his mother had said, "He's disappearing. Right before our eyes, he's just disappearing."
    The moon was high, and the bird sang into the silence. He could see it sitting on its telephone wire. To his ear there was no sound in the world quite so pure as the voice of a bird. Carefully he directed the microphone of his tape recorder out the window. He drew in breath, rolled his tongue into the back of his mouth and let out three notes. The bird went on singing to itself, all alone on the wire.
    The world swimming in moonlight, the whispering breeze, the bird's clear, sharp song—nobody could re-create such beauty. But he could try. This time he closed his eyes. He let his ears become his only senses. He filled his lungs and pretended he was a bird also, soft and quick and smitten by the moonlight.
    He sang.
    The bird sang