the understructure of the bridge. He would just check ... so people wouldn't look at his face when he explained and know he hadn't even checked.
Tony's BMX was still there, carefully obscured in the long grass.
Joel walked slowly toward the riverbank, keeping his mind carefully blank. The whole thing could have happened the way he had it figured out. It all made sense.
A squirrel scolded in a nearby tree. The river made a burbling sound, almost as if it were laughing.
There were Tony's clothes scattered haphazardly along the ground, exactly where they had been dropped except for the shirt the girl had moved. One sock hung from a nearby bush; the other lay in the midst of a patch of violets.
Sighing over Tony's carelessness, Joel gathered up the clothes, folded them, put them into a neat pile. He folded the pale blue shirt last and laid it on top of the rest, then surveyed the results of his work.
Something was wrong. Tony had never folded his clothes in his life, not unless his mother was standing over him anyway. Joel reached down and mussed the shirt.
As he straightened up, the gleaming surface of the water caught his gaze. The river was unchanged, innocent.
For an instant Joel couldn't breathe. His throat closed, and the air was trapped in his chest in a painful lump. He lifted his hands in surprise, in supplication, but when the breath exploded from him again it brought with it a bleating moan.
Joel stood on the bank clutching at himself and swaying.
Tony was dead ... dead.
Chapter Eight
"J OEL !" T HE ANGRY VOICE CAME IMMEDIATELY after the slammed door. "Joel, where are you?"
Joel lay on his back in the middle of his bed staring at the darkened light fixture. The shadow of the fixture stretched across his ceiling like an elasticized gray spider and bent down the wall. When he had first lain down on the bed, the shadow had been a small blob right next to the light.
"Joel, are you up there?" came his father's voice again, and Joel shook his head slowly from side to side.
No, he wasn't up here. He wasn't anywhere. Hadn't Mrs. Zabrinsky told his father that? All afternoon the telephone had rung at frequent intervals. Then the doorbell. Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Knock, knock, rattle, rattle. First Bobby calling, obviously sent across the street by Mrs. Zabrinsky, then Mrs. Zabrinsky herself. "Joel! Tony!"
But the house key was in Joel's pocket, and no one could get in ... except his parents when they got home from work. They had their own keys. Joel had lain there through the long afternoon and waited for one of them to get home. He had thought it would be his mother who would get there first, though. She usually did get home before his dad because she started work earlier in the morning.
The papers for his route had been dropped on his front porch about two hours before. He had heard the thunk when they hit the concrete, but he hadn't been able to make himself get off the bed to do anything about them. I could be gone on my route when they come home, he had thought, but still he hadn't moved.
"Joel!" His door shot open with a report like a firecracker and, as if connected to the door by a spring, he leaped off the bed. The blood rushed from his brain with the sudden movement, and he swayed giddily in the middle of his floor.
"So you are here. Mrs. Zabrinsky thought you were."
Joel didn't say anything. He studied a spot on the floor in front of his father's feet.
"What are you doing, locking yourself in the house all day? What do you mean by this kind of behavior?"
Joel's gaze traveled to his father's belt buckle.
His father was now looking around the room. "Where's Tony?" he asked. "Mrs. Zabrinsky said you two boys spent the entire afternoon locked in the house."
"Tony's not here," Joel said.
"Where is he, then?"
Joel gave a small shrug.
His father ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation. "What's going on, Joel? This isn't like you ... sneaking into the house, leaving Tony's mother to
Tony's BMX was still there, carefully obscured in the long grass.
Joel walked slowly toward the riverbank, keeping his mind carefully blank. The whole thing could have happened the way he had it figured out. It all made sense.
A squirrel scolded in a nearby tree. The river made a burbling sound, almost as if it were laughing.
There were Tony's clothes scattered haphazardly along the ground, exactly where they had been dropped except for the shirt the girl had moved. One sock hung from a nearby bush; the other lay in the midst of a patch of violets.
Sighing over Tony's carelessness, Joel gathered up the clothes, folded them, put them into a neat pile. He folded the pale blue shirt last and laid it on top of the rest, then surveyed the results of his work.
Something was wrong. Tony had never folded his clothes in his life, not unless his mother was standing over him anyway. Joel reached down and mussed the shirt.
As he straightened up, the gleaming surface of the water caught his gaze. The river was unchanged, innocent.
For an instant Joel couldn't breathe. His throat closed, and the air was trapped in his chest in a painful lump. He lifted his hands in surprise, in supplication, but when the breath exploded from him again it brought with it a bleating moan.
Joel stood on the bank clutching at himself and swaying.
Tony was dead ... dead.
Chapter Eight
"J OEL !" T HE ANGRY VOICE CAME IMMEDIATELY after the slammed door. "Joel, where are you?"
Joel lay on his back in the middle of his bed staring at the darkened light fixture. The shadow of the fixture stretched across his ceiling like an elasticized gray spider and bent down the wall. When he had first lain down on the bed, the shadow had been a small blob right next to the light.
"Joel, are you up there?" came his father's voice again, and Joel shook his head slowly from side to side.
No, he wasn't up here. He wasn't anywhere. Hadn't Mrs. Zabrinsky told his father that? All afternoon the telephone had rung at frequent intervals. Then the doorbell. Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Knock, knock, rattle, rattle. First Bobby calling, obviously sent across the street by Mrs. Zabrinsky, then Mrs. Zabrinsky herself. "Joel! Tony!"
But the house key was in Joel's pocket, and no one could get in ... except his parents when they got home from work. They had their own keys. Joel had lain there through the long afternoon and waited for one of them to get home. He had thought it would be his mother who would get there first, though. She usually did get home before his dad because she started work earlier in the morning.
The papers for his route had been dropped on his front porch about two hours before. He had heard the thunk when they hit the concrete, but he hadn't been able to make himself get off the bed to do anything about them. I could be gone on my route when they come home, he had thought, but still he hadn't moved.
"Joel!" His door shot open with a report like a firecracker and, as if connected to the door by a spring, he leaped off the bed. The blood rushed from his brain with the sudden movement, and he swayed giddily in the middle of his floor.
"So you are here. Mrs. Zabrinsky thought you were."
Joel didn't say anything. He studied a spot on the floor in front of his father's feet.
"What are you doing, locking yourself in the house all day? What do you mean by this kind of behavior?"
Joel's gaze traveled to his father's belt buckle.
His father was now looking around the room. "Where's Tony?" he asked. "Mrs. Zabrinsky said you two boys spent the entire afternoon locked in the house."
"Tony's not here," Joel said.
"Where is he, then?"
Joel gave a small shrug.
His father ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation. "What's going on, Joel? This isn't like you ... sneaking into the house, leaving Tony's mother to
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