Public Secrets Part 70

Michael shifted from foot to foot in his scruffy black sneakers. In the

past few weeks "When I'm finished" had been his father's standard

answer. "When will you be finished?"

"I don't know, but I'll be finished faster if you don't bother me."

h.e.l.l, Michael thought, wisely keeping the oath in his mind. n.o.body had

time for anything anymore. His best friend was at his stupid

grandmother's, and his second best friend was sick with the dumb flu or

something. What good was a Sat.u.r.day if you didn't get to fool around?

He tried, really, to take his father's advice. There was the Christmas

tree to look at, and all the presents stacked beneath it. Michael

picked up one with his name on it, the one wrapped in the paper with

goofy elves dancing all over it. He shook it, carefully. The rattle

was only slight but brought tremendous satisfaction.

He wanted a remote-controlled plane. It had been first on his Christmas

list and written in capital letters then underlined three times. Just

so his mom and dad knew he was serious. He was sure, dead sure, it was

inside that box.

He set it down again. It would be days before he could unwrap it, days

before he could take it outside and make it do loops and dives.

He needed something to do now.

There were baking smells in the kitchen, which pleased him. But he knew

if he wandered in there, his mother would rope him into rolling out

cookie dough or decorating gingerbread men. Girl stuff.

How was he ever supposed to play wide receiver for the L.A. Rams if

n.o.body pa.s.sed him the stupid football, for crying out loud?

And what was so interesting about a bunch of dopey papers and pictures

anyway? Wandering back toward the desk, he ran his tongue over the

tooth he'd chipped the week before while practicing wheelies on his

three-speed. He liked the fact that his dad was a cop, and bragged

about it all the time. Of course, when he bragged he had his dad

shooting from the hip and locking up crazies like Charlie Manson for

life. It would be a sad state of affairs if he had to tell the gang

that his father typed out forms and studied files. Might as well be a

librarian.

Theking the football under his arm, he leaned over his father's

shoulder. He had an idea that if he made a pest of himself, his father

would push the papers aside and come outside. Then his gaze fell on the

picture of Darren McAvoy.

"Jeez. Is that a dead kid?"

"Michael!" Lou turned, but the lecture dried on his tongue as he looked

into his son's shocked and fascinated eyes. Going with instinct, he put

a hand on Michael's shoulder. "Yes."

"Wow. What happened? Did he get sick or something?"

"No." He wondered if he should feel guilty for using the tragedy of one

child as a lesson to another. "He was murdered."

"He's just a little kid. People aren't supposed to murder little kids."

"No. But sometimes they do."

Staring at the police photo, Michael faced his own mortality for the

first time in his whirlwind eleven years. "Why?"

Lou remembered telling Emma that there were no monsters. The longer he