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  “You saw her, man?” Paul said under his breath. “Right? The girl?”

  “What girl?” Dave said. “All I saw was you hit the water like the beach was on fire.”

  He remembered Ken’s story about watching Josie Mulfetta at the Village Green and he knew who the girl in the red bikini had been.

  The Woodsman.

  And unlike the rest of the Half Dozen, Dave couldn’t see him.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “Order up!”

  Just after Dave helped pull a chattering Paul ashore, Bob was slinging hash at the Parkview Diner. He slid a turkey club with fries into the pickup window. This afternoon, he got a temporary promotion to cook. Of course there wasn’t much cooking. Dinner wasn’t served until five p.m. and the post-lunch menu was sandwiches, burgers and fries. But it beat doing dishes.

  Scarlett appeared through the window. The waitress was on the far side of thirty with short, permed brown hair. Her Southern accent poured like honey when she spoke. Bob knew she was from Georgia and wondered what twists in life got her way the hell up here. She’d adopted the Scarlett name to bump up tips, but her real name was a mystery. She looked over the turkey club with an approving eye and nudged the pickle spear a shade to the right.

  “Mustard instead of mayo on this one, Bobby?” She was the only one in the diner who called him Bobby.

  “You asked for it, you got it,” Bob said.

  Scarlett smiled. “Y’all are getting the hang of this short order. Careful now or you’ll become indispensable.” She stretched out the syllables of the last word as if it was a mile long.

  Bob shook his head as the sandwich and Scarlett disappeared. He glanced past the prep table to the wash station on the other side of the kitchen. Glen Callahan was there in a white apron and jeans, soaked from the waist up. Glen was a part-time sophomore, part-time truant at Whitman. Acne peppered his flat face, and by now the heat of the industrial washer had pasted his long hair all over his neck. He gave Bob a nod of acknowledgement and pulled a rack of steaming glasses from the washer.

  Twelve months ago, that had been Bob over there, a new guy doing dishes. Scarlett was only half joking when she said he had a future here. Well, while he wasn’t headed for college like the rest of the Half Dozen, he’d kill himself if this excursion into the Parkview became a career. He needed to get the hell out of here after graduation, before he ended up with a permanent scent of fry oil and a work history that wasn’t worth typing on a resume.

  “Armstrong! Come here!” It was Nick Papachelas, owner/lord and master of the Parkview. He was a stout fireplug of a guy with a silver pompadour and a near incomprehensible Brooklyn accent. To him all employees had only a last name, and the employee should be damn glad the boss stooped to learn that.

  “I’ve got the prep table, Mr. P.”

  “I know where you’re working,” the boss answered. “I wrote the schedule. I said I need you here.”

  Bob wiped his hands on his apron and followed Mr. P downstairs into the basement. All the non-refrigerated foodstuffs were stored here. Bob even stored himself down here once when the Labor Inspector dropped by to see if everyone on the job was also on the payroll. Mr. P led him to some six-foot freestanding shelving stocked with canned goods.

  “There’s a dead rat back there,” Mr. P said. “I need you to lean this shelf forward so I can get it out.”

  Bob took a sniff but couldn’t catch the rat’s scent. He gave the rack of number ten cans a sidelong look. “You sure? I’ll empty and refill the shelf if you want and—“

  “At what point did you become the boss?” Mr. P snapped. “Get over there and pull. I’ll hold this end so it doesn’t fall.”

  Bob knew better than to second guess the boss. He’d seen people fired way too often. And while he wanted out of this job soon, he didn’t want out of it today. He reached up and grabbed the edge of the shelving and pulled. It barely rocked.

  “What are you, a boy or a man?” Mr. P sneered. “Put your back into it.”

  Bob took a deep breath and yanked. The shelving tipped forward. He edged backwards and eased the shelving from the wall.

  “Good,” Mr. P said. “A little more.”

  Bob kept the shelf pivoting towards him. As it tipped he had to stop pulling and start pushing back to stop the rotation. He could really feel the weight of it now.

  “I can see it,” Mr. P said. He was behind the shelving. “Just a bit more.”

  Shifting cans scraped against the steel. Bob eased the unit a little closer. His biceps started to burn. His spine compressed as he tried to balance the weight. He exhaled a low groan.

  “Almost. Another inch and I’m there,” said Mr. P.

  A bead of sweat rolled down Bob’s face. He sucked in a short, sharp breath. His foot slipped an inch across the concrete floor. Fear rolled in like an Atlantic wave.

  “Armstrong!” shouted Mr. P. His voice came from behind Bob.

  Startled, Bob jumped and threw the shelving back up against the wall. Cans rattled against each other like a tin symphony. Bob spun around. Mr. P stood glowering at the top of the steps.

  “What the hell are you doing down here? Do you know how many orders are backed up?”

  Bob snapped his head back and forth between the stairs and the shelving, certain he would see the man in both places. But he was alone in the basement.

  “You called me,” he said. “To come down here.”

  “What are you on?” Mr. P bounded down the steps. “You smoking some dope down here? I got no time for that. I’ll can your ass.”

  “No, no,” Bob stammered. “It’s all cool.” He grabbed a can of something off the shelf. “I got what I need.”

  He rushed past his boss and up the stairs. He dropped the can under the prep line. He’d returned with a can of sliced beets. Very useful. Four orders lay in the pickup window. Mr. P marched out to the dining room, shaking his head. Glen gave Bob a quizzical look from the wash area.

  “You okay, man?”

  “Glen, you saw Mr. P call me out of here a minute ago?”

  Glen shook his head. “Man, you just said something about working the prep table and then bolted for the basement. What are you on?”

  Bob started making sandwiches on autopilot. He wasn’t crazy. Mr. P sent him to the basement. How could Glen not see…?

  It hit him like a city bus. The Woodsman. The Half Dozen could all see him. And somehow the Woodsman knew it. They could all be targets. His stomach quivered. The Half Dozen had been so worried about how to be hunters. Now they had to worry about being prey.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Paul was never the idea man. Big plans came naturally to Jeff and Ken. Over the years he’d learned to go with that flow. The downside was that when he did have a brainstorm, he’d given up on sharing it. Too many smart remarks from the Half Dozen when he did.

  Well, he had an idea now. This Woodsman was more than they could handle. It was like the game where he took the line against the two-hundred-pound offensive linesmen from Syosset High. No way you won't get crushed if you don’t have help. The Woodsman had him marked. Whatever this Woodsman was, it seemed like it had escaped from Hell, and Paul wanted someone who could send it back. On the way home from the beach, Paul decided to recruit some real help.

  It had been a long time, but St. Michael’s Catholic Church still brought back memories. St. Michael’s had been Paul’s family church in the days when Paul still had a full family. Before his father died, the Hamptons hadn’t missed a Sunday service, usually sitting front row center. Paul had been an altar boy, his mother part of the Holy Name Society. But the grief of Officer Hampton’s death shook his widow’s faith to the core. After the pomp and pageantry of the formal policeman’s funeral, the family attended Mass no more. The last time Paul had stood in St. Michael’s it was to the mournful wail of NYPD bagpipes.

  The small church was a work of art, handcrafted by Italian immigrants between the World Wars. Intricate stained gla
ss filled the windows. Hand-carved statues of the Holy Family flanked the marble altar, behind which rose a crucifix bearing a tortured Christ at twice life size. Banks of votive candles flickered at the far end of the nave. A short old priest bent over one brace of candles and emptied the offertory box.

  It had been five years since Paul had seen Father Caverly, and time had taken its toll. Always short, the man appeared to have shrunk to gnome-like proportions. His hair had gone full silver, and there was a spreading circle of scalp at his crown. Father Caverly barely rose from his stooped position to empty the offertory box. His back had acquired a decided forward hunch. His fair Irish skin was even paler, his nose an unhealthy rash of red.

  His eyes narrowed as he turned and caught sight of Paul. He slipped the meager collection into his pocket, as if any potential thief would miss the move or the resultant clank of the change. He struggled to square his shoulders, as if trying to summon some of the powerful disciplinarian Paul remembered he used to be.

  “How can I help you?”

  Paul walked forward into the brighter light near the altar. “Father Caverly, you probably don’t remember me. I’m Paul Hampton.”

  The priest gave Paul a discerning squint.

  “My father was…”

  “An officer of the law,” the priest said. His Irish accent had thickened in the last decade. He slurred the word “officer.” “Funeral Mass was right here.” He nodded a few times. “You were an altar boy, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  The edges of the priest’s mouth turned down in disapproval. The guilt Paul felt about dropping out of altar boys rolled back in like a high tide.

  “It wasn’t my decision to quit,” Paul explained. “My mother wouldn’t take me to Mass.”

  “Yes, your mother left quite a void here when she quit the Holy Name Society just before Lent. We barely got the church prepared for Easter that year.”

  Paul hadn’t counted on this apparent grudge against his family.

  “So what brings you back to St. Michael’s like the prodigal son?”

  Paul’s request stuck in his throat. He felt like the cowed little kid he was when he’d approached this altar for his First Communion. He was going to sound like an idiot.

  “We need the help of a priest,” he managed to say.

  The priest relaxed his frown. He touched his hand to Paul’s shoulder. “How can I help?”

  Paul took a deep breath. “We need an exorcism.”

  The priest’s grip on Paul’s shoulder tightened. He clenched his teeth.

  “There’s some kind of spirit,” Paul rushed out. “Some entity. It’s taking children and…”

  “Do you think this is funny?” Father Caverly roared. “You and your friends want to make a mockery of the Faith?” He pushed away from Paul’s shoulder with amazing strength.

  “Father, it’s not like that. We…”

  “Get out,” the priest said, steel in his voice. He raised a crooked finger towards the doors. It trembled. “Some stupid film sells tickets at the cinema and now exorcism is a big joke. You haven’t darkened St. Michael’s doorway in a decade. Now you return to ridicule it. Get out!”

  Paul beat a hasty retreat to the waning sunlight outside. The church door swung closed. He braced himself for another round of abuse, but the priest did not follow him. He crossed the parking lot back to his car. He gave a crushed soda can a frustrated kick.

  He guessed his mother was right after all. When you needed the church, it would let you down. There’d be no help from the Vatican on this one.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Kenny!”

  Ken pushed aside the afternoon’s physics homework on his bedroom desk. His mother’s call from downstairs was half question, half summons. As Ken descended the staircase, he could see why.

  His mother stood at the open front door of the house. In the doorway stood a cop. Both looked up at Ken, she with confusion, the cop with an unhealthy anticipation.

  Ken took the remaining steps at half speed. This wasn’t a Suffolk County cop in dark blue. He was a Village Constable in their distinctive dark green. Ken recognized this one from that day Josie died. He was the first one on the scene.

  The cop had shoulders like a linebacker and his tight shirt showed every muscle. He had a square face with the kind of overhanging brow that better fit a mob enforcer. His silver tag read “Officer Pickney.” Ken swallowed hard. The Pickneys were founders.

  “Kenny,” his mother said. “Officer Pickney says you have some unpaid parking tickets.”

  That was a load of crap. Along with driving lesson number one, every kid was warned about Sagebrook’s favorite revenue stream. He rarely parked in the Village and did not leave his car unattended if he did.

  “I don’t think so,” Ken said.

  “I’ve got the records in the car,” the constable said. “I’ll show them to the boy. Jog his memory.”

  “Kenny, you go check those and find out the fastest way to pay them.”

  The constable gave Ken’s mother an official-looking nod and a tip of his peaked cap. Ken followed him out to his cruiser.

  The window was down and the constable reached in to retrieve his bulky ticket book. Ken stood by the cruiser’s rear door. The cop flipped open the book.

  “Now check here,” Constable Pickney said.

  Ken leaned in for a closer look, and the constable grabbed Ken’s wrist with his thumb and middle finger. He squeezed the pressure point there and pain rocketed up Ken’s arm.

  “Ow!”

  Pickney squeezed harder. “Shut it, asshole. So much as flinch and you’ll be charged with assaulting an officer.”

  Ken bit his lower lip and moaned. Pickney relaxed some of the pressure.

  “I need what you stole.”

  “I don’t—“

  The constable cut off Ken’s denial with another squeeze of the wrist.

  Pickney screwed up his face in thought. “Where do I know you from?”

  Oh crap, Ken thought. The last thing he needed was another way for Supercop here to connect him with the events around the Woodsman.

  “Nowhere. I’ve never been in trouble.”

  “Let’s skip the bullshit, kid. We both know what you took. Now if you don’t hand it over, shit starts rolling downhill. I phony up a bunch of tickets and we can seize your car. Then we come back with the county cops and a full-scale investigation into the theft. That ought to do your parents proud. You might miss starting college if we drag the investigation out.”

  Ken felt his life collapse around him. The sadistic twinkle in this goon’s eye told him the constable was not only capable of carrying out his threat, he’d enjoy it.

  Ken thought fast. How did the constable know to come here? He clicked through last night’s events. There was nothing to connect him to the break in. Nothing but Ms. Childress’ potential suspicions about a redheaded kid from earlier that day. If they had real evidence, the founders wouldn’t be wasting time with this intimidation routine. They’d have an arrest warrant. But the cop wasn’t going to buy his innocent routine.

  “Okay, okay,” Ken said. “It’s yours. I didn’t know how serious this was. It’s in the garage.”

  Constable Pickney gave a smug smile. He released Ken’s wrist. Ken massaged some life back into it as he approached the garage. He pulled open the overhead door and entered the shadows.

  He returned carrying a small metal sign, about the size of a notebook. The constable looked confused. Ken handed it to him. The red letters on the white sign read: DO NOT FEED THE DUCKS—Sagebrook Village Code 143A

  The Half Dozen had liberated the sign from its duties a few months ago, one of those random acts of prankdom that was their gift.

  “Officer, I don’t know what I was thinking. I thought it would look cool on my dorm room wall in the fall. The bolts were already loose…” Ken spit the words out rapid fire and remorseful.

  Constable Pickney’s jaw hung open. He’d in
timidated the wrong confession out of the suspect.

  “Please don’t tell my parents about this,” Ken pleaded.

  The constable struggled for a moment. Then he squared his shoulders and straightened his cap. “It’s fine for now. But I don’t want to see you again.”

  Ken figured that now wasn’t the time to tell Constable Pickney the feeling was mutual. “No sir, Officer.”

  The cruiser rolled away and Ken returned inside. His mother sat at the kitchen table, brow knit in consternation.

  “It’s cool, Mom,” Ken said. “It was someone else’s car. The license plate was one digit off.”

  “Really? Well it’s a damn good thing,” his mother said. “I’d have grounded you for life if that had been true.”

  Ken wondered what her punishment would be for felony burglary.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  There was no way Marc could know the whole senior class. There were over eight hundred of them this year.

  That night, Marc pulled his new yearbook off his bedroom shelf. Maybe the thing would be of value after all. The thick book’s dark green leatherette cover still smelled of some chemical that was no doubt toxic. The binding cracked as he opened it for the first time. The purchase had been more of a rite of passage than anything else. He couldn’t imagine asking people to sign it. Most of the kids at school were passing acquaintances, even the kids he’d taken band with for three years. And the Half Dozen? They were all so close the idea seemed trite.

  Marc flipped past the first twenty pages until the senior pictures began. He laid out the list of names Ken had given him. He cross-referenced the names on the list with birth dates near his. There were dozens of vaguely familiar faces, all part of the moving between period background scenery, kids he’d seen but did not know. There were also a good number he’d never seen: boys with shoulder-length hair and wispy moustaches, girls with Cleopatra-quality eyeliner. Where were these kids all day?