It’s unwieldy trying to pump bike pedals with the bag tied to my handlebars, but it’ll be quicker than walking, and I silently thank Charlie for not asking for it back.
Fortunately, I don’t pass that many people. Empty buildings pop up on either side as I slow down near the park’s entrance. Breathing hard, I untie the bag, letting the bike fall on its side, before I head in.
I’m five minutes late. Will Greg really have killed her because of five minutes?
The two baseball fields look as barren as the last two times I was here. Abandoned. A place no one comes to anymore, or ever will.
The perfect place for a double murder.
What now? I don’t see any sign of Greg or Amy.
“Don’t stop!” It’s Greg’s voice. “Keep coming. To the second field.” As I approach the spot where a week ago Alycia had been waiting for Greg, I hear him call out, “Over here. Behind the wall.”
Did Greg plan it this way just to be cute? Behind the wall I find Greg and Amy. Greg has one arm around her shoulders, holding her in place. In his other hand, he holds a gun, which he has pressed against her head. His grin is jagged and sharp.
Between us is a hole dug several feet into the ground. Scrunched-up paper and a few pieces of wood lay at the bottom of it. Nearby is a shovel and some other items.
“You took your time getting here,” Greg sneers. “It’s been more than twenty minutes. You’re lucky she’s still alive.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I did the best I could.” To Amy, I ask, “Are you okay?”
She nods, teary-eyed. “This is all my fault, Alden. I should have just waited till this morning to go to the police, like we said. But I was so mad at him for cheating on me, for strangling that poor girl, killing her, I told myself I had to confront him. I should have never—”
“Shut up!” Greg shakes her by the neck.
Amy cries out. She’s so scared she’s physically trembling. And I’m the one who got her into this. “It’s okay,” I try to assure her.
“Let’s get this over with,” Greg says. He points at the hole. “Empty the bag in there.” When I don’t move right away, he pushes the gun against Amy’s head, and she whimpers in pain. “Hurry!” he says.
“I’m hurrying,” I say. “Just be careful with that gun. Don’t hurt her.”
“What’s the matter, you got a crush on her? You wish she was your girlfriend? Fat chance. Now get moving. But hand me the notebook first. I want to make sure you’re not trying to trick me by throwing in a fake one.”
Quickly, I open the bag and hand him the notebook. Then I empty the rest into the hole. Greg’s backpack and clothing. The cell phone.
“Very good,” he says, finished with the notebook and tossing it into the hole on top of everything else. He peers in and says, “Damn, I liked that backpack. And you dug into our trash to get my clothes? That’s creepy.”
He catches me staring at the gun and says, “What, you don’t believe it’s real? It’s real.”
“Here.” He kicks at one of the items on the ground. A can of lighter fluid. “Pick it up.” He waves the gun. “Pour it over everything in there.” He returns the gun to the side of Amy’s head and presses hard. She winces. “Don’t think about doing anything funny with that.”
Popping off the top of the can with shaking hands, I squeeze it over the hole. “More,” he says, and I do it again. The smell of the fluid is overwhelming.
“Drop it and back off,” Greg orders. “Don’t you try anything.” He lets go of Amy, but still points the gun in her direction as he pulls out a lighter from one of his pockets. I debate trying to jump him as he juggles the gun while crouching down to grab the two rags also laying on the ground, but Amy is too close. Judging from the smell, the rags are already doused in fluid. The first one flares up quickly as he lights it and tosses it into the hole. The second one flares up just as quickly, and he tosses it in as well. Then, grabbing Amy again, he backs up from the rising flames. I stay where I am, staring sadly at the rapidly deteriorating evidence Charlie and I had worked so hard to collect.
Quietly, almost solemnly, we wait until all that’s left in the hole are smoldering ashes. There is one more item left on the ground near Greg: a gallon jug of water, which he orders me to use to douse the embers.
None of us say anything for another minute as we watch the smoke spiral up and trail off into the air. Then Greg kicks the shovel. “Now cover up the hole.”
Amy looks at him. I pick up the shovel. “What are you going to do with us?” I ask.
Greg’s smile is more like a sneer. “Well, that’s a good question.” He seems to be enjoying himself. “I could do whatever I want, couldn’t I? So you start putting the dirt back in that hole, and we’ll see what I come up with.”
I begin shoveling, realizing he’s given me a weapon. He’s got the gun firmly in hand, though at least he’s not pointing it at Amy now, and I wonder if I can surprise him enough to swing and hit him before he has time to fire it. I keep a close eye on them from the periphery of my vision. Amy still looks scared. When I only have two or three shovelfuls left, she says to Greg, “What are you planning to do with us?”
“I’ve been thinking about that.” I drop another bit of dirt into what’s left of the hole as he continues. “I’ve decided that when he finishes, you can both leave.”
This makes me stop and look at him. Amy seems more surprised than I am. “What do you mean, leave?” she says.
“Uh…you should consider yourself…uh…consider yourself lucky.” Greg seems confused all of a sudden. Like an actor who’s suddenly forgotten his lines and is improvising.
“You’re not going to kill him?” Amy says.
“I’m not going to kill…either of you,” Greg says. “There’s no need.” He points at the hole. “The evidence is burned. Gone. With no proof, nobody’s going to believe him. Him…or you.”
I shovel in the last bit of dirt.
The gun is at his side. He’s barely paying any attention to it. His focus is all on Amy.
“Look,” Greg is saying. “I told you before—”
All at once, I move, swinging the shovel over and up, the dirt hitting him perfectly in the face. He cries out, bringing one hand to his face, the gun still in his right hand. “Run, Amy!” I shout as I swing again, the spade hitting him just above his right wrist.
“Ow!” he shouts, dropping the gun. I twist around and discover Amy hasn’t moved. “Run!” I shout again. “Do you have your cell? Get out of here and call the police!”
She finally starts moving and, holding the shovel firmly across my body, I turn my attention back to Greg. He’s holding his damaged hand, the one he throws baseballs with, I note with some perverse satisfaction. He looks at me, his eyes widening into what looks like actual fear. “Get away from me!” he shouts, backing up.
The gun lays in the dirt behind him. I move forward, forcing him to take two steps back. I feint left, and he jumps away to avoid the shovel. I do it again, dancing him back a couple more steps. The shovel is an extension of my hand now, swinging again, missing him on purpose as he ducks. I’m only a couple of steps from the gun, and as he rises up, I swing the shovel once more, letting go of it this time. He grunts as it connects and I leap for the gun.
For a split second, it’s like I’m back at the summer fair again, and I’m reaching for the bag with the gun in it, and this time I get it before Alan Harder can. Only when I turn, I’m in Miller’s Park, gun in hand, and Greg Matthes is charging toward me. I try to move out of his reach while pointing the gun at him, but he hits me and we both go tumbling, the gun flying out of my hand.
Then we’re both up and facing each other. I look for the gun but don’t see it. I don’t see the shovel, either. And I don’t see Amy. Good. At least she’s gotten away.
With his good hand, Greg is rubbing his shoulder. “Let’s talk about this,” he says. The gun glints in the grass, near the other end of the dugout wall. “I was never planning to kill you,” he says. “Or Amy. I just wanted to get rid of the evidence so no one would believe you. That’s all. Killing Alycia was an accident.”
I move to my left, and he moves to block me.
“Look,” he says, “all that tough guy stuff I was doing, now and after I cornered you after school yesterday, it was just an act.”
I feint to my right, and he copies me.
“I really was going to let you go.”
I fake left, then quickly cut right and start running. He tries to react, but I manage to get past him, avoiding his reaching arm, and I dash toward the gun. When I’m almost there, I glance back and gleefully realize he’s not going to reach me in time.
Just as my fingers encircle the gun, something slams into the back of my head.
I go tumbling to the ground, thinking, “How did Greg reach me so fast?” Before I can get back up my head explodes again, and, this time, I black out.