White sheets hung on the line in the yard. A small breeze rippled, and the spaces revealed the distant figure of Iris von Lillienfeld, ruby red across the street in her own very green backyard. Claire froze. Then, like a huntress stalking her prey, she crept across the room to her camera bag, whispering to herself, “Please, God, don’t let her move”; and hurriedly, trembling, she attached a zoom lens to her camera, expertly and swiftly loaded a thousand ASA color film, and turned to wait. “Come on, God, now give me back that little breeze. Oh, come on, don’t let me down.” And framed by a sudden ripple of the weightless white and sturdy clothespins was Miss von Lillienfeld, now close through the magic of zoom, standing still with brittle grace and contemplation and a pigeon on her pillbox hat.
All the mantras and the prayers and even the gange Claire had smoked trying to lose herself, and always her consciousness had been there, a leering monkey on her back, an ever-present watching, observing her efforts and plaguing her sincerity. Now here she was doing what she loved, and this was what she couldn’t feel because she wasn’t there. She was lost in what she was doing, looking out instead of in and only coming to herself when she was through—when all the frames were full.
Claire was just putting away her camera bag when they came back. Anticipating their excited chatter, she was surprised when her mother came speedily in gripping Michaelaen, her lips pressed into a hard, drawn line, her face white as chalk, the Mayor trotting busily behind.
“What’s going on?” asked Claire.
Mary, making a sign that consisted of nothing more than a nod of the head but that meant, “Not now, Claire,” and “Not in front of Michaelaen,” and “What in God’s name is the world coming to” all in one movement, marched through the rooms with a determined gait and left her standing open-mouthed and alone once again in the kitchen. A moment later Stan came in solemnly, shaking his head as he sat down at the table.
“Gee, Pop … what’s—”
“It was murder, Claire. Up in the woods. Jeez …” He covered his face with a great freckled paw.
“Who—” she whispered. “Who was murdered?” Claire remembered with fresh, cold pain the moment they’d told her that Michael was dead.
“A boy,” Zinnie answered dully from the doorway. “A little boy. It was really bad, Claire.” Zinnie looked as though she were going to be ill.
“Sit down, Zin,” Claire’s heart beat with morbid curiosity. “Did you see?”
“Yeah, I saw. The rest of them had to stay down by the monument, but they heard enough. It was up in the pine forest. An old man found the body. One of your old Jews, Claire. Taking his morning stroll. He was wailing like a banshee when we got there. They had to take him to the hospital for shock. Christ, that kid was really messed up.”
“Nothing like this ever happened before in this neighborhood,” Stan murmured. “I’ve never heard of anything like that around here.”
Mary came in swiftly. “Michaelaen’s in his room watching ‘Woody Woodpecker,’” she said to Zinnie. “I don’t want anybody talking about it in front of him. You got that?”
“Sure, Mom,” “Of course, dear,” they all nodded in agreement. You didn’t argue with Mary when she meant business, and she meant it now. She took a frozen fruit bar from the freezer and started to leave, then stopped in her tracks.
“It was drugs, wasn’t it, Stan? Only Colombians murder children for vendettas.”
“It looks like it, Mary,” Stan agreed.
Mary swept out of the room to try to further distract her grandson. They waited until the sound of her footsteps reached the top of the stairs.
“Not for nothing, Dad,” Zinnie locked eyes with her father, “but that was no Colombian’s revenge.”
“Those Latinos have pretty short fuses, honey.”
“Cut the crap, Pop. I’m on the job, remember? I saw him.”
“I know. I know. Only not in front of your mom. Not one word.”
“That bad?” Claire caught her breath.
“The killer was a maniac.”
“Anybody who would kill a little boy is a maniac,” Stan fumed.
“Yeah, but Pop, this was as sick as they come. It was … evil.”
Claire shuddered.
Zinnie’s upper lip was beaded with sweat. “And he was … uh … abused, you know? Just a little kid. Maybe seven or eight. I used to see him up in the playground. He was a real good-looking little kid, you know? I think it was him. It was hard to tell.” Zinnie’s voice caught in her throat. “He was lying there in a clearing of pine needles … he had this look on his face, his … his eyes were open …”
“All right, Zinnie,” Stan patted her on the shoulder.
“I’m okay.” Zinnie brushed his hand away, the way she would when she was truly upset. “The press didn’t get it. Not yet. They got him out of there and into the body bag quick. You never saw those Queens boys work so fast.”
“But they’ll get the story from the old man,” said Claire.
“Sure they will. But they’ll keep him sedated so long, he won’t be giving interviews till later. They’ve got to do a positive ID on the body. At least the press won’t have pictures. They’d have a panic out there.”
“A panic is better than another murder,” Claire said.
“Not until they notify the parents, it ain’t,” Zinnie snapped. “And I don’t want Michaelaen riding his bike up there with this going on.”
“He’ll come bowling with your mother and me. And we’ll just have to take shifts keeping an eye on him.”
“Listen, Claire,” Zinnie pointed a finger at her, “You’re another one I don’t want up in the park. Not for a minute, you hear me?”