worry about my future? I've much to consider, and there will be prying eyes, no doubt—those fuckin' protestors at my release! Who are they to judge me , to condemn me ? They know nothing, the simple fuckheads.
For hours, I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling and, despite my unwillingness, remembered those extraordinary days.
***
May 20, 1978
I cruised around town, searching for the car that had carried my newfound angel.
I yelled to no one, "Jackpot!"
It pulled into a driveway off Cary Road, and I immediately recognized the driver, that fuckin' Tony. I wasn't paying much attention, absentmindedly going through the motions, when it leapt into view. I spun around and parked on a little dirt trek that was barely a road, across and down the street from the house where my archenemy lived.
"What the hell do I do now?"
The Reaper chose a lousy time to go silent.
Several minutes later, as I tried to figure my next move, Tony walked back out and toward his car.
"Shit! Should I follow him? He'll eventually pick up Diana."
It would have to be another time, as the uniform he wore clearly signaled his leaving for work. I recognized it—from The Dairy Hut, a place I visited on occasion. He pulled outta the driveway and turned down the old dirt road directly across the street. It must'a been a back way to work.
I sat and stared at the house. It drew me, stirred me, beckoned me.
"Why is Tony so special to my angel? Maybe there are clues about her inside. I might find her in a different way, unless.... Shit! What should I do if someone is home? There's no car in the driveway. The garage is open, but it's empty. Still...."
Again, the Reaper didn't answer.
"I've got it!"
In a stroke of ingenuity, not exactly a common occurrence for me, I decided to masquerade as a newspaper delivery boy attempting to scare up subscriptions. It gave me a valid reason to knock on the door, and if nobody was home, I could do my reconnaissance. Most people didn't lock their doors in Sleepy Town.
Just one problem: at twenty-six, I might appear too old to be a newspaper delivery boy.
I struggled with it for quite a while, working through the possibilities, trying to ease my nervousness. Hell, I doubted anyone would question it. It wasn't as if anything bad ever happened in Algonquin.
I couldn't work up my courage. "Damn it! I'm so sick of being a fuckin' coward."
Chapter 13 – May 20, 1978: Tony Hooper
In a neighborhood like ours—almost suburban and almost rural, a hybrid—kids always looked for excitement and rarely found it. They settled on the next best thing, and manufactured some of their own.
A singular row of houses occupied our side of Cary Road, considered a main thoroughfare despite its relative calm. Behind us lay a stretch of mostly open land we called "The Outland." It encompassed several square miles between Cary Road and Highway 31, in the northern part of Algonquin, high above the Fox River valley. Kids had long biked, hiked, built forts and sought adventure in the Outland. A mix of tall grass and trees of every conceivable size made it an alluring playground.
Frank lived near the edge of The Outland, two blocks away and almost directly behind our home. At seventy-one, he'd earned the moniker of "Old Man Willow," the brainchild of some unknown local from years past—no doubt stolen from J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings .
Who knew how such idiotic rumors got started, but many believed him responsible for two children who'd disappeared many years ago. Rumor had it that Frank had buried them under his roses—special fertilization for a famous garden. A child's imagination needed an outlet, with little else to do in our sleepy little neighborhood.
I'd once told some of the younger kids that I'd seen tiny fingers, surely belonging to those missing children, protruding from the mud beneath Frank's roses. I'd scared the crap out of them!
Frank had thought it hilarious too, though he regretted his unfortunate
For hours, I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling and, despite my unwillingness, remembered those extraordinary days.
***
May 20, 1978
I cruised around town, searching for the car that had carried my newfound angel.
I yelled to no one, "Jackpot!"
It pulled into a driveway off Cary Road, and I immediately recognized the driver, that fuckin' Tony. I wasn't paying much attention, absentmindedly going through the motions, when it leapt into view. I spun around and parked on a little dirt trek that was barely a road, across and down the street from the house where my archenemy lived.
"What the hell do I do now?"
The Reaper chose a lousy time to go silent.
Several minutes later, as I tried to figure my next move, Tony walked back out and toward his car.
"Shit! Should I follow him? He'll eventually pick up Diana."
It would have to be another time, as the uniform he wore clearly signaled his leaving for work. I recognized it—from The Dairy Hut, a place I visited on occasion. He pulled outta the driveway and turned down the old dirt road directly across the street. It must'a been a back way to work.
I sat and stared at the house. It drew me, stirred me, beckoned me.
"Why is Tony so special to my angel? Maybe there are clues about her inside. I might find her in a different way, unless.... Shit! What should I do if someone is home? There's no car in the driveway. The garage is open, but it's empty. Still...."
Again, the Reaper didn't answer.
"I've got it!"
In a stroke of ingenuity, not exactly a common occurrence for me, I decided to masquerade as a newspaper delivery boy attempting to scare up subscriptions. It gave me a valid reason to knock on the door, and if nobody was home, I could do my reconnaissance. Most people didn't lock their doors in Sleepy Town.
Just one problem: at twenty-six, I might appear too old to be a newspaper delivery boy.
I struggled with it for quite a while, working through the possibilities, trying to ease my nervousness. Hell, I doubted anyone would question it. It wasn't as if anything bad ever happened in Algonquin.
I couldn't work up my courage. "Damn it! I'm so sick of being a fuckin' coward."
Chapter 13 – May 20, 1978: Tony Hooper
In a neighborhood like ours—almost suburban and almost rural, a hybrid—kids always looked for excitement and rarely found it. They settled on the next best thing, and manufactured some of their own.
A singular row of houses occupied our side of Cary Road, considered a main thoroughfare despite its relative calm. Behind us lay a stretch of mostly open land we called "The Outland." It encompassed several square miles between Cary Road and Highway 31, in the northern part of Algonquin, high above the Fox River valley. Kids had long biked, hiked, built forts and sought adventure in the Outland. A mix of tall grass and trees of every conceivable size made it an alluring playground.
Frank lived near the edge of The Outland, two blocks away and almost directly behind our home. At seventy-one, he'd earned the moniker of "Old Man Willow," the brainchild of some unknown local from years past—no doubt stolen from J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings .
Who knew how such idiotic rumors got started, but many believed him responsible for two children who'd disappeared many years ago. Rumor had it that Frank had buried them under his roses—special fertilization for a famous garden. A child's imagination needed an outlet, with little else to do in our sleepy little neighborhood.
I'd once told some of the younger kids that I'd seen tiny fingers, surely belonging to those missing children, protruding from the mud beneath Frank's roses. I'd scared the crap out of them!
Frank had thought it hilarious too, though he regretted his unfortunate
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