Mister Death's Blue-Eyed Girls by Mary Downing Hahn Page A

So I sit there, scared out of my mind, trying to figure out what's happened and why everybody thinks I had something to do with it. I hope Bobbi Jo's okay. And Cheryl, too. Christ, where is she?
    At the police station, the cops take me into this little room with cinderblock walls painted piss yellow. They tell me to sit in a chair facing a table. One sits across from me and opens a notebook. The other one sits off to one side, just out of my line of sight. He asks the questions. I have to turn my head to look at him.
    "State your name," he says.
    "Harold Novak."
    "State your address."
    "Forty-eight fifteen Forty-Third Street, Elmgrove." I want to ask him again why they've brought me here, what do they think I've done, but he doesn't pause between my answer and his next question. Nor does his face ever change. He's got one expression. Grim. One voice. Flat.
    "Where were you at eight a.m. this morning?"
    I shrug, trying to be nonchalant, getting back into my usual pose. Tough. Scared of nothing. Humphrey Bogart in
Key Largo.
"Driving around, I guess."
    "Was anyone with you?"
    "No."
    "Did anyone see you?"
    "Maybe. Probably. It's the last day of school, lots of kids were around. Some of them must of seen me." I shift my position but the chair's seat is hard vinyl and sort of slippery. I feel like I might slide off it. I wish I had a cigarette, but I left the pack in my car.
    "Were you looking for anyone in particular?"
    I shrug again. I could really use a cigarette. "I wanted to give this girl I know a ride to school."
    The two cops look at each other like I've said something important. "What's her name?"
    "Cheryl," I say. "Cheryl Miller."
    They look at each other again.
    "Did you leave your car on Chester Street and go into the park?" I nod. "I was thinking she'd come along and I could take her to school." It's getting hard to act nonchalant. Something bad has happened. Something to do with Cheryl. I can tell by the heavy silence in the room. I'm sweating now, worried, scared. The guy who's been writing everything down lights a cigarette. I wonder if he'd give me one. Probably not. "Is Cheryl okay? Is this about her?"
    Instead of answering me they ask me another question. "Do you own a rifle?"
    I'm getting scared now. Really scared. Something's happened. Something bad. I'm pushing stuff away, things I don't want to think about, things I don't want to know.
    "Yeah," I say, still trying to be tough, but my voice sounds funny now, kind of squeaky, like it did when I was thirteen. "It's a twenty-two, what they call a cat and rat gun." I stare at the cop even though it makes my neck hurt. Why can't he sit where I can see him better? My heart's beating faster. I wonder if the cops can hear it. If that makes them think I'm guilty of whatever it is that's happened. "What's my twenty-two got to do with this?"
    The one sitting across from me says, "We ask the questions. You answer."
    "Did you have your rifle with you this morning?" the other one asks.
    I shake my head. "No. It's home in my closet. I never take it anywhere unless I'm target shooting."
    "Do you shoot a lot?"
    "I'm on the rifle team at school. I practice out in the woods. With tin cans and bottles."
    "Do you consider yourself a good shot?"
    "Yeah, pretty good."
    They look at each other again and I start worrying I've let them lead me into saying something I shouldn't have.
    The cop takes a deep breath. "Did you hide in the park this morning and wait for Cheryl Miller to come along?"
    I shake my head again, really nervous now. "Why are you asking me these questions? What's happened?"
    It's bad, I know it is, and it involves Cheryl. Something's happened to her. I want to get out of the police station. I want to get in my car and drive as fast as I can. I want to leave this town. I don't want to hear whatever it is they're about to tell me. If I was a little kid, I'd put my fingers in my ears, I'd shut my eyes, I'd hide under my bed or something.
    The one across from me puts