“The Camaro. A friend of mine in Reading sells Camaros, and I described the guy. He said he thought he knew of a guy like that, and he called his friend up there. Anyway . . . he won’t be bothering little girls again.” He said it with this serious look on his face and a voice like he was Kojak or Columbo. He really was crazy.

“Shit, Wilson. What did you do?” Marie was trying to sound calm, but I could tell that this information disturbed her. She must have seen his hands then. “Oh God. Did you do something to him?” she asked.

“I had some help. Here, I brought some presents.” He reached into his motorcycle boot and pulled out a long piece of chrome. For a moment I thought it was a knife, but it was too bulky. He handed it to Marie, Camaro in metal. “I got his fender emblem.” Wilson sounded proud, as if we would be impressed.

“How’d you take it?” Marie said, turning it over in her hands.

“With a hammer.”

He’d had a hammer. Had he used it on Barbie Man?

He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a ziplock bag. “Here, this is for you.” He threw it at me, and I caught it without thinking. It was so light, I thought it was going to be more drugs, but it felt empty. Inside was something silvery white. I opened it and pulled out long threads. Long white-blond strands. A clump of human hair, just like Ellen had described.

“Oh my God.” I threw the bag back at him. I felt as if I’d touched something dead. “What have you done?” I was shaking.

“I told you I’d scalp him,” Wilson said, looking straight at me. I looked back at him in horror.

“Come off it, Wilson. What’d you do?” Marie asked.

“He got a haircut.”

Ellen came into the rec room as he said it. “Hi, Wilson. Who got a haircut?”

Wilson stuffed the sandwich bag into his pocket. “Look who it is: Evel Ellen Knievel, daredevil herself. Did you come down here to do some more stunts?”

Ellen smiled up at him. “Who got a haircut?”

“My dog. Samson. And just like the Samson in the Bible, he didn’t like it. But the heat was getting to him, so I gave him a good trim.”

Ellen seemed to accept the explanation. “Marie, the power’s out,” she said. The house was dark, even though it was only the middle of the afternoon. Rain was battering the windows. We could see sheet lightning in the distance, illuminating the dark trees.

“You should probably stay until the storm passes,” Marie said to Wilson.

“Mom’s not home,” I said. I couldn’t believe Marie would let Wilson stay in the house after what he had just shown us. “He can’t be here.”