I count four vehicles in the driveway, a few more parked along the curb. The street is silent. For some reason, Tank quickens his pace and walks ahead of me, coming to a sudden stop about ten feet from the driveway.

Catching up to him, I say, “Hey, maybe this is where Coach Horton was coming from. I bet some rich football boosters live here or something.”

Staring at the street, he says, “Recognize that truck?”

I look.

I nod.

A sick, sour feeling fills my gut. A blue Ford truck is parked curbside. The shiny chrome grill means it can belong to only one man: Big Dale Foster.

That’s when it hits me that Big Dale might well be here with his girlfriend, one Mrs. Helen Dawkins.

Damn.

Tank says, “What’s my dad doing at a party in the Heights?”

“I don’t know. Let’s just go home.”

“Are you kidding?” He walks up the driveway. “We totally have to check this out.”

And all I can do is shrug and follow.

The silence is deceiving. Despite the vehicles out front, we don’t see or hear any evidence of activity inside the house. Moving up the long driveway, we eventually veer left and walk alongside a stand of trees running the length of the lot that serves as a natural privacy fence from the neighboring home. I’m out of breath by the time we reach the top of the rise, wondering how I’m going to make it through a single football practice without throwing up a summer’s worth of alcohol and tobacco.

We stop and stare at the side of the house. Every window is dark, curtains and blinds drawn. Tank studies the layout and steps out from the shelter of trees. We cut across the lawn until we reach a cobblestone path hugging the side of the home. Walking the path, I look up and notice thick ivy blanketing a huge chimney. The house reminds me of some aristocratic cottage in the English countryside. I look down and see several rectangular windows along the foundation, but these are dark as well.

Where is everybody?

A six-foot-tall, black iron fence borders the backyard. Each fence post has an ornamental spike on top. The gate is latched, so Tank reaches his hand through one of the wide spaces between the posts and opens it from the inside. The gate creaks as it opens. We continue along the cobblestone path, which takes us to a large concrete patio surrounding an in-ground, kidney-shaped swimming pool. No one is in the pool, and the underground lights give the undisturbed water a glasslike quality.

Tank stops and rubs his chin, thinking as he gazes into the water.