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By the age of 12, Peter was well-ahead of his peers when it came to finding dead bodies (most hadn’t found any, or even seen one, for that matter): two by the age of five, another (an old uncle who fell off a ladder and broke his neck) by the time he was seven, three more (the Anderson Murders) during his sixth grade year in elementary, then later that same year the half a dozen teenagers who were burned in a car wreck along the edge of town, which had brought the number of dead bodies Peter had discovered to the alarmingly, unnaturally high number of twelve, an even dozen, but even then no one really seemed to think much of it (other then the newspapers which labeled Peter as “The Dead Boy” and “Dead Peter”, which the kids at school quickly shortened to “Deter”), and the whole thing might have simply disappeared somehow, the way that even amazing and unbelievable and remarkable things can disappear without so much as a second glance, forgotten by the rest of the world as it moves on to the next amazing and unbelievable thing (because really, there seems to be no end to them), if it hadn’t been for Peter’s discovery of yet his thirteenth and fourteenth dead bodies, this time his own parents, and this time, one of them not quite dead, and who after two and a half weeks in a coma, awakened, and was able to weakly point a scared and shaking finger at her own son, who simply sat quietly in a chair across the room, thankful that it was finally over.
It was a dark and stormy night when Rufus and Schuster found a body in the pond, and suddenly all that could be heard was the cawing of that damn bird.
The chief knew better than to hide a dead body in the cloudy pool, because eventually the water would clear and he would be left with the difficult task of explaining to the children why the man refused to play Marco Polo.
Sunday the first shoe dropped; Monday the second shoe; now I am waiting on the third shoe to drop.
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