Scare Crow

by Julie Hockley

  Callister’s police department was the most dangerous place for me to be, and yet there I was, idiotically defenseless. I turtled inside my hood and slid down the closest hallway.

  I could hear the women scuffling in the short hallway while Shield’s men tried to pull them apart. The hallway had only one door, metal, and it was locked with a card scan. At the end of it were two glass cases that stood side by side. I used the reflection in the glass to watch what was going on behind me and find an opportunity to escape.

  When pajama guy chimed into the chaos and started screaming his legal woes behind Shield’s officers, more officers started pouring through the metal door. I stood as close to the glass as I could, trying to stay out of their way and field of vision. The hallway was a really bad place to be stuck. Moron. Out-and-out.

  While I was observing the show, something in one of the glass cases caught my eye. The first one was a trophy case, containing mostly baseball and football trophies and a few Little League thank-you plaques.

  It was the second case that made my breath feel as though it were turning to fire.

  It started with a picture of Victor receiving some kind of medal of honor, shaking hands with Callister’s city sheriff, who looked giddy, like he was rubbing elbows with a rock star.

  Then there were newspaper articles. “Victor Orozo Cracks Down on Organized Crime.” “Orozo Biggest Drug Bust in History of USA.” The last one read “Callister’s Victor Orozo—Elected President of the National Police Association.”

  And then there was a picture of Victor at the White House, standing next to the president of the United States of America. All smiles. All sham.

  Newspaper articles, pictures, certificates, plaques, and trophies, all in admiration of Victor Orozo, Callister’s hometown hero. There were even a few letters from children depicting how Victor’s charity work had changed their lives. Could the whole world be so blind to this psychopath? Or perhaps everybody was in on it.

  I quickly came to the realization that Victor was not just another dirty cop. He was the top cop. The leader of their union. He was much smarter than I ever wanted to give him credit for. His grasp, the underworld’s grasp, ran deep in everyday life. Children, families, the good people of Callister City believed he was one of the good ones, believed that the police officers who walked their streets were there for them. But they were there for themselves. And their sociopath union leader.

  While the entire corrupt Callister police force was breathing down my neck, or at least it seemed like it, I had no other choice but to wait, keep myself hidden in the corner, and pray. I was a turtle wedged in a corner while the hammerhead sharks sifted through the seaweed for easy prey.

  Eventually, the women were cuffed and dragged away kicking.

  Then pajama man was thrown out of the building.

  The traitorous officers disappeared behind the armed door once again.

  And I didn’t wait for something else to draw the sharks again. I calmly walked out of the station, keeping my hood over my flaming red hair.

  I had to climb through the back doors of the bus, stealing a ride home, because I didn’t have any money left. I hadn’t stopped running from the time I left the Victor worship wall until I took a seat on the bus.

  Victor shaking hands with the president.

  Victor union leader, leading all police organizations in the USA.

  I didn’t know what all this meant, but I was acutely aware that if Victor’s minions were all police officers and that if Victor was their union leader, there was no safe place for me to be.

  While I was walking home from the bus stop, I spotted our landlord down the street. He owned at least five other houses on our street and was making his rounds to collect rent checks for the year. It was dinnertime—he had the same good sense as a telemarketer. I ran the rest of the way home and called Meatball over as soon as I got my foot in the door.

  Meatball trotted outside with me, and we headed to the back of the house, where a piece of crap car was parked. It was periwinkle blue, dented, rusted, and all mine.

  I pulled my keys out of my purse. We got in my car, and I hoped to hell that it would start. When it did, I checked the gas gauge. It had plenty of gas, so I backed out of the driveway and drove away, in the direction opposite from where I had seen the landlord. I didn’t know how long it would take me to make enough money to pay for rent, but I knew that I would have to dodge the landlord until I could. And I would have to figure out a way to keep Meatball hidden from him when he made his spot visits.

  Meatball and I had nowhere to go, so we drove around in circles for a while. Meatball took over the passenger seat and watched the world go by while he licked the window clean. I was becoming a little more adventurous and started widening our circles as the evening became the black night. Eventually, we left the city lights and were driving on county roads. I knew where I was going. I suppose I always knew I was going to go there. Eventually.

  If I closed my eyes, I could see myself being back there. The long road. The pebbled path. The rickety porch. My favorite place in the world. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to recognize the driveway. Even in bright daylight, it was so well hidden in the trees that it was hard to spot. It was Meatball who convinced me I was on the right track. He had woken up as soon as I had turned on the road and started wagging his behind and barking when I slowed to the driveway.

  When we drove up to Cameron’s cottage, it was early in the morning.

  When Cameron and I left the cottage on the day of Rocco’s funeral, we left Meatball behind. This cottage was supposed to have been Cameron’s little secret, but when Carly brought Meatball to me, it crossed my mind that perhaps they had known about this place the whole time. I couldn’t be sure, because Cameron could have gotten Meatball before he rescued me from Victor, but there was always a chance that Carly and Spider knew about this place. I knew it was a dangerous place for me to be; then again, with Victor at the helm of all police organizations and Spider by now likely at the helm of the underworld, so was every other place in the world.

  After taking in a bit of bliss watching Meatball run off to smell his favorite spots in the surrounding woods and grabbing the key that was hidden in the shed’s eaves, there I was, standing inside the place that would always be home to me. I swear that as soon as I closed the door behind me, I could smell Cameron. It was as if he were still there. Everything in the cottage was exactly the same as I had remembered it, except that there was no Cameron.

  And that was when I realized that I would never stop feeling this way. That there would never be another day, another second when I wouldn’t miss him.

  ****

  Maria had a small garden in her room. She would keep as many flowered plants as she could fit in her small windowsill. My mother didn’t allow for live plants in the house because they were—according to her—dirty and could leave fallen leaves on the floor that could be too easily dismissed by the house staff. The only live plants she would allow were cut-off flowers that needed to come in the morning and be gone by bedtime. Maria would explain to me that she kept her plants because life brings life, that caring for another life meant caring for your own. Though secretly, I knew she kept them because it was a place where we could both escape the coldness, the lifelessness of the mansion.

  There was one early morning when she came to drag me out of bed. Today was the day that the walking iris was blooming. I could smell it as soon as I walked into Maria’s room. We had been waiting, caring for it for months. And there it was, finally with its white and violet petals. It reminded me of a starfish wearing purple shoes. The most beautiful and sweet-smelling flower I had encountered. And then, at the end of the day, the bloom was gone.

  ****

  I should have hugged him. That first day in the park, when Meatball knocked me over. The first day I set eyes on Cameron. I should have known that he would change my life so much. I should have known that he was too much for me, that we were too perfect to l
ast. Like the walking iris, he was too much of a good thing, something nature can’t allow for too long. If I could have just realized that my time with him would be cut so short, I would have held him in my arms and never let him go.

  Being in Cameron’s cottage, in this place where we were perfect, just made me want to start crying again. I had been alone pretty much my whole life. Only since I had lost Cameron had I really felt my loneliness.

  I waited for Meatball to finish his round of the property, let him in, and went up the shaky stairs to the loft. I climbed into our bed, brought Cameron’s blanket to my nose, and fell asleep to the hum of the refrigerator.

  Rocco’s face came back to haunt my dreams. I woke up, but there were no tears or cold sweats this time—just a great sense of loss. The room was almost completely dark, with the only light coming from the moonlight that shone through the small cottage windows. Cameron was next to me, but he wasn’t really sleeping. He never really slept.

  “I love you,” I heard him murmur, and I turned around.

  Cameron found my lips in the dark. He kissed me, softly but with purpose, like he was taking a bite out of a peach for the first time. His tongue tasted every inch. His hand climbed up my thigh to my breast, and he moved on top of me, pulling my T-shirt over my head. I wrapped my legs around his waist, taking the full weight of him on me as he took me whole.

  We were one skin once again.

  This was the first dream of Cameron I’d had since his death. But it wasn’t like any other dream I’d ever had. This dream was vivid, to the point that I could still feel Cameron’s breath tingling against my skin even though I was awake now.

  If something actually happened the same way you remembered it while in slumber, was it still a dream? Or was it something else? Perhaps a memory. Or wishful thinking, as they say. When does dream become memory, and when does memory become dream?

  This dream was not just a dream. It was exact. It was a few months ago. The night had started right here, in this bed, with a nightmare about Rocco just a few days after his death, and had ended with Cameron and me making love for the first time.

  Dream. Memory. Who cared? I went back to sleep, hoping to find Cameron there.

  ****

  I took Meatball to the dock when I woke up again. He couldn’t wait to jump in the pond even if the water was freezing. I lay on my back and watched the sky through the trees, as I had done with Cameron. Even though I knew I was taking a risk by staying at the cottage for so long, I felt safe here.

  Spider was well hidden within the underworld, but Victor was everywhere, on purpose. He didn’t want to just rule the underworld; he wanted to control everything. He had made a good name for himself, even though it was all a lie.

  I had gone to the police station. I had thought about tarnishing his reputation—spreading the word on Victor’s deceit—and hopefully get him arrested, but what good would that do? Who would take my word against that of a hero? What evidence did I have, other than my own observation?

  And then there was Spider—as if Victor didn’t give me enough to worry about.

  I hoped that by finding out more about Cameron, I would find Spider. Cameron had told me that he and Spider had been so-called friends since they’d been in juvie together. They had been partners in crime when Cameron was in high school. Cameron’s hidden life would surely lead me to Spider, or at least give me clues as to how to find the bastard.

  All this would take time, and time was not on my side.

  All these questions were floating around in my head; yet I was unusually calm. The rippling of the water against the dock, the sloshing of Meatball’s paws, the sway of trees—all made it easy for me to forget about everything else and focus on the biggest issue: how to survive.

  ****

  After finding dog and human food in the pantry of Cameron’s cottage, Meatball and I spent another night. But at the end of the weekend, I knew we couldn’t stay any longer. Eventually we would run out of food here too, and there weren’t many job prospects in the middle of the woods. I packed up whatever food was left and dragged Meatball into the car. I knew how he felt. I didn’t want to leave either.

  Meatball’s head was low the whole drive home. It was weird and extremely lonely to know that my only friend, the only one who knew who I was and where I had been, was a dog.

  It wasn’t until I got out of the car and into the chilly night that I realized I’d left my jacket hanging on the kitchen chair at the cottage.

  All the streetlights were on, and so was the porch light. I didn’t even know we had a porch light, let alone one with a working lightbulb. Between Meatball’s leash and the bag of stolen groceries, I struggled to turn the front door handle. It didn’t matter. The door flew open, and I got dragged inside. Even Meatball had been taken by surprise.

  He had me in his arms so quickly that I didn’t have time to take a breath and validate who it was.

  “Bloody hell, where have you been?” he demanded. “I’ve been pacing this shithole for the last twenty-four hours.”

  I pulled myself off his chest and out of his grasp.

  I shook my head, certain I was imagining things again.

  His blue eyes were creased with worry, but his trademark grin was slowly spreading, softening his features again.

  I was still shaking my head in disbelief. “Griff? Is it really you?”

  He arched his brows. I dropped my groceries and jumped in his arms.

  He pulled me in, and I felt as though I’d been encased in cement for years and suddenly set free. As if the circle of Griff’s arms had taken us to another world, to our own realm, where money didn’t matter, where people like Spider and Victor did not exist. Where everything would be okay. Where just for a moment, I could be weightless.

  CHAPTER FOUR: CAMERON

  PAYING THE PRICE

  I figured I would have some explaining to do. After I had deliberately left Spider in Jersey and flown to San Francisco without his knowledge, Spider started asking questions. When we finally met up in Los Angeles, we had barely spoken ten words to each other. Then again, we were both busy planning for the biggest drug shipment of our careers. We both knew this was going to be our redemption … my redemption for the captains. If we could pull this shipment off, it would bring more money to the captains than they had made in the last three years.

  Now we were on a plane heading to Montreal. A few hours together with no escape.

  Spider kept his eyes pinned on a drop of water that was slowly making its way across the window. Wherever he was, he wasn’t sitting on a plane with me. Suddenly I realized that while I had been avoiding Spider, he had been avoiding me. And this concerned me.

  “Carly not coming?”

  Spider jumped a little at the sound of my voice. “She’s not feeling well.”

  “Seems like she’s been sick a lot lately. We have a business to run. Do I need to find someone to replace her?”

  Spider was back in his head, looking out the window.

  He was usually on top of everything. I had never had to ask anything of him twice or have him do anything over. But in the last few days, mistakes had been made, by both him and Carly. Numbers were coming back incorrect, messages were being fuddled, everything was coming in just a bit late. I normally wouldn’t call him on it, especially with the mistakes I’d been making myself lately, but there was something in his demeanor that now had me very concerned.

  “You know you screwed up the order coming in from the Colombians,” I told him. “That was the third time in a row. I had to call and fix it myself.”

  Spider’s hand twitched, so I knew he was listening to me.

  “Do I need to find someone to replace you too?”

  He turned his head. “I’d love to see you try.”

  “Everyone’s replaceable.”

  Spider stared back at me. “Carly’s pregnant again.”

  I coughed up my club soda. I wasn’t sure what part had made me more surprised: the fact that C
arly was pregnant … or that she was pregnant again.

  “Jesus,” was all I could muster.

  Spider was staring off into space, shaking his head.

  “What the hell are you two thinking?” I finally managed.

  “You think this was my plan?”

  “You obviously had some part in it.”

  Spider shut his eyes.

  I already knew the answer to his conundrum. When it came to Carly, when Carly had something on her brain, Spider and the rest of the world were defenseless.

  As far as I was concerned, there never was a Spider without a Carly. When Spider and I met, Carly wasn’t just in the picture; she was the picture.

  We were cellmates in juvie. I was a fourteen-year-old wisp of a kid, and Spider was the kid no one dared to mess with. Rumor was that he had gotten nabbed beating up a man twice his size to the brink of death. Spider traded me all my telephone privileges in exchange for protection. It was an easy trade; I had no one to call.

  He called this chick named Carly frequently, obsessively, first in line for the phones every time. I suppose I was a little surprised when he confessed to me that the man he beat up was the chick’s father. And that she was still taking his calls.

  As weeks of quiet nights passed, our friendship grew, our trust grew, and while Spider and I weren’t very chatty, I had heard enough bits and pieces of information to put the whole story together.

  Carly’s father was a drunk, who beat up his wife, spent any money he managed to make on booze and women, and had a preference for younger girls, like his own five daughters. Because Carly’s mother didn’t speak English, any work she managed to find had to be at night and under the table. She still barely made ends meet. Spider was Carly’s next-door neighbor. He had spent most of his childhood creeping through her window in the evening and sleeping on the floor next to her bed, keeping Carly’s father away, usually with a baseball bat or a broom, like one would an alley rat.