by J D Spero
“Hey, boy. Too bad about your brother, eh?”
Hen saw his own reflection in Clapp’s lenses. Contorted, like in a funny mirror. He shifted, and his head stretched into a pear shape.
Clapp took off his sunglasses. In one of his brown eyes was a speck of black, like a pebble in sand. Or a stain. These eyes saw bad things all the time.
Hen didn’t want to be afraid. He looked right into them.
“Wanted you to know, boy. If you have any information, it’s best you come forward and tell Officer Clapp now, you hear?”
Bernie started. “Officer, really. The boy’s mother is—”
“I know your momma is real protective of you.” Clapp kept talking to Hen. “She probably doesn’t want you to get in the middle of all this. You don’t want to see your brother go off and live in jail for a long, long time now, do ya?”
A gust of fear chilled Hen to the bone. He shook his head really fast.
“Didn’t think so.”
Now was the time. He needed to tell this policeman about Derek.
But he couldn’t. His words wouldn’t work.
He was locked in a face-off with the officer. The most frightening staring contest ever, looking into those brown-black eyes that saw bad things all the time. The black speck seemed to grow, spreading like an ink spill. Everything went fuzzy, and he leaned on Bernie so he wouldn’t fall.
Bernie’s voice was friendly. “Actually, Mr. Clapp, I was hoping to grab a few minutes with you about the whole business. The investigation.”
“Oh?” Clapp stood, and it seemed Hen was off the hook. “And call me Rob.”
“Rob. Thanks. Would now be a good time? Once Hen gets off to school? I’d like to keep the boy out of this.”
Clapp glanced at Hen, replacing his sunglasses. “Learning a lot at school, are ya?”
Hen nodded.
“Bet you’re a smart one.” He didn’t say it in a nice way.
The bus thundered around the corner. Hen pulled on Bernie’s hand. He wanted to make sure Bernie would tell him about Derek’s truck. Bernie was the grownup. He needed to do the grown-up things. What could Hen, a little boy, do to save his brother? Would anyone believe him, anyway?
Bernie patted Hen’s back, sending him toward the bus. “Have a good day at school, now.”
Hen forced a shaky breath and climbed onto the bus. Officer Clapp’s words echoed in his mind. Tyler couldn’t go to jail. He wasn’t the Monster.
Hen fell into the seat next to his pal Murphy. Out the window, he followed Officer Clapp with his gaze. He walked side by side with Bernie toward the cruiser. Bernie was talking, his lips were moving. What was he saying?
Tell him! Tell him!
Bus door thumped closed.
Bernie and Clapp smiled at each other. Clapp buddy-punched his shoulder. Like friends.
“Police car. Cool!” Murphy said, leaning across Hen.
No. Not cool. Not cool at all.
The bus rumbled away from the curb, and Hen craned to see.
Now Bernie headed back toward Miss Sally’s house. Officer Clapp was just a shadow in a police car. Another monster shadow. The one that took Tyler away.
Bernie was wrong. This policeman wouldn’t help them. No matter what Bernie said to him.
There had to be something else Hen could do. There had to be someone Hen could talk to. Someone bigger than Bernie, or Clapp, or even Mom. Hen squeezed his eyes shut to think harder than he ever had before. There had to be someone out there who could save Tyler.
“I was a cop for Halloween.” Murphy nudged Hen’s arm.
Hen tried to think about all the people he knew in town. Big, important people.
“What’s the next thing?” Hen asked Murphy. “Like, after a cop.”
“After a cop?”
“I mean, if a cop was in trouble, he wouldn’t call the cops. Who would he call?”
Murphy shrugged. “Probably a lawyer.”
Hen’s mouth fell open as he remembered Mom’s meeting just yesterday.
“Or a judge,” Murphy said. “A judge is the mack-daddy of it all.”
Hen’s thoughts raced.
“But how boring would that costume be?” Murphy laughed.
Hen felt himself smile, as a germ of a plan took seed in his mind.
Ty lay on the cell cot at the county jail thinking about his dad. He’d imagined a whole life for him. Actually two lives. In the first, he lived alone in Arkansas as a cattle rancher, where he spent all his days outside. Far away from any arcade or post office or supermarket. He’d come home late at night. He’d guzzle a beer and grill a slab of steak. Fall into bed in his undershirt. Sleep like the dead.
The second imagined life was better. Ty and his dad lived together in a log cabin on a lake—a lake not unlike Paradox Lake. Each dawn they’d canoe to a rocky cove to bass fish. Every afternoon they’d return with a bouquet of slippery creatures, delighting Marcella who’d have spent the day working in their vegetable garden. Hen collected worms alongside Marcella, waiting to be old enough to join his big brother in the canoe.
Hen was always in the picture even though he had a different father. Didn’t seem right to exclude him. Roxanne Russo would be there too, somehow. He was still trying to figure out how to fit her in.
If he focused hard on these scenarios, he could blank everything else out. In a way, being in a cell was easier than being out in the world. There were clear boundaries. Black and white. Things didn’t transform before his eyes. There wasn’t room.
Except at night.
Nighttime was kind of sketchy. Last night, his cot became a life raft, floating in the open sea. The rocking soothed him at first, but then became violent. Sharks circled. The room sloshed and undulated around him. The sharks didn’t quit. He woke up in a pool of vomit.
He tried to shut that out too. Kept thinking about Dad.
By the time Marcella visited later that morning—dressed in her waitressing uniform—he’d all but convinced himself that his father was on his way. Dad would figure out this mess, come to his rescue. Ty believed it with everything in him.
Marcella’s pained expression snapped him back to reality.
Which sucked.
She kissed his knuckles across the table. A dozen times or so. Quick, silent kisses. Rubbed them in like lotion. She put on a brave smile, and he saw new wrinkles in her face. Around her lips and eyes. Lots of thin lines. It hit him like a cold shower. She was getting older. It was like he’d missed something. Made him sad.
“Have you spoken to a lawyer yet?” she asked.
Ty withdrew. “Gerrity? More like he spoke to me.”
“You’ve got to trust him. He can help you. It’s his job.”
Ty wanted to laugh. Trust him? Gerrity ate breakfast every morning at Leon’s Diner. He looked through Ty as he spouted legal jargon Ty neither understood nor cared to know.
Marcella hugged herself. “Derek says you’re in a fight.”
Ty shrugged.
“From what he said you were pretty angry with him.”
Another shrug.
“It doesn’t take a genius to figure out he got you into this mess. Right?” Marcella checked the door. “Tyler, we’re going to figure this out.” She tapped the table with her fingernail. “Hey, look at me.”
He did. Her eyes looked sore, like she’d been crying all night.
She took his hand again. “I want you to know. There is nothing you could do that would ever make me stop loving you.”
Pressure built behind his eyes. Something bloomed in his chest and he thought he might burst. It wasn’t fair, to have this kind of love from someone like his mother. He didn’t deserve it.
“I didn’t do it.” It was his voice, but it wasn’t his voice. It was from another dimension. Metaphysical stuff.
His thoughts went to the book where the bug crawled out of the man’s head on the cover. He hadn’t finished it yet. He was only a few chapters in but he felt like he got what he needed f
rom it. Like he could write a paper on it, even. But where did he leave the darn book? Mrs. Finley would be pissed if he lost it.
“I know.”
“What?” He’d forgotten what they were talking about.
“I know you didn’t do it.”
Tears spurted. His mouth stuck open. Had he lied to his mother? Did she know?
The UFO camera perched in the corner of the room. Its red eye blinking at him. They watched his every move. He sobered in an instant. Wiped his eyes dry. They kept tabs on him in the cell. He played a good game there, outwitting them by keeping still. Still as a statue. Trying not to blink his eyes. Even when he went out to sea.
In this little box of a room—the visiting room—he was supposed to talk. People always tried to get him to talk. He clenched his jaw, glared at the thing. They tracked everything—his mouth, his pulse. Like a lie detector test on crack. He wouldn’t fall for it.
Marcella followed his gaze to the camera. “It’s okay. Standard stuff. For your safety.”
Ty nodded. But knew better. He eyed her askance. Maybe she worked with them too? He carefully let go of her hand.
Her brow knitted together. “Promise me you’ll talk to Mr. Gerrity.”
“What should I tell him?”
She opened her mouth in a kind of laugh. “Tell him the truth. That should be easy, right?”
“Easy.” The red eye winked. Sweat gathered under Ty’s arms.
Clapp barged in then.
Marcella stood, making a barrier.
To Ty’s surprise, his mother did the talking. “Officer Clapp, may I have a word, please? In private?”
A nervous thrill went through Clapp as he closed the office door. Marcella’s perfume filled the room, like exotic fruit.
“Can I get you some coffee?” He coughed away the high pitch of his voice.
“No, thanks.” She stood with her arms folded and hip kinked. Fighting position. “Could you explain to me, please, why Derek Hogg is not under arrest?”
“Ma’am, if you’d have a seat—”
“Thank you. I’d rather stand.”
He gave her his best grin, the one that made him look like Mel Gibson. He half-sat on his desk, going for the casual vibe. “Ma’am, this is police business. No need to worry your pretty head over it.”
“Excuse me?” Redness crept up her neck. A natural blush to her cheeks. Made her eyes glisten, even as they glared. “No need to worry? Sir, my son is in custody. He’s being accused of a heinous crime he did not commit.”
“I understand you’re upset—”
“Upset? You have no idea.” She took a breath. Her chest lifted with it. His eyes reflexively went to her breasts. “Officer, why is my son sitting in a jail cell while Derek Hogg is hanging out at Leon’s Diner?”
Clapp tapped his gun belt. “I don’t see what one has to do with the other.”
“Oh, please. You honestly don’t believe that, do you?”
“Ma’am—”
“Please stop calling me that.”
“Marcella—”
“I don’t want you calling me that either, if you don’t mind.”
“Mrs. Trout?”
“Fine.”
“Mrs. Trout, the investigation is still underway. I understand your eagerness to obtain information. See, I’m not in a place to disclose alibis.”
“Alibi?”
Clapp gulped. He’d said too much.
“Derek has an alibi?”
He glanced at the door, wiped the corners of his mouth.
“What on earth is Derek’s alibi?”
Sweat broke out. “Okay, listen. This is not usually done. I don’t, uh, I’m not supposed to. Um, I can’t say.”
Marcella leaned over his desk. His eyes grazed the constellation of freckles on her chest, her olive skin kissed by the sun. The shadowy warmth of her cleavage…
He was baking in his uniform. Cologne-scented steam emitted from his collar. Too spicy. Too much. Queasiness made his knees buckle. Or something did. He wiped the corners of his mouth again, wondering how the saliva got sucked from it. He searched for his sunglasses. Did he leave them in the cruiser? Damn. He had to get away from this woman.
“Tell me, officer.” All her edges softened. Her voice was like Kahlua and milk. “Please tell me. What’s Derek’s alibi?”
She rested her pale, slender arms on his desk. Her eyes had him. Like sugar-coated almonds. He couldn’t break away. Her full lips shimmered pink. Those sexy freckles. He could lick them. He trembled with desire.
“He was at Leon’s, all right? He and Ty went there for a late dinner. Ty said he had to run an errand. So Derek helped his dad close while Ty borrowed Derek’s truck.”
Clapp tore his eyes from her.
“An errand? In the middle of the night? What kind of errand?”
“That’s approximately when the…crime occurred, ma’am. I mean, Mrs. Trout.”
Marcella’s forehead crinkled. “Derek doesn’t let Tyler drive his truck. He certainly wouldn’t let him take it on his own to run a so-called ‘errand’ in the middle of the night.”
“Well, it seems on this night he did. Must’ve had a change of heart.” He tried to smile, but her eyes went so cold it spooked him.
“I have reason to believe it was Derek in his truck that night. Alone. Running an errand.” She crossed her arms again. “Pretty good reason, in fact.”
Clapp huffed, recalling what Bernie had told him. “Yeah, well. I don’t think the word of a seven-year-old is going to hold any weight in court. Especially if it conflicts with the word of a well-respected grown man.”
She stepped back, her face smoothing. Perhaps stunned. “A well-respected grown man? Who’s that? Who vouched for Derek’s alibi?”
That was easy. Clapp shrugged. Gave her the Mel Gibson. “Leon, of course.”
Six months earlier
Spring 1991
“You don’t touch that shit, D, you get me?” Pop told Derek for the hundredth time. They sat at a booth in the dim light of the closed diner. “Anything that goes up your nose is coming out of our wallet. You do the runs, you’ll be rewarded. You steal from me, you’re out on the street.”
“I got it, Pop.”
“That truck you drive? That belongs to me. That’s for family business, D. Understood?”
“I know. I got it.”
Pop’s warnings weren’t necessary. Sure, Derek liked a good high as much as the next guy—a clean high. Beer was decent if he stuck to a few, but he didn’t like being out of control. Sloppy. He never got to the point where he couldn’t drive. No freakin’ way. He stuck to weed. It was easy. Kept him alert. Never had power over him.
They had this in common. Pop didn’t touch the hard stuff, either. Derek admired that about the fat cat. He did get sloppy with his beer, though. Too often.
Cracking open a new Bud, Pop slurred on about the past. “When I was a kid, I wanted to be a contractor.”
Derek nodded dutifully. He’d heard this story before.
“A builder,” Pop went on. “Work outside all year long. Cigarette in one hand, hammer in the other. Lunch in the shade. Never have to wash your hands.” He sniggered. “Hated that about helping my pop, your granddaddy, at the diner. Wash your hands every two seconds. Before cracking eggs, after cracking eggs. Before filling ketchups, after filling ketchups. I swear I grew up hating soap.”
Derek’s lip curled. “You still hate soap, Pop.”
Big guffaw. Pop slapped the table. “You’re right!” He guzzled some, then swung his eyes around the place. “D, this will be yours someday, you know.”
Derek puffed his chest. “I know. I’ll do right by you, Pop.”
“You will. I know you will. I don’t have to tell you how important this place is. All those customers lined up at the counter every morning? They’re not only here for the grub, you know. No matter how good the corned beef hash is.” He knocked on the table. “Pay attention next time. You’ll see the mayor here t
alkin’ with newcomers from the city, mill workers and, yup, construction guys.” He nodded, eyeing Derek. Testing him.
Derek raised an eyebrow. “So?”
“They’re not just here eatin’ breakfast, see. They’re parts of a whole.”
“What do ya mean?”
“They’re here to build somethin’. They, each of ‘em, are like blocks. Means nuthin by itself, but together, ya got somethin’.”
Derek squeezed his beer can, denting it. His strong hand versus the weak aluminum. He could build something with these hands. He had plans for this place. Once it was his, he’d change everything. Pop got it off to a good start, but Derek had bigger things in mind.
He caught his reflection in the window and spun from it, pressing his thick back against the cool glass. He drained his beer and crushed the can all the way. It felt good.
Pop was still at it. “So, them’s together? Ya got somethin’. Whatcha got? This town. They all make up this town where we live. They decide whether the Strand will be fixed or torn down. They decide if the school gets textbooks. They’re talkin’ about a huge town hall expansion with a new library and everything. You see what I’m sayin’?”
Derek nodded, feeling a soft spot for Pop, who could never have been a contractor. His grubby, grease-stained hands could never have built anything. The physical labor would’ve given him a heart attack. Derek smiled to himself. Pop needed him. Derek was his number one asset.
“We’ve built something here,” Pop said, almost to himself. “This town would be nothin’ without us. You get it?”
Derek took a mental inventory. Closing chores rolled through his mind like movie credits. The floors had yet to be mopped. The stove scrubbed, the bathrooms sanitized. It would be nice to have some help.
Now was a good a time as any to ask. “Hey, what about hiring Ty to help close the place? You know, for the summer.”
“Ack. I dunno. I know he’s yer pal, but he seems out of it lately.”
“What do you mean?” Derek’s ears perked. To say Ty was “out of it” was an understatement. But Derek wanted to hear it from his old man. Confirm Derek’s instincts. Ty had some sort of mental problem.
