Crow’s Row

by Julie Hockley

  Kid greeted this armed man nonchalantly as they met in the middle.

  “Why are you back so early?” demanded the gunman.

  Kid shrugged his head in my direction and explained, “Pain-in-the-butt delivery.”

  The gunman did a once-over in my direction. Then he parted ways with Kid to make his way toward me.

  I held my breath and closed my eyes, listening to the shuffling of his feet against the loose gravel—I didn’t want to see the bullet coming. The footsteps approached and shuffled on, past me. I opened one eye in time to see him disappear into the darkness of the surrounding woods. I heard his footsteps crush against the grass, until I couldn’t hear anything else but the wind rushing through the darkened trees.

  I turned my eyes to the sky again. I was looking for them—my lucky stars—but it was early still and there were just too many stars to find mine.

  Kid had been watching me go through my rush of emotions from the opened doorway. With the same look of mystification on his face, he hollered, “Hey, freak, are you just going to stand there all night—or do you plan on ever coming in?”

  The doorway where he was standing was attached to a large building that, from the darkness, looked like a barn. There were tall cedar shrubs that lined the face of the edifice, with the door being the only shrub-free space. The moon’s shine reflected off the tin roof, and I couldn’t tell if the building had any windows because of the cedars that hid its exterior walls.

  Inside the barn was a foyer with a vaulted ceiling. The beige, tiled floor of the foyer merged with dark, ancient-looking hardwood floor. Half-mooned stairs led to a second-level hallway with an unencumbered white wall and wood rail. Through a side doorway, another set of stairs led down to a floor below. I could see the flickering of images from an unseen downstairs TV bouncing off the plain stair walls.

  Kid kicked off his shoes onto the pile of huge man shoes that were strewn by the front door and disappeared through an arched doorway that was at the far end of the foyer, next to the curved staircase. Getting used to his unspoken commands, I did the same and followed him through the archway. By the time I made it down the two steps that led to a living area, he was already sprawled in front of the TV on one of the two couches, remote control in hand—it was like we had never left the apartment in the city.

  I sat on the edge of the other couch and waited, carefully examining my surroundings.

  It was one big open space that connected a living room to a kitchen to a large, pine-colored dining table. I could see now that the barn was a home. The living room had brown leather furniture—the soft kind that seemed to form around your body as you sunk into it. There was a fireplace made of stones stacked to the high ceiling, with an oversized flat screen television that hung above its mantel, which Kid hadn’t taken his eyes off of.

  A humungous kitchen separated the living room from the dining table—it had two of almost every appliance: two restaurant-sized refrigerators, two microwaves, two toasters, two dishwashers, but only one oven. And the dining table looked big enough to seat twenty people. To the other side of the living room was a small hallway.

  While Kid settled on cartoons, I nervously kept my eyes on him. I was trying to decide which one was worse: not knowing how I was going to die, or not knowing when it was going to happen. I was weary, impatient.

  After a few minutes of my stare, Kid diverted his attention from the TV and sighed loudly, “Are you always this uptight, or are you just like that with me?”

  “No, I’m usually a lot more fun when I get kidnapped and brought in the middle of nowhere against my will,” I snapped. His indifference to my plight was maddening to me.

  His eyebrows furrowed. “Hey, don’t get upset with me. I’m just following orders.”

  “What are your orders, exactly?” I took the chance of asking, just in case he obliged me with an actual answer.

  “Weren’t you right there when I got them?” he questioned in answer to my question.

  “All I heard was that you were taking me for a drive to the farm. I don’t know what that means, but this place doesn’t look much like a farm to me.”

  “It does when you know the animals who live here,” he said, laughing.

  My eyes swept the room again and rested back on his face. “This place is what Cameron meant by taking me to the farm?” I had noticed his face flinch when I said Cameron’s name, but he didn’t say anything about it.

  “What else could it mean?”

  I gulped. “Death,” I admitted. And then I clarified, “My death.”

  Kid seemed to consider this. “You mean you thought that Cameron would send me to kill you?”

  I nodded, though I thought that I had already made this clear enough to him.

  “Really?” he insisted, his voice pitching on the last syllable.

  I nodded again, but with less certainty this time.

  “Wow!” He grinned from ear to ear. “Thanks!”

  “So you’re not going to kill me?”

  He shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

  “Why am I here then?”

  Kid shrugged with dispassion. “Beats me. Nobody ever tells me anything around here.” He leaned his body forward, his grin picking up again. “Were you scared of me when you thought I was going to kill you?” he continued.

  I let my shoulders relax and roll back into the comfy couch. “I guess.”

  He was watching me excitedly.

  “What scared you the most? Was it my voice?” he asked, his tone noticeably lowering as he said this.

  “Your driving skills,” I answered. My mouth still had the aftertaste to remind me of this.

  His smile turned to disappointment. “I guess it explains why you were acting like such a freak. I was beginning to think Cameron was bringing home mental patients.” His eyes veered back to the TV screen.

  Now that I had opened my eyes to see that this kid was called Kid because he was, indeed, just a kid, I felt a little braver. He was no doubt a big boy who could probably crush me with one hand, but he was not going to be the one to kill me.

  Yet, with the knowledge that there was some man walking outside with a very large gun, I didn’t take more than a little comfort in that. At least, for now, we were alone, and as far as the kid and I were concerned, there were—currently—no plans to kill me.

  When I snapped out of my daze, Kid was snoring on the couch. With the threat of imminent death temporarily off my mind, the rest of my senses had kicked in—like the taste of regurgitated takeout in my mouth and the feel of the crusted tears that had dried on my face. All of a sudden, finding a washroom was bumped up to first place on my mental survival list.

  My feet treading lightly on the wide-planked floor, I made my way down the hall that was off of the living room and immediately found the bathroom—and it felt like home as soon as I walked in. Was it the dried soap splatters across the mirror, or the remnants of beard shavings in the sink, or the piles of dirty clothes and towels that littered every surface of the bathroom and the adjacent laundry room, which also had two washers and two dryers? Whatever it was, it made me feel a bit less out of place.

  I took my time gargling mouthwash that I found under the sink and splashing water on my colorless face. My hair looked like I had stuck a finger in an electrical outlet; I watered it down as best I could to keep the frizzed locks flat against my head, but the baby spirals that framed my forehead corkscrewed as soon as they dried.

  After a while, I walked out of the washroom and was startled when I walked right into a slight girl in red flannel pajamas.

  The girl stood for a long second, her hazelnut eyes refusing to release my face. Then with a swift move, she grasped my bony arm and pulled hard, dragging me back toward the living room, her dark hair flying wildly around her shoulders. She was definitely stronger than she looked.

  “Rocco!” she shouted, her eyes ablaze. “What is she doing here?” She dragged me to front stage and released my arm. Kid was fo
rced out of slumber and looked up.

  “Hey! You’re not supposed to be using my real name around other people—Carly!”

  “I don’t care—Rocco!” the one called Carly huffed and asked again, “What is she doing here?”

  “Oh, right.” The Kid, Rocco, sat up and scratched his head. “That’s Emily,” he said, listlessly waving in my direction.

  “I didn’t ask you who she was, I asked you what she’s doing—here,” she shrilly corrected, her diminutive finger pointing down to the floor for further amplification.

  “Right now, I bet she’s wishing she hadn’t gone wandering off and met up with you.”

  He was very right.

  “Stop fooling around, Rocco, and answer my question. What—is she—doing—here,” she slowly spelled out for him.

  Rocco glowered. “Why does everybody keep asking me that?” he whined. “I don’t know what she’s doing here.”

  “Where’s Cameron?” she asked, glancing around. “Does he know you did this?”

  “Cameron’s the one who sent her here,” he smugly replied.

  Her face lost color. “What?”

  “He’s the one who—” Rocco repeated, but Carly cut him off.

  “I heard you, but I don’t believe you.”

  She took another breath, and then she lifted an eyebrow. “What happened out there?”

  “Someone,” he explained, pointing accusingly at me, “thought it would be a good idea to run toward the angry guys with the guns.”

  Not one of my greatest moments, I mentally conceded.

  “And where were you when this happened?” she asked, her eyes further narrowing at him. “Weren’t you supposed to be keeping watch?”

  Rocco immediately went on the defensive.

  “I was there but I didn’t see her! She’s like a mouse. It was so dark in there. She snuck right by me.”

  I was going to interject, defend myself, but thought it might be safer to keep quiet on this one.

  “Anyway,” he sulked, “I’m sick of being the stupid lookout. It’s not even a real ranking position.”

  “It’s a real position when you actually do the looking, like you were supposed to,” she said, her voice picking up speed again. “You think Cam’s gonna let you move up the ranks if you can’t concentrate on one simple job for longer than three seconds?”

  “Cam wants me to move up!” he said, his voice squeaking. “Spider’s the one who’s keeping me back and won’t let me do anything important!”

  She stood there for a few seconds, shaking her head. “Your brother’s the boss, Rocco. If he had wanted you to move up, believe me, it would’ve happened.”

  And then she glanced at me, and winced.

  “Still though, he must be losing his mind …” As swiftly as she had come, Carly turned on her heels and stomped away, shaking her head and urgently digging something out of the frilly front pocket of her flannel pajamas.

  After she had disappeared through the archway, Rocco fell back into his conclave in the couch, dejected and sulking.

  I plunked back down on the other couch.

  In this short encounter, I had gained more information than I had in the last few days, since I had first met the boy in the gray sweater. For one, Cameron and Rocco were brothers, and the sourpuss tattooed man was likely called Spider, which would explain the spiderweb tattooed on his neck. I also understood that Cameron was the boss; of what or of whom, I didn’t know. And Carly was likely Cameron’s girlfriend—his very angry, very scary girlfriend.

  I forced myself to file away the tinge of jealousy that leapt against the wall of my chest when I considered the latter. Instead I focused on the facts that should terrify me: I had witnessed a murder; I had been taken against my will; I was being held in this farm with some gunman walking around; and, until a few minutes ago, I believed that Cameron was sending me to my death. These were the things that I had to remember to survive.

  I heard car doors slamming. I must have fallen asleep, because the darkness outside was replaced by sunlight that was pouring through the large living room windows. Rocco was still fast asleep on the couch across from me.

  The front door banged open, and the house rapidly became alive with people. Frighteningly large men were coming in with bags and boxes, laying items on the kitchen counter, and dispersing everywhere around the house. They were stomping, chortling, and giving each other orders. A few of them quickly eyed me as they walked by, but no one said anything. Rocco’s sleep wasn’t bothered at all by the ruckus they were making. He was making his own ruckus through his nostrils.

  When Meatball flew in to find me on the couch, I readied myself for what would surely come next: Cameron’s entrance.

  While I rubbed Meatball’s big head, the tattooed man, Spider, marched in, whispering orders to an obese man who towered over him. When they glanced in my direction at the exact same time, I guessed that they weren’t discussing football scores; and the subsequent bitter look on Spider’s face told me that he still hadn’t warmed up to me.

  “Kid!” he yelled with authority. “Get up and put the food away!”

  Rocco opened his eyes, momentarily lifted his head, and then rolled over putting a pillow over his face.

  When Cameron finally came strolling in, his eyes found me right away. To my defeat, he was wearing blue jeans and a red T-shirt that must have only served to accentuate the dark features of his face. To add insult to injury, he ran his hand through his perfectly untidy hair. He was unfortunately striking. It took every inch of my being to keep my heart from doing somersaults; in the end I resigned to—at least—reprimand myself after failing miserably.

  I glanced away to calm my breath while he waited until the line of men had passed by before approaching me. I sat up so that he could sit next to me; but he simply remained standing.

  “How are you feeling today?” He cleared his throat. “Are you okay?”

  We hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms, I remembered. I smiled shamefacedly while I tried to find the right words to respond, to make things less awkward. He didn’t give me the chance to collect my thoughts. His eyes darted from me to the couch and back to me; his half-smile turned to a frown.

  “Did you sleep here—on the couch?” he demanded.

  I nodded, but he had already turned to Rocco.

  “Kid!” he yelled as he grabbed a cushion from the couch and threw it over at his brother, hitting him in the head.

  Rocco abruptly sat up. “Yep, I’m up.” He looked around, running his hand through his crazed hair—much like his brother had done a few seconds before him.

  “You made her sleep on the couch?” Cameron accused.

  “What!” Rocco answered on the defensive. “I didn’t know what to do with her.”

  Cameron took a long breath. “Fine. Do what Spider told you to do and put the groceries away.”

  Rocco immediately followed his brother’s orders and made his way to the massive kitchen that was now swarming with an incredible amount of grocery bags, and, to Rocco’s dismay, more bags and boxes were being walked in by the men. Meatball was busily investigating the contents of the bags that had been left on the floor.

  Cameron brought his attention back to me and offered his hand to help me up.

  I quickly took it.

  Realizing that I was breaking my promise to myself about not letting him have power over me, I told him, “Just so you know, I can manage to get myself up without any help.” My cheeks flushed as soon as I said this—the words had come out all wrong, as usual.

  He cocked his head and then turned his face away. “Understood. I’ll try to remember that next time.”

  While we headed through the foyer and up the spiral staircase, I could still feel my skin pulsating where his hand had touched mine—it was extremely frustrating that my body was refusing to respect my brain’s orders.

  We got to the top of the stairs and turned down the hall to reach two heavy wooden doors. Cameron held me ba
ck at the door, and we leaned against the wall while men walked in and out. I kept my eyes on my feet, for fear of betraying myself again. I peeked through my eyelashes. He was watching the to-and-fro ahead.

  I laced my fingers behind my back. “Um, do you live in this house?”

  His face turned to me. “Sometimes.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “So, do you like this house?” he then asked me, his question oddly edged with apprehension.

  With so much on my mind, I hadn’t really considered whether I liked the house. After spending a few moments to think about it, I decided that I did like it, very much.

  “It’s really nice. I like … the floors,” I mumbled. I thought I spied a curve of his lips as I said this, but my eyes were still on the ground so I couldn’t be sure.

  Cameron took a step forward.

  “Is that the rest of it?” he asked. His voice was different—cold, commanding.

  When I looked up, a beefy man had come through the doors.

  “Yes, sir. That’s all of it,” the man answered with an even tone, avoiding looking my way before he scurried away.

  With a graze of my shoulder, Cameron led me ahead. We walked into a space that was either a really large bedroom or a small apartment. There was a king-sized four-poster bed against the wall nearest to the door and a small living room on the other side of the room. With its floor-to-ceiling windows, it had that same openness as the main floor, but the walls here were much darker, with mahogany-stained wood panels up to my shoulders and dark gray paint up to the high ceiling. This room definitely had a masculine touch.

  “You can stay in here,” Cameron said, glancing over the features of my face.

  “This is your room?” I asked wide-eyed.

  He nodded almost nervously, but then I thought maybe his cheeks had flushed, though his expression remained unreadable. “But I won’t be here, with you, of course. You can have this room to yourself.”

  He watched me while I took a few steps in to assess my new prison. It was nice, cozy—no metal bars.

  The familiar sight of the blue Rubbermaid bins stacked against the wall immediately caught my eye. When I turned back to Cameron, I realized that he was waiting for me to notice them.