Camp Valor

by Scott McEwen

  Derrick pushed himself up off the back, frowning. “Damn. My bad.”

  Wyatt turned. “Get out!” He surprised himself by how firmly he spoke and pointed the gun at Derrick, right between his eyes.

  Derrick stared at Wyatt hard. “Man, you ain’t gonna do this—”

  “Out!” Wyatt repeated, on the verge of hysteria.

  Derrick took a moment, then smiled big and wide. “Good luck, homie,” he said and bolted from the car. He loped into the woods. Even with the ringing in Wyatt’s ears, he could hear Derrick’s laughter shouting, “Now it’s on you!” as he dissolved into the foliage.

  In the rearview mirror, a pair of lights raced past the turnoff, blazing down the highway. Another cruiser followed. Then two more whizzed by in quick succession.

  Wyatt slid down into his seat and thought of what to do. The gun. I’ve got to dump the gun and get home. He gripped the steering wheel and reached for the ignition. Whatever happened after he got home, he’d deal with later.

  Then he glanced in the rearview and saw it—Derrick’s green bag, resting on the back seat of the Town Car. The cash, sprayed with blood, poked out of the zipper. So he had the gun and the money. Not good. He leaned into the back seat to grab the bag and fling it out the window, just as a pair of headlights appeared behind him.

  The car, a cop car, pulled off on the shoulder, then slowed to a stop so the car was perpendicular to the turnoff, blocking Wyatt off from the main road. The cop flipped on his searchlight. A beam cut like a sword across the landscape and raked its way through the woods toward Wyatt. Wyatt hoped the light would pass right by like in the movies. But the light stopped on Wyatt’s car and the interior flared like a lightbulb with Wyatt in it. Wyatt could see the cop radioing inside his cruiser.

  No time to wait. Wyatt twisted the key and jammed on the gas. The engine revved and the car shot forward, continuing down the turnoff, which ran up a little hill then abruptly intersected a dirt road. Wyatt turned right, knowing only that he was headed toward town. Other cop cars were gaining on him, adding links to the growing chain of police cars trailing the Lincoln.

  A giant cloud of oil and dust rose up in the Town Car’s wake, enveloping the police cars in a brownish dust cloud that pulsated with the multicolored cop lights like a glowing, undulating caterpillar.

  Wyatt rounded a turn and to his left he saw two sets of sagging bleachers on either side of a sunbaked football field ringed by an uneven track. He now realized exactly where he was. Earlier that day, he had been walking around the track during gym class. On the far side of the middle-school football field, Wyatt saw his school building. He pumped the brakes, turned the wheel, and drove right out onto the field, flattening the backstop. Wyatt headed for the parking lot on the far side of the school, and as he hooked around the vice principal’s office, he saw flashing lights coming directly at him.

  He swerved, hard. The Town Car lurched to his right, narrowly avoiding a police van, which, in an effort to avoid the police cars behind him, hit the brakes, spun out of control, then flipped on its side and smashed into the brick Millersville Middle School welcome sign, which read, CONGRATS, YELLOW JACKETS, HAVE A GREAT SUMMER!

  The school and pileup behind him, Wyatt skidded out onto the main road, pegging the pedal to the floor. The long rattail of cop cars still trailed him, but he felt a rush of confidence heading down the downtown streets he’d haunted by skateboard and BMX bike almost every day since he was six years old.

  Eastman Cemetery was not far ahead, and if he could get there in one piece, Wyatt figured he had a slim chance of getting away. A couple turns and the stone wall entrance to the cemetery appeared on Wyatt’s left. He hopped the curb and tried to brake, but the tires skidded across the wet grass and the car careened into the wall, the stonework pretty much shaving off half of Narcy’s Town Car, which had finally come to a rest, T-boned against the cemetery wall.

  Wyatt grabbed the green bag, stuffed the gun inside, and jumped out the passenger side. The police came screeching up on the driver side. Using the Town Car as a shield and step ladder, Wyatt hopped onto the hood and leaped for the top of the wall. He was just able to loop his arms over the top, but couldn’t make it over. He pumped his legs and scrambled.

  “Freeze,” the cops got out of their cruisers and shouted in unison. Bullets whizzed through the air and ricocheted off the stone, spraying Wyatt with rock fragments. It suddenly dawned on Wyatt with sickening clarity—the police weren’t trying to stop him, or even catch him. They were trying to kill him. Wyatt had seen videos of teenagers chased by police who opened fire. Never did he believe that if he were in that situation he would keep running, nor did he believe that the cops would shoot a teenager in the back. The terrifying realization gave him the boost of adrenaline needed to sail over the wall.

  Wyatt’s feet touched grass and he took off straight down a row of headstones, the green fanny pack tucked under his arm like a football. Cops scrambled over the wall behind him. Wyatt reached the end of that section of graves and ran up into the woods. Sprinting under the big oaks, Wyatt noticed the huge, broad, gnarly branches begin to sway. A thudding wind swept toward him and the trunks creaked. A bright light tore through forest canopy searching for Wyatt. The light confused Wyatt and his mind flashed to aliens.

  Then Wyatt realized it was a helicopter. A friggin’ helicopter.

  Wyatt finally reached his destination—the Cachoobie River. He ran up the bank and pitched the green fanny pack out as hard and as far as he could. The bag arched, its belt twisted through the darkness above the swirling river. He didn’t stop to watch the bag land in the water, but pivoted and sprinted upstream, trying to get as far away from it as possible. He ran on a footpath beside the river. To his left, police flashlights pinballed through the woods. Police dogs barked. To his right, the chopper swooped down below the treetops, flying backward over the river, blinding Wyatt with its spotlight.

  His lungs burned. There’s no way out, Wyatt thought, slowing to a stop and putting his hands in the air.

  “Hands behind your head,” a voice thundered down at him.

  Buffeted by rotor wash, Wyatt obeyed and waited, certain of only one thing: he would not be returning home that night to see his little brother.

  CHAPTER 3

  April 1984

  Bahamas

  Claudia Degas opened her eyes to see her reflection staring down at her from the mirrored ceiling above her bed. Arms and legs sprawled out, night mask pushed up on her forehead, makeup smeared. Some sort of snack ground into the pillow beside her face. Oh no, here it comes, she thought.

  Her gut twisted. She rolled off the bed, crawled across the floor on hands and knees, and vomited in her husband’s gold-plated toilet. Was it seasickness on day ten of their trip? Or was it just a raging hangover? She didn’t recall drinking that much. Well, not more than usual. Maybe she was pregnant.

  That thought blinded her with pain. She knelt beside the toilet and prayed. “God no, no more children. No more children with him. No más.”

  Where is he? she wondered, vaguely aware he wasn’t snoring beside her. She looked back toward her bed. His greasy head and gaping mouth weren’t there. Maybe he passed out on the couch, she thought. She crawled over to the door and peered down the length of the master bedroom suite.

  Light poured in through the French doors that were open to the balcony over the water. She looked around. Not on the couch.

  Could he be still gambling in the Game Room? It was possible, but even the Colonel got sick of playing against friends who let him win hand after hand. Maybe he was in another room with … one of his women of the night?

  This was also possible. But appearances were important to the Colonel and it was not like him to flagrantly disrespect their marriage. No, work was the most likely culprit. Probably the Colonel had awoken early to attend to some important matter back home. After all, he’d practically started a civil war and they were now on a cruise. An odd interruption was to be expe
cted, Claudia reasoned.

  She rose to her feet and wobbled into the bedroom to use the gold-plated phone on her husband’s desk to call Pablo, the Colonel’s head of security, and see if he would track her husband down. As she crossed the room, something out of the corner of her eye drew her attention.

  Her husband’s slippers were out on the balcony, set side by side pointing out at the Caribbean Sea. His monogrammed terrycloth robe hung over the railing, and she could see his gold-plated pistol in the pocket. Victor really needed to dial back the use of gold plating, she thought. Toilet, phone, gun, toenail brush.

  He must have gone for an early swim, she thought, walking to the balcony and looking out, expecting to see her husband splashing in the water. It was not unusual for the Colonel to dive off the balcony and take a dip—one of the prerogatives of owning your own yacht. In fact, it crossed Claudia’s mind to join Victor. A swim would help clear her head, but looking over the railing, she saw only turquoise blue water, white sand, and a lone sea turtle paddling toward the hull.

  “Victor!” she called her husband. “Vicki, where are you?”

  No response.

  She tried to stay calm. Clearly, her husband had returned from the Game Room, decided to take a little dip in the Caribbean, and had not yet returned to their room after the swim, which meant that he was either wandering the boat in his swimsuit or …

  She quickly went back inside to the phone to call Pablo.

  The head of security answered from the galley. “Yeah,” he said, his mouth likely full of scrambled eggs and croissants.

  “Good morning. Is my husband with you?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “He was escorted to his room last night, after you both put Wilberforce to bed,” Pablo said.

  “He didn’t gamble?” she asked, surprised. It was not like her husband to forgo a game of cards for an early bedtime. “Was he feeling okay?”

  “Fine, as far as I could tell.” He paused to chew. “Is he not with you?”

  “No,” she said, her voice hitting a panicked tone. “He’s not in one of the common areas, or on the stern deck? Maybe he’s on the top deck sleeping? You know how he likes his tan.”

  “One moment.”

  Claudia heard a rustling sound. She imagined the receiver buried in Pablo’s perm-sized patch of chest hair. A radio crackled.

  “He is not on the stern deck or in the common areas. But ehhh…” Pablo breathed heavily, hesitating. “It is possible he is somewhere on the boat, and I have not been made aware of where he is … ehhh, quartered?”

  Claudia knew exactly what Pablo was doing—covering for her husband, if he was up to any funny business.

  “Let me check with my team. We will search the boat and we will get right back to you. No need to worry.”

  “I don’t believe he’s with another woman, Pablo,” she said, candidly. “I think he may have gone swimming last night. Or early this morning.”

  “Swimming?” There was another slight pause. “I am coming to you right now.”

  Click.

  Claudia unlocked the door and waited. A couple minutes later, Pablo exploded into the room, a walkie-talkie radio in one hand and a gun in the other. Two armed guards followed him. His face, his mustache, the patch of chest hair puffing from the deep V-neck—all beaded with sweat. “Did you unlock the door when you woke up or was it locked?” Pablo asked.

  “Locked. Victor must have locked it when he came in. Pablo”—Claudia’s voice cracked—“I found this.” She motioned to the balcony.

  Pablo brushed past her, immediately going to the Colonel’s robe. He tucked his own gun into his waistband and drew the Colonel’s gold-plated one from the robe’s pocket and sniffed the barrel. He checked the chamber, ejected the clip, and counted the rounds.

  “Full, save the round in the chamber,” he said to himself. He thought for a moment.

  “What does that mean?” Claudia asked. “What are you doing?”

  “Be quiet,” Pablo said. He stepped back and observed the scene. Claudia watched his head swivel as he looked from the floor to the slippers to the robe to the table with the glass and the bottle and then out into the sea. Then his head swiveled back to her, then to the floor. He squinted, knelt down and ran his fingers through the thick luxurious carpet, back and forth. He picked something out of the fibers. Claudia couldn’t tell what.

  Pablo stood and lifted the radio to his lips. “Call the coast guard in Nassau and local fishermen. Tell them to initiate a search for the body of Colonel Degas. In the meantime, lock down the boat. Make all of the guests and the staff return to their quarters immediately. Search every room for the Colonel’s ring. It will be missing a stone. Do not let anyone leave their rooms. If they try to leave the boat, shoot them.”

  One of the guards moved to the door, closed it, and stood in front, gun at the ready.

  “Pablo…” Claudia said, thinking she might vomit once again. “What is happening?”

  Pablo looked at her, but did not speak.

  “I want to see my son,” she said. “I want him with me.”

  Pablo raised his hand. Held between his thumb and his forefinger was a large pink diamond, glinting in the morning sun. “How did this get here?”

  “I don’t know.” Claudia’s voice quavered.

  Pablo smirked, slipping the stone into his pocket. He removed his gun from his waistband and put it on the Colonel’s desk. He then unbuckled his belt and slowly pulled it from his pants.

  “Pablo, what are you doing?”

  He stalked toward her and lashed the belt, the silver buckle cracking on the bare skin of her leg like a whip.

  She screamed.

  “Tell me what you did to him.”

  * * *

  After a good twenty minutes of the belt and fists, Claudia had convinced Pablo she knew nothing of her husband’s disappearance and that she had, in fact, been sleeping all night. Most likely, Claudia realized, she had snoozed through her husband’s murder. Must have been the Dramamine, she kept saying.

  A guard knocked at the door. “Sir, they found something.”

  Pablo spun on his heels. “What?”

  The guard listened to the radio and relayed the information. “The ring, the one missing the stone … there is other jewelry as well.”

  Pablo swiveled his head back toward Claudia like a reptile.

  “Stay here,” he said. “I am not through with you.” He wove his belt back through his pants, took his gun and radio, and nodded to the guard at the door.

  As soon as he was gone, Claudia flopped onto the floor and sobbed. And she would have kept sobbing but she heard feet padding across the floor to the balcony, then back to her. She saw the flash of a gun and looked up, expecting Pablo.

  “Mrs. Degas?” Her son’s friend, Chris appeared, holding her husband’s gun out to her.

  “You need to take this,” he said in a quiet and polite voice. “And we need to get your son.”

  * * *

  The landslide moment in the life of Wilberforce Degas, aka the Glowworm, began that morning he awoke aboard his father’s mega-yacht, face down on the floor, aware of muffled chaos.

  Wil tried to push himself off the floor and discovered his face stuck to the carpet, bonded by blood. His blood. He bore a giant gash on his cheek where his father had clocked him the night before, a deep cut made by the Colonel’s pinky ring. Overnight, Wil’s blood and flesh had intermingled with the carpet fibers of his stateroom to form a large scab that now acted as an adhesive, pinning Wil’s face to the ground. Every time Wil tried to move, he felt searing pain, humiliation, and an unquenchable desire to harm his father. To kill him even.

  Riding a rush of anger, he pushed himself off the floor. His face jerked back. Blood spurted anew. He grabbed a monogrammed hand towel from the bathroom and held it to his face. He heard more screaming outside his room. What in god’s name was going on? Footsteps thudded up and d
own the hallway. He went to open the door, but it was locked from the outside, so he put his ear to it and listened. His mother was sobbing. He heard a man’s voice, followed by the sounds of a slap. “Woman, speak!” the man said. Wil assumed it was his father—no one else could dare lay a hand on her.

  “Please believe me, Pablo!” his mother cried. “I know nothing!”

  Pablo. Wil’s mind spun. Could it be? His father’s most trusted lieutenant beating his mother?

  Then Wil heard something like the crack of a belt. His mother screamed again.

  “Let me out!” Wil pounded on the door. “Get away from her!”

  More chaotic sounds filtered down to Wil, then something shifted. Footfalls pounded down the hallway away from the family staterooms to guest quarters. Wil pressed his ear to the door. The voices were farther way, but he could hear Pablo yelling.

  “How do you have the Colonel’s ring? What do you know? Speak or I will kill you!”

  A man’s voice pleaded in return, “Pablo, someone planted that in my room. I have no knowledge of how it got here.”

  “Liar!” Pablo screamed again. “Where is he? What did you do to him?”

  “I don’t know, por Dios,” the voice cried out in response. “I swear I don’t know what happened to him!”

  Then there were gunshots, a lot of them. Wil ducked and cowered at the bottom of the door. Silence.

  “Keep searching,” Pablo shouted. “Someone will know something.”

  Wil listened now as footsteps approached his stateroom and stopped outside the door.

  BAM! The door rattled. BAM! Someone was trying to kick it in. Wilberforce scrambled across the room, looking for a way out. He climbed into a sleeping berth as the door burst from the hinges.

  “Ahh!” Wil covered himself with a blanket, shrieking. But instead of seeing Pablo in his doorway, he saw Chris and his mother, holding his father’s pistol.

  “Bud, we need to leave now. Right now.” Chris wore a backpack and looked oddly cool-headed. “Off the boat. Let’s go.”

  “What is happening?” Wil said. “Where is Father?”