Camp Valor

by Scott McEwen

  “Your father is missing,” his mother said softly.

  “What do you mean missing?” Wil asked. “We’re on a boat.”

  “It doesn’t matter, we must go.” As she spoke, Wil noticed her face was covered in bruises.

  “Did Father do that to you? I’ll kill him!”

  “Pablo,” his mother whispered. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He is interrogating everyone on the ship. He just killed Raul.”

  Wil struggled to grasp what was happening. His father’s closest lieutenant had beaten his mother and killed one of his father’s best friends. Granted, Raul was a total creep, but he was one of his dad’s favorites. A word came into Wil’s head—coup. Was this a coup? Had Pablo harmed his father? Where was his father? For the first time in a long, long while, Wil actually wanted to see his dad.

  “We must leave now. Now!” Wil’s mother yelled, flailing her arms and snapping him out of his trance.

  “Okay,” he said. Wil could hear Pablo and his thugs searching room to room on the lower decks. “Just let me grab something first.”

  * * *

  Claudia and the two boys slipped past the staterooms to the main deck and raced down the stairs to the lower deck. Little Mule, La Crema’s tender—the small but fast Donzi that they dragged behind the mega-yacht—had been pulled up to the stern by one of Claudia’s loyal guards. They climbed aboard and Chris fired up the motor, but as they did, Pablo’s goons caught up with them on the stern deck, aiming their weapons and shouting threats.

  “Señora Degas,” one of the goons called out. “We will not harm you in front of your boy. You can stay, but if you try to leave, we must shoot!”

  Claudia pulled the Colonel’s gun from her blouse. “You better not. The Colonel is not dead. Pablo is trying to trick you. He will be coming back. And know what will happen when he does?”

  “Your husband is dead,” one of the goons said.

  “Are you sure? Are you absolutely certain? Because if you are wrong … well, you know what will happen.”

  She could tell this got the goons thinking. Anyone who knew her husband knew his signature recipe for torture—he would have men flayed alive and fed to sharks and seagulls.

  The pause was long enough for Chris to cut the line and slam the throttle, engaging over three thousand pounds of horsepower.

  The goons opened fire, but it was too late. The Donzi practically jumped out of the water and raced toward Miami. “Mrs. Degas, take the wheel,” Chris called, clearly a little uncertain how to drive a boat. The boy switched with her, and she brought the Donzi up to full speed. The only way they were getting caught was by aircraft or a U.S. Coast Guard cutter, which was exactly what Claudia wanted. She was never going home. From this point in her young life forward, Claudia Degas and her son would be adrift. She knew she would be the only anchor her son would ever have.

  The two boys sat in the cockpit behind Claudia as the boat tore along the surface of the Caribbean at ninety miles per hour, the blades of the propeller chewing waves, literally pushing the boat out of the water. Chris looked at Wil. It seemed he had aged enormously in the last few minutes. His skin looked pale and tight. His hair, which had previously shown signs of premature baldness, now seemed especially thin and greasy as it whipped in the wind blowing across the Donzi’s bow. The item Wil saved from his stateroom before leaving the mega-yacht was clutched to his chest, snuggled like a teddy bear—his Nintendo, the Donkey Kong cassette halfway ejected from the mouth of the machine.

  CHAPTER 4

  June 2017

  Millersville Courthouse

  Bushy red clown hair. Suit splattered with mustard. Star Trek Voyager pin on a maroon tie. A snowy layer of fresh-fallen dandruff on his shoulder. Wyatt thought his court-appointed lawyer man looked like someone Aunt Narcy would meet online … and then reject. Worse, if a guy can’t keep a quarter inch of dead skin off the lapels of his cheap suit, how was he going to keep Wyatt out of jail?

  Wyatt really began to sweat when he saw the prosecutor they’d be up against. Young. Patient. Professional. Looked like she spent a lot of time at CrossFit. And knew how to strut. Then she spoke. “Age can be deceptive. The boy you see before you is not quite fifteen years old. But he is capable of tremendous violence and cunning. Do not be deceived by youth…” When she began arguing why bail should be denied, all hope Wyatt would walk free vanished.

  The state’s case was strong. Thanks to the camera mounted to the belly of the helicopter that chased Wyatt, the Millersville Police Department had video of Wyatt heaving Derrick’s fanny pack into the Cachoobie River. When recovered, the bag contained cash and a bloody revolver. Preliminary ballistic tests of the shell casings from the gas station matched the barrel of the gun from the bag, which had Wyatt’s fingerprints on it. Wyatt’s hands and forearms tested positive for gunshot residue, thanks to the gun accidentally discharging in Narcy’s car. And DNA testing revealed that traces of the blood found on the money and the bag had smeared onto Wyatt’s shirt while he was running to throw it in the river. All the bloodstains matched the victim, who was now in a coma.

  Not only did heaps of physical evidence tie Wyatt directly to the crime, so did digital evidence. Detectives determined that the gun used in the crime had been purchased online, using Bitcoin, from Wyatt’s computer bay in the high school. The same lab where Wyatt tutored Derrick.

  The only person who could testify in Wyatt’s defense was the attendant, and he wasn’t talking to anyone anytime soon. And since Derrick was still at large, and there was no other suspect, Wyatt became the primary suspect in the shooting. As it often happens, because the case was so good against Wyatt, the prosecutor didn’t really want to find Derrick to pursue that angle.

  The prosecutor addressed the judge, and Wyatt could feel everyone in the room stare, from the clerks to the judges to the press in the gallery. All were enthralled by the prosecutor, including Wyatt.

  “Your honor,” she said. “Given the preponderance of evidence linking the defendant to the crime, his history of criminality, the seriousness of this crime, and the fact that the defendant led police on a chase that is estimated to cost taxpayers in excess of one quarter of a million dollars, we, the people, ask your honor that he, Wyatt Jennings Brewer, be denied bail.”

  No ruling had ever been granted so swiftly.

  “Bail denied.” Bam. Down came the gavel.

  * * *

  Wyatt was remanded to the notorious County Youth Detention Center (CYDC) to await trail. After the decision, Wyatt’s brother, watching from across the courtroom, dropped his head into his hands and sobbed. Cody’s long blond hair shook as he cried. Narcy, for her part, looked encouraged. Vindicated. She wobbled to her feet, gripping the rail, her legs buckling as she shrieked, “Wyatt, you killed my car, and you are killin’ your mother. I hope this judge locks your smart butt up and teaches you about respect. Startin’ with respectin’ me.”

  The gavel came down again, and the judge ordered Narcy to leave, which she did, dragging a bawling Cody with her from the courtroom. Wyatt’s mother was even more inconsolable than Cody. First a husband, then a son. It was too much.

  As Wyatt was led out of the courthouse by guards, his lawyer waddled over, making one more attempt to get Wyatt to negotiate a plea deal.

  “Son, plead guilty to attempted manslaughter in exchange for fifteen to twenty years. Best deal you’re gonna get.”

  CHAPTER 5

  June 2017

  Millersville County Youth Detention Center

  For a few days, Wyatt was left alone. His arrest had gained him enough notoriety that his reputation as a badass kept most of the other inmates away. Then a boy called the Spider Kid knifed a mall security guard and was placed in Wyatt’s cell to await his trial.

  He was around seventeen years old and the scariest person Wyatt had seen in his life. Bar none. Even in movies. The Spider Kid’s mouth contained two rows of rotted-out teeth that had been filed down to sharp points. His blac
k, empty eyes bulged from his pale, cadaverously thin face. A giant black spider had been tattooed on his stomach to appear as if it were eating the boy’s belly button, which protruded unnaturally from his abdomen as a result of a birth defect. Emanating out and across his body from his belly button–eating spider tattoo were many more tattoos, covering his chest, legs, neck, and face.

  Wyatt’s cellmates said the tattoos signaled membership in a splinter group of the notorious Central American gang MS-13. Wyatt just thought they were hella freaky.

  Wyatt lay in his bunk a couple hours after lights out, thinking about his case and upcoming trial, wondering if he could find a new lawyer and sad that his mother had not come to see him, until his thoughts were interrupted by an eerie feeling. Like someone was watching him.

  He scanned the bunks and across the cell saw a pair of black, empty eyes staring back at him. The Spider Kid hadn’t breathed a syllable or moved a nanometer. He hadn’t even blinked, but instinctively Wyatt knew something was about to go down. Like when two dogs encounter each other on the same patch of sidewalk. Either one or the other was going to get mauled. His adrenaline spiked and heart raced.

  The Spider Kid shot up off his bunk and came straight for Wyatt, taking a giant swing while remaining almost totally silent. Wyatt balled up, covered his face and prepared to absorb a blow.

  He heard a big BONNNGGGG but felt nothing. Wyatt glanced up and saw the Spider Kid reeling back, reaching for his forehead where a trickle of blood oozed toward his eyes. He was dazed. Wyatt realized the Spider Kid had banged his head on the top bunk. Pure luck. Wyatt hadn’t even thrown a punch and the Spider Kid was already tottering.

  Wyatt tried to exploit the advantage. He rolled out of bed and scrambled for the emergency call button on the door. But the Spider Kid blocked Wyatt with a forearm and, lightning fast, kneed Wyatt in the face, knocking him back onto the bottom bunk. The Spider Kid grabbed the top rail and, like a monkey, started kicking Wyatt, stomping on him. The nearby kids, having been awoken by the tousle, watched, cheering and egging the Spider Kid on.

  “Yeah, boy! Yeah, kick ’em in da face!”

  Wyatt balled up and rolled out at the Spider Kid. This knocked the Spider Kid back off the bunk, and when Wyatt spilled out onto the floor, he landed on his back. Their eyes met again. The Spider Kid was in a trance, completely unhinged.

  As fast as he could, Wyatt flipped onto his stomach and tried to get his legs and arms under him, but the Spider Kid kicked him right in the mouth. Wyatt’s head rocked up and he felt the pain in his mouth and neck. He was momentarily unable to move, and the Spider Kid stomped straight down on his ear. Wyatt’s head bounced off the concrete floor. His ears rang, he lost his equilibrium, and the room got all wobbly.

  Wyatt lunged for the Spider Kid’s ankles, thinking if he could get the Spider Kid to the ground, he’d have a chance. But the Spider Kid was faster than Wyatt, hopping like an insect, alternately dodging blows and dealing them out.

  Fist. Jump. Kick. Fist. Fist. Jump. Kick. Knee to face. Wyatt’s head yo-yo’ed back and forth from the Spider Kid’s hands, feet, and knees. The ringing in Wyatt’s ears drowned out all other sounds. The Spider Kid kicked Wyatt so hard he flipped on his back, prone, flat on the cell floor. He pounced and sat on Wyatt’s chest, holding him down with his weight, pinning Wyatt’s arms to his sides with his knees. The Spider Kid unloaded on Wyatt’s face, fist after fist. And Wyatt could do nothing about it.

  Soon Wyatt lay limp, completely whipped. The Spider Kid rose and took hold of the top rail of the top bunk. Standing over Wyatt, he raised his foot and held it in the air. Wyatt stared up at the bottom of the cheap prison-issue sandal, looking at grit and hair and blood. The Spider Kid yelled to the room, “Should I do it? Should I crush his face? I can kill him right now.”

  “Do it!” The cell voted unanimously. “Do it!”

  The Spider Kid leaned back, closed his eyes and luxuriated in the cheers from the crowd. Wyatt saw his chance. He felt energy surge. As the Spider Kid hitched his leg back one more time to build up for a lethal kick, Wyatt rolled to his left, right up against the Spider Kid’s sandaled foot and pulled the Spider Kid’s ankle tight to his chin. He pushed his forehead into the Spider Kid’s shinbone, and the Spider Kid’s right leg locked straight out. Wyatt then levered the Spider Kid’s leg and knee and, twisting his ankle, Wyatt rammed his head as hard as he could into the Spider Kid’s shin. The Spider Kid’s ankle popped, and he gave a thin scream as he toppled backward, hitting his head on the metal rail of the bottom bunk on the way down.

  Wyatt’s cellmates cheered, oohing and ahhing in the joy and horror of the fight.

  Wyatt held the Spider Kid’s leg until he felt the muscles slacken. He instinctually knew the boy was unconscious, but he didn’t look up or let go. He just held on tight and twisted like he was trying to tear the Spider Kid’s foot off until he felt tendons snap. The Spider Kid roared to life, wailing in pain. Wyatt ripped the Spider Kid’s prison sandal from his foot and began lashing him with it. He put his fingers through the toe holes of the sandal, making a bloody glove to protect his hand and knuckles and crawled on top of the Spider Kid’s chest, raining blows down onto his face. The Spider Kid’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and Wyatt hammered harder, feeling blood splashing.

  Wyatt had no idea how many times he hit the boy. Three. Five. Fifty times? He had completely lost control. All the anger that Wyatt felt came pouring out. Anger he wasn’t even really aware of—toward his father for leaving, toward his mother for being weak, toward Narcy for being a burden, toward Derrick for tricking him, toward himself for letting it happen, and toward this Spider Kid and anyone who’d ever tried to take advantage of him—all came flooding out of Wyatt and found a home in his fists. And the scariest part was that he liked it.

  Wyatt was vaguely aware of his cellmates scattering and the cell door rattling open. Boots rushed in. Hands tore Wyatt off the boy and twisted him into a WRAP, a straightjacket for the entire body, including head and neck. WRAPs were meant to calm an out-of-control detainee, but it usually had the opposite effect, inducing panic, claustrophobia, and hyperventilation. It was like strapping someone into a heart attack. Or a seizure. Like a moth with its wings ripped off, Wyatt bucked and thrashed and beat his arms until he passed out.

  CHAPTER 6

  June 2017

  Millersville County Youth Detention Center, Isolation Unit

  The bolt slid, a door wheezed, rubber-soled shoes squeaked across the metal floor. They stopped and turned to face Wyatt. He clamped his eyes shut and curled up on the metal cot, thinking about his home, the bunk bed he shared with his brother, and wishing he could just be there. Even with Narcy.

  “Get up.” The guard kicked his cot.

  “I’m not going to the infirmary. I’ll wait until the surgeon is here to fix my tooth.”

  “Ain’t here to take you to the infirmary. You got a visitor.”

  Wyatt perked. “Is my mom here?”

  “Don’t know nothin’ ’bout that. They don’t tell me whose name’s on the sheet—just to come get you.” She adjusted her hips. “Better move, son. Or I’m movin’ on.”

  “Hang on,” Wyatt peeled himself off the bunk and stood, pants sagging more than usual. The food served in isolation—rancid bologna on rubberized bread—was so disgusting he hadn’t eaten in days. He followed the deputy down a hallway that blazed under fluorescent lights.

  Instead of going to the family visiting room, the guard guided Wyatt to a private meeting room reserved for conferences between inmates and the lawyers trying to get them out, or police officers trying to keep them in. He had no idea if a lawyer or a cop was waiting on the other side of the door.

  “Stand there.” The guard pointed to a yellow line, across from a small round window about shoulder high. “When you’re done,” she said and slid her ID card through a reader. “Come to the window and I’ll let you out.”

  The door whined open.

  “Yo
u can go in now,” she said and disappeared back down the hallway.

  Wyatt entered the room to find a single visitor, a large man, around forty years old, with weathered skin, sunglasses, and a thick beard, sitting at the small metal table in the center of the room. The guy was jacked. He looked like a gorilla squeezed into a dark, shiny suit, which strained against him. Sleeves of tattoos peeked out from under his shirt cuffs. He shifted around, trying to find a position to fit his bulk. He reminded Wyatt of a biker posing as a security guard, or a mixed martial arts fighter dressed for an arraignment. Wyatt had no doubt the man was a cop. His instincts told him he needed to be on edge, leery of the man, so Wyatt jumped a little as the heavy cell door clattered shut.

  The man pointed to the chair bolted to the floor across the table. “Pull up a chair. If you can manage to squeeze in.”

  Was he joking? Wyatt sat, finding plenty of room.

  The guy didn’t take off his dark glasses. Just stared at Wyatt for a while, and Wyatt noticed his face was badly scarred. The wounds looked fresh, the stripes across his cheeks on the left side of his face still pink.

  “Wyatt, I just came from the hospital where they put that kid who got shot up. Little Ronnie, I think his name is. Doctors told me he had a rough night. They think he’ll die.”

  The chair grew cold under Wyatt. He felt weak.

  “And the kid you beat in your cell,” the man went on. “That kid with all the tats. He ain’t doing much better. Only difference is, that banger’s got a lot of buddies from his MS-13 just itching for you to get out of solitary so they can get at you.”

  “If I had anything else to tell police, I would,” Wyatt said. “But if I confessed, I’d be lying. I didn’t shoot anyone. And the kid with the tattoos deserved it.”

  “Personally, I think you’re getting a raw deal. Might have a better one for you.” He said this quietly, matter-of-factly.

  “Why would I trust the police to make a fair deal?”