As I get my bearings, I realize there’s no place to run. Sammy’s fat cheeks bounce with every determined stride, his eyes ablaze with anger. A wicked smile slithers across his lips, cementing itself to his face. Dirt and sweat cover my tormentors’ shirts. It’s clear they laid waiting in the woods for quite some time for this moment.
Sammy climbs onto the road, eyes gleaming like roaring bonfires. “Thought you could just go to the police on me, did ya? Snitches get stitches!”
“Sammy, I didn’t tell the police anything.” I raise my hands in surrender as if that can somehow magically resolve the situation.
“Kick his little bitch ass, Sammy.”
Bo moves behind me to cut off any escape route. I turn my body sideways as my foes begin tightening their circle around me like a noose. I swivel my head looking for an opening as they approach. I dart for a gap, but Sammy jumps in front of me and shoves me to the middle of the road. I stagger backward until a set of powerful arms wrap around me. Bo wrenches my arms behind my back and laces his arms through my elbows. He interlocks his strong fingers on the back of my head like a vise. The more I struggle, the more the pain shoots through my arms and shoulders as he constricts me with his large forearms.
Bo leans into my ear to whisper. “You little bitch. Now you’re dead.” A spatter of saliva hits my ear. There’s pure enjoyment in his voice.
Bo’s hot breath, reeking of decay, glances the nape of my neck. Sammy takes a hopping step and swings his fist forward in an uppercut, plunging it deep into my stomach. I gasp as all the air leaves my lungs, and the immense pain from the impact radiates across my solar plexus.
Tee comes running up and screams. “Leave him alone!”
“What you gonna do about it, Tee?” Sammy spins around and pushes Tee to the pavement.
“You tell the cops I did something to Margo? Huh, Brook?” Sammy jabs his pudgy pointer finger into my chest several times.
“Nothing. I told them nothing.” I garble the words between gulps for air.
“Don’t lie to me! You’re going to tell me everything you told the cops. About the backpack.”
Tee’s body trembles as he screams, “Leave him alone!”
Bo whips his head to Tee and snarls, “We don’t give a damn about no Markland X Crew, Tee. So shut it!”
Sammy’s eyes swell. “What the hell?”
Devin races behind Bo with his skateboard. He flips the skateboard sideways, grips it in both hands, and swings it hard. It makes a loud crack as the top deck of the skateboard strikes Bo in the back of the head and neck. Bo lets out a large groan as his legs crumble underneath him. His tight grip on me releases, and his limp body slides away from mine, hitting the road with a loud thud. In a flash Devin jumps between Sammy and me. Bo lies motionless on the asphalt other than the rise and fall of his chest, knocked unconscious by the blow. Sammy’s head quivers, and he blinks his eyes a few times. No one ever stands up to him or Bo this way.
“Hell yeah, Dev!” Tee jumps to his feet and pumps his fist.
Sammy’s face grows bright red and his lips curl. “You’re dead!” Sammy growls as he lowers his head and shoulders and charges Devin, his arms outstretched, fingers curled like claws. His eyes swell and fill with darkness as he launches himself at Devin, who sidesteps him, nimble as a bullfighter evading a charging bull. He swings his skateboard as Sammy passes by him. The skateboard connects with Sammy’s forearm with a huge slap, followed by an audible, sickening snap. Sammy falls to his knees and clutches his forearm, veins in his neck protruding. He lets out a couple of horrible, high-pitched screams.
Tee’s face alarms. “Oh shit! I think you broke his arm!”
“You little assholes! You’re all dead!” Tears stream Sammy’s bright red face.
“Let’s go.” My voice wails like a burglar alarm. I skirt past Bo’s still body.
I grab my bike and run it away from the scene. Devin hops on his skateboard and lingers for a moment, admiring the carnage that lies in our wake. Sammy’s nose crinkles as he glares at him from the road with dagger eyes.
“What are you looking at? I’m gonna kill you! All of you!” Sammy hunches, hobbling on his knees, his good arm shielding the broken one.
“Nope, don’t think you are.” There’s an even measure to Devin’s intonation.
Sammy tries to push himself up from the pavement. He lets out a cry of agony and grabs his forearm to brace it. He clenches his teeth tight, his lips blanching from the immense force. Sammy will never be able to let this go.
“We’ll find out who ya are. We’ll be coming for you. And the whole Markland X Crew, too!”
Devin grins and flips his hair from his eyes as he gives the ground a few quick leg pumps, veering his skateboard between Sammy and Bo.
This changes everything. Sammy, Myron, and Bo will come for us. Revenge. A hurricane of pain. Nothing like the child’s play we’ve endured in the past. A shoulder-shaking shiver rumbles through me. Devin joins us on his skateboard, and we all retreat from the scene on Jennings Pike.
“Thanks, man. For saving me back there.”
“You got it, man. Are you okay?”
“I’m good. Little sore, but good.”
“That was freakin’ bad ass! They got handled by my man, Dev.” Tee’s eyes gleam as we all turn onto Chambers Road.
“What’s wrong with those guys, anyway?”
“Serious case of inbreeding.” Tee snickers to himself.
Devin chuckles. “They are kind of like mutants.”
I nod at Devin. “They got the big, dumb, and ugly part covered. That’s for sure.”
“Why’d the strawberry-faced one ask if you told the cops he did something to Margo?”
A wide grin overtakes Tee’s face. “Ha! You mean Sammy.”
“Yeah, Sammy. Why’d he ask that?”
I’m not really sure how to answer the question. Tee levels his eyes on me, narrowing his on mine. Oh shit. He can tell. He knows I know why. But the detective. Dammit! Tee sharpens his eyes on me.
“Brooks, seriously, man. Why?”
“Umm…I guess maybe because the detective asked me if I had ever seen Sammy pick on Margo.” My voice wavers.
“And what’d you say?” Tee imprisons me in his stare.
“I said I’d seen him call her a freak and stuff like that.”
Devin tilts his head, scrunching his lips. “Why was he asking about a backpack?”
My stomach plummets. I’m going to get in a shitload of trouble. I can’t tell. This sucks. I pause for a few moments and lower my head. “I’m not really sure.”
Tee slows his bicycle and comes to a stop. Devin follows Tee’s lead and stops his skateboard as well. I come to a stop. I lock my shame-ridden gaze to the road. This sucks. I hate lying. To my friends, no less. My eyes meet Tee’s. His eyes core into mine.
“Cut the crap, Brooks. Tell us the real reason. You’re part of the Crew. You know that being part of the Markland X Crew means that we tell each other everything.”
“I’m really not supposed to say.”
“Are you part of the crew or—”
“It was my backpack, okay!”
“What do you mean your backpack?”
“The cops. They found it in the woods. Near where I saw Margo.”
“What does that have to do with Sammy?” Devin asks.
“Myron took it from me when he and Sammy got me yesterday. And they found it in the woods by a bunch of blood. The detective told me not to tell anyone.”
Tee’s head flinches. “Whoa.”
“You guys can’t tell anyone I told you. I could get in big trouble.”
“Secret’s safe bro.” Devin lays his finger across his lips.
“Yeah, man. What’s said in the Markland X Crew stays in the Markland X Crew.”
“They’re going to come after us for sure. You heard him. The whole Markland X Crew and Devin too. He thinks I ratted him to the police.”
“So, what’s the Markland
X Crew?”
“Robby and I started it about a year ago. Brooks is in it too.”
“So what is it?”
“We just hang and stuff. You know, look out for each other’s back. That type of stuff.”
“Oh, that’s cool,” Devin says, grinning. “Can I get in?”
Tee nods. “Far as I’m concerned, Dev, you’re already in. But that’s not my decision alone to make.”
“I say he’s in. Dev just saved us back there.”
“Yeah, me too. We’ll talk to Robby. Has to be unanimous.”
“Sweet. Thanks.” A smile rises on Devin’s lips.
“What are we going to do about Sammy, Bo, and Myron?”
Devin grins at me, mischief in his tone. “I think I have a plan.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Do either of you have a fishing pole?”
“Yeah, I have one. But how’s that gonna help?”
“Good. Bring it to Brooks’ house tomorrow. After we all meet up there, let’s go over to my house. I want to show you guys something.”
Devin flashes a big smile before we make the journey to our houses.
Chapter 22
Strange Exchange
HIGH STREET IS quiet. Detective Holt turns off his headlights as he eases his unmarked vehicle to a stop on the curb by the vacant lot. He checks his rearview; he cranes his neck around until the familiar beige sedan accelerates from its creep and leaves. Sitting there in silence, he studies Latravious Wadlow’s house. A meticulous nature, honed by his years of detective work, Holt surveys the scene. The porch light is on, but there’s no movement on the property. A solitary, four-door sedan parked on the street by Latravious Wadlow’s property sits idle. One way in, one way out.
A young man emerges from the door into the light, but the poor angle shields everything except the profile of his face. He’s wearing dark clothing and engaging in conversation with someone inside the darkness of the doorway. Detective Holt leans forward, but he’s too far away to clearly make out the face in the dark. The young man’s movements appear animated, flaring arm gestures denoting the intensity of the conversation.
An arm emerges from the darkness of the doorway and hands the young man something. The young man takes it and makes an abrupt turn away from the door. The door closes behind him, and the porch light shuts off.
Detective Holt pulls away from the windshield and sinks in his seat. He lowers his body so that only his eyes remain above the window as the young man leaves Latravious Wadlow’s sidewalk and turns onto High Street, moving in Detective Holt’s direction with his head hung low. It appears he’s still muttering to himself, chewing on the remnants of an argument he’s taken with him. He’s holding the indiscernible object in his hand. And as he walks into the glow of a streetlamp, a flash of recognition strikes Detective Holt like a thunderbolt. It’s Brady Palmer.
A flurry of thoughts race through Detective Holt’s mind. Stop Brady Palmer and question him? Of all people, why would Brady Palmer be inside a recluse’s house?
Despite having grown into a young man, Detective Holt can’t help but picture Brady as the young child he first knew. The conversation with Brady in the hospital after the fire always bothered him, and he carried it with him through the years. His gut told him at the time that the tragic fire lacked any malicious intent. The boy’s suffering apparent, he omitted one of Brady’s answers from his police report; he just couldn’t bring himself to include it. It carried little meaning to the investigation, but the prosecution would’ve surely pounced upon it to acquire a harsher punishment. The oddity of the words he spoke at the time still stick with Detective Holt. ‘If they burn, they won’t return’. What the hell did that even mean? But Holt attributed it to a distraught boy not making any sense. In the end, it didn’t matter. Brady still received the maximum sentence.
Detective Holt fights off his urge to stop Brady. Not alerting Latravious Wadlow to his presence takes precedence. Brady walks past the unmarked car, unaware he’s moving through Detective Holt’s ocular crosshairs. He clutches a small glass vial with some type of green liquid in it. He stashes the item in his pocket and turns on Chambers Road before dissolving into the black night.
Detective Holt gets out of the car and walks to Latravious Wadlow’s home. The house looks dark inside, all the window blinds drawn. He steps onto the wooden porch. The old boards beneath him whine, announcing his arrival. He gives a firm knock on the door and listens for corresponding movement, but quiet persists inside the home. After a few more moments of silence, he bangs on the door three more times, the heavy hand of a seasoned officer grown impatient. A burst of light filters through the cracks in the blinds and illuminates the darkened peep hole, which now glows a warm, white. Thudding footsteps close on the door. The porch light comes on and the peep hole darkens once more.
Detective Holt pulls his badge from his jacket pocket and raises it to the peep hole.
“Harper Pass Police.”
“Just a moment, Detective,” an older man’s voice calls out from behind the door.
The unlatching of several deadbolt locks click in quick succession before the door creaks open, coming to a stop as the chain that’s still fastened to the door frame reaches its full length. Professor Latravious Wadlow peers through the opening, his curly gray hair flaring out at the sides. Black and white hairs dart out in all different directions from his long, scraggly beard. Latravious Wadlow eyes Detective Holt through the circular lenses of the glasses he’s wearing, which have fallen from the bridge of his nose.
“I’m Detective Holt.”
“Yes, I remember you, Detective.”
“Would it be alright if I come in?”
“And what is it I can help you with, Detective?” Latravious Wadlow examines Detective Holt.
“I have some questions. May I come in?”
“I’m not accustomed to receiving guests, but I suppose you may.” Latravious Wadlow closes the door enough to slide the chain free.
The door opens revealing the foyer and a stack of unopened mail piled nearly two feet high on the table against the wall behind Latravious Wadlow. Holt’s eyes shift left to an empty sitting room and right to a room that looks like a den, but there’s no TV. The room looks like it’s rarely used, the furniture draped in clear plastic.
“Follow me.” Latravious Wadlow motions Detective Holt inside the door and closes it behind him.
Detective Holt trails Latravious Wadlow past the plastic-wrapped furniture, his shoes shuffling on the dingy, threadbare carpet that looks like a relic from the 1970s. Seven tall stacks of yellowing newspapers rest against the far wall in the den. Hoarder? Several yellow rings of various sizes stain the white, popcorn ceiling where rainwater has worked its way inside the house. The two men move through the dimly lit house to the kitchen where Latravious Wadlow pulls out one of the chairs for Detective Holt.
“Thank you.” Detective Holt takes a seat at the round kitchen table.
“Coffee?” Latravious Wadlow gestures to the kitchen.
The sink overflows with dirty dishes, a constant tink, tink of dripping water from the faucet, striking an overturned pot entangled in the filthy mess. A collection of several weeks’ worth of dirty pots, pans, and glasses, idling in dishwasher purgatory, hide the surrounding countertops. The top of the coffee maker peeks out from behind the jumbled mess, but it looks like Latravious hasn’t used it in years.
“No, I’m fine. Thank you. The wife can’t stand when I have coffee in the evening. I toss and turn too much.”
“Best to keep the lady of the house happy.” Latravious Wadlow places a hand on the kitchen table and begins to ease himself into a kitchen chair.
Detective Holt lifts a brow. “You ever think about getting someone to help you around here? You know, tidy up the place a bit.”
“Don’t particularly like visitors.” Latravious Wadlow hoists a forced smile, bone cracking on bone in his knee joint as he sits.
Lines
of age mark Latravious Wadlow’s face, accented by distinct frown lines—a canvas recording years of disappointment and tragedy. Now, in his sum total, he appears nothing more than a feeble and broken old man. He’s aged well beyond his years, and whatever vigor of youth he once possessed had extinguished long ago.
“I suppose this is not a house call. So, what can I do you for, Detective Holt?” Latravious Wadlow’s dark brown eyes set in an intense gaze upon Detective Holt.
“I noticed you came to the search party for Margo Combs this morning. Any particular reason?”
Latravious Wadlow frowns. “Missing girl. There was a call for volunteers.”
“That’s just it. You seem like an unlikely volunteer. Everyone knows you’re a shut-in. It’s a bit odd for an agoraphobe to show up to a crowd of people. I’m curious. How’d you hear about the search party?”
“I think I got a flyer on my door.”
“Can I see the flyer?”
Latravious Wadlow reaches into his pants pocket, pulls out a folded piece of paper, and passes it to Detective Holt. Detective Holt unfolds it. It’s a flyer with Margo’s picture on it like the ones they handed out that morning.
Detective Holt latches his eyes to Latravious Wadlow’s. “And you say someone put this on your door?”
“Yes.”
“See, funny thing about that, Mr. Wadlow, is we didn’t pass out these flyers until this morning at the end of Parson Street. Right before the search party started.” Detective Holt’s eyes cut like lasers into Latravious Wadlow.
“Someone must’ve brought one by before.”
“Not possible. I picked these up from the printer myself just thirty minutes before that search party started. They never left my car until we got ready to hand them out. You want to tell me how you really found out about the search party?”
“Detective Holt, I am just an old man. My memory is not really what it used to be. Perhaps I heard about it from a neighbor. I can’t recall.”
“You don’t strike me as the forgetful type. You remembered me from over a year ago.”
“Faces. Faces, Detective Holt. I remembered your face. But time is a cruel mistress. You’re still a young man, but you will come to understand what I mean. Some of the more trivial things escape me.” Latravious Wadlow lifts a small grin.
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