Scare Crow (7 page)

Meatball trotted outside with me, and we headed to the back of the house, where a
piece of crap car was parked. It was periwinkle blue, dented, rusted, and all
mine.

I pulled my keys out of my purse. We got in my car, and I hoped to hell that it would
start. When it did, I checked the gas gauge. It had plenty of gas, so I backed out
of the driveway and drove away, in the direction opposite from where I had seen the
landlord. I didn’t know how long it would take me to make enough money to pay for
rent, but I knew that I would have to dodge the landlord until I could. And I would
have to figure out a way to keep Meatball hidden from him when he made his spot vi
sits.

Meatball and I had nowhere to go, so we drove around in circles for a while. Meatball
took over the passenger seat and watched the world go by while he licked the window
clean. I was becoming a little more adventurous and started widening our circles as
the evening became the black night. Eventually, we left the city lights and were driving
on county roads. I knew where I was going. I suppose I always knew I was going to
go there. Eventu
ally.

If I closed my eyes, I could see myself being back there. The long road. The pebbled
path. The rickety porch. My favorite place in the world. I wasn’t sure if I would
be able to recognize the driveway. Even in bright daylight, it was so well hidden
in the trees that it was hard to spot. It was Meatball who convinced me I was on the
right track. He had woken up as soon as I had turned on the road and started wagging
his behind and barking when I slowed to the driv
eway.

When we drove up to Cameron’s cottage, it was early in the mor
ning.

When Cameron and I left the cottage on the day of Rocco’s funeral, we left Meatball
behind. This cottage was supposed to have been Cameron’s little secret, but when Carly
brought Meatball to me, it crossed my mind that perhaps they had known about this
place the whole time. I couldn’t be sure, because Cameron could have gotten Meatball
before he rescued me from Victor, but there was always a chance that Carly and Spider
knew about this place. I knew it was a dangerous place for me to be; then again, with
Victor at the helm of all police organizations and Spider by now likely at the helm
of the underworld, so was every other place in the w
orld.

After taking in a bit of bliss watching Meatball run off to smell his favorite spots
in the surrounding woods and grabbing the key that was hidden in the shed’s eaves,
there I was, standing inside the place that would always be home to me. I swear that
as soon as I closed the door behind me, I could smell Cameron. It was as if he were
still there. Everything in the cottage was exactly the same as I had remembered it,
except that there was no Cam
eron.

And that was when I realized that I would never stop feeling this way. That there
would never be another day, another second when I wouldn’t miss
him.

****

Maria had a small garden in her room. She would keep as many flowered plants as she
could fit in her small windowsill. My mother didn’t allow for live plants in the house
because they were—according to her—dirty and could leave fallen leaves on the floor
that could be too easily dismissed by the house staff. The only live plants she would
allow were cut-off flowers that needed to come in the morning and be gone by bedtime.
Maria would explain to me that she kept her plants because life brings life, that
caring for another life meant caring for your own. Though secretly, I knew she kept
them because it was a place where we could both escape the coldness, the lifelessness
of the man
sion.

There was one early morning when she came to drag me out of bed. Today was the day
that the walking iris was blooming. I could smell it as soon as I walked into Maria’s
room. We had been waiting, caring for it for months. And there it was, finally with
its white and violet petals. It reminded me of a starfish wearing purple shoes. The
most beautiful and sweet-smelling flower I had encountered. And then, at the end of
the day, the bloom was
gone.

****

I should have hugged him. That first day in the park, when Meatball knocked me over.
The first day I set eyes on Cameron. I should have known that he would change my life
so much. I should have known that he was too much for me, that we were too perfect
to last. Like the walking iris, he was too much of a good thing, something nature
can’t allow for too long. If I could have just realized that my time with him would
be cut so short, I would have held him in my arms and never let hi
m go.

Being in Cameron’s cottage, in this place where we were perfect, just made me want
to start crying again. I had been alone pretty much my whole life. Only since I had
lost Cameron had I really felt my loneli
ness.

I waited for Meatball to finish his round of the property, let him in, and went up
the shaky stairs to the loft. I climbed into our bed, brought Cameron’s blanket to
my nose, and fell asleep to the hum of the refriger
ator.

Rocco’s face came back to haunt my dreams. I woke up, but there were no tears or cold
sweats this time—just a great sense of loss. The room was almost completely dark,
with the only light coming from the moonlight that shone through the small cottage
windows. Cameron was next to me, but he wasn’t really sleeping. He never really s
lept.

“I love you,” I heard him murmur, and I turned ar
ound.

Cameron found my lips in the dark. He kissed me, softly but with purpose, like he
was taking a bite out of a peach for the first time. His tongue tasted every inch.
His hand climbed up my thigh to my breast, and he moved on top of me, pulling my T-shirt
over my head. I wrapped my legs around his waist, taking the full weight of him on
me as he took me w
hole.

We were one skin once a
gain.

This was the first dream of Cameron I’d had since his death. But it wasn’t like any
other dream I’d ever had. This dream was vivid, to the point that I could still feel
Cameron’s breath tingling against my skin even though I was awake
now.

If something actually happened the same way you remembered it while in slumber, was
it still a dream? Or was it something else? Perhaps a memory. Or wishful thinking,
as they say. When does dream become memory, and when does memory become d
ream?

This dream was not just a dream. It was exact. It was a few months ago. The night
had started right here, in this bed, with a nightmare about Rocco just a few days
after his death, and had ended with Cameron and me making love for the first
time.

Dream. Memory. Who cared? I went back to sleep, hoping to find Cameron t
here.

****

I took Meatball to the dock when I woke up again. He couldn’t wait to jump in the
pond even if the water was freezing. I lay on my back and watched the sky through
the trees, as I had done with Cameron. Even though I knew I was taking a risk by staying
at the cottage for so long, I felt safe
here.

Spider was well hidden within the underworld, but Victor was everywhere, on purpose.
He didn’t want to just rule the underworld; he wanted to control
everything
. He had made a good name for himself, even though it was all a
lie.

I had gone to the police station. I had thought about tarnishing his reputation—spreading
the word on Victor’s deceit—and hopefully get him arrested, but what good would that
do? Who would take my word against that of a hero? What evidence did I have, other
than my own observa
tion?

And then there was Spider—as if Victor didn’t give me enough to worry a
bout.

I hoped that by finding out more about Cameron, I would find Spider. Cameron had told
me that he and Spider had been so-called friends since they’d been in juvie together.
They had been partners in crime when Cameron was in high school. Cameron’s hidden
life would surely lead me to Spider, or at least give me clues as to how to find the
bas
tard.

All this would take time, and time was not on my
side.

All these questions were floating around in my head; yet I was unusually calm. The
rippling of the water against the dock, the sloshing of Meatball’s paws, the sway
of trees—all made it easy for me to forget about everything else and focus on the
biggest issue: how to sur
vive.

****

After finding dog and human food in the pantry of Cameron’s cottage, Meatball and
I spent another night. But at the end of the weekend, I knew we couldn’t stay any
longer. Eventually we would run out of food here too, and there weren’t many job prospects
in the middle of the woods. I packed up whatever food was left and dragged Meatball
into the car. I knew how he felt. I didn’t want to leave ei
ther.

Meatball’s head was low the whole drive home. It was weird and extremely lonely to
know that my only friend, the only one who knew who I was and where I had been, was
a
dog.

It wasn’t until I got out of the car and into the chilly night that I realized I’d
left my jacket hanging on the kitchen chair at the cot
tage.

All the streetlights were on, and so was the porch light. I didn’t even know we had
a porch light, let alone one with a working lightbulb. Between Meatball’s leash and
the bag of stolen groceries, I struggled to turn the front door handle. It didn’t
matter. The door flew open, and I got dragged inside. Even Meatball had been taken
by surp
rise.

He had me in his arms so quickly that I didn’t have time to take a breath and validate
who it
was.

“Bloody hell, where have you been?” he demanded. “I’ve been pacing this shithole for
the last twenty-four h
ours.”

I pulled myself off his chest and out of his g
rasp.

I shook my head, certain I was imagining things a
gain.

His blue eyes were creased with worry, but his trademark grin was slowly spreading,
softening his features a
gain.

I was still shaking my head in disbelief. “Griff? Is it really
you?”

He arched his brows. I dropped my groceries and jumped in his
arms.

He pulled me in, and I felt as though I’d been encased in cement for years and suddenly
set free. As if the circle of Griff’s arms had taken us to another world, to our own
realm, where money didn’t matter, where people like Spider and Victor did not exist.
Where everything would be okay. Where just for a moment, I could be weight
less.

CHAPTER FOUR:
CAMERON

PAYING THE PRICE

I figured I would have some explaining to do. After I had deliberately left Spider
in Jersey and flown to San Francisco without his knowledge, Spider started asking
questions. When we finally met up in Los Angeles, we had barely spoken ten words to
each other. Then again, we were both busy planning for the biggest drug shipment of
our careers. We both knew this was going to be our redemption …
my
redemption for the captains. If we could pull this shipment off, it would bring more
money to the captains than they had made in the last three y
ears.

Now we were on a plane heading to Montreal. A few hours together with no es
cape.

Spider kept his eyes pinned on a drop of water that was slowly making its way across
the window. Wherever he was, he wasn’t sitting on a plane with me. Suddenly I realized
that while I had been avoiding Spider, he had been avoiding me. And this concerne
d me.

“Carly not co
ming?”

Spider jumped a little at the sound of my voice. “She’s not feeling
well.”

“Seems like she’s been sick a lot lately. We have a business to run. Do I need to
find someone to replace
her?”

Spider was back in his head, looking out the wi
ndow.

He was usually on top of everything. I had never had to ask anything of him twice
or have him do anything over. But in the last few days, mistakes had been made, by
both him and Carly. Numbers were coming back incorrect, messages were being fuddled,
everything was coming in just a bit late. I normally wouldn’t call him on it, especially
with the mistakes I’d been making myself lately, but there was something in his demeanor
that now had me
very
conce
rned.

“You know you screwed up the order coming in from the Colombians,” I told him. “That
was the third time in a row. I had to call and fix it my
self.”

Spider’s hand twitched, so I knew he was listening t
o me.

“Do I need to find someone to replace you
too?”

He turned his head. “I’d love to see you
try.”

“Everyone’s replace
able.”

Spider stared back at me. “Carly’s pregnant a
gain.”

I coughed up my club soda. I wasn’t sure what part had made me more surprised: the
fact that Carly was pregnant … or that she was pregnant
a
gain
.

“Jesus,” was all I could mu
ster.

Spider was staring off into space, shaking his
head.

“What the hell are you two thinking?” I finally man
aged.

“You think this was
my
plan?”

“You obviously had
some
part i
n it.”

Spider shut his
eyes.

I already knew the answer to his conundrum. When it came to Carly, when Carly had
something on her brain, Spider and the rest of the world were defense
less.

As far as I was concerned, there never was a Spider without a Carly. When Spider and
I met, Carly wasn’t just in the picture; she was the pic
ture.

We were cellmates in juvie. I was a fourteen-year-old wisp of a kid, and Spider was
the kid no one dared to mess with. Rumor was that he had gotten nabbed beating up
a man twice his size to the brink of death. Spider traded me all my telephone privileges
in exchange for protection. It was an easy trade; I had no one to
call.

He called this chick named Carly frequently, obsessively, first in line for the phones
every time. I suppose I was a little surprised when he confessed to me that the man
he beat up was the chick’s father. And that she was still taking his c
alls.

As weeks of quiet nights passed, our friendship grew, our trust grew, and while Spider
and I weren’t very chatty, I had heard enough bits and pieces of information to put
the whole story toge
ther.

Carly’s father was a drunk, who beat up his wife, spent any money he managed to make
on booze and women, and had a preference for younger girls, like his own five daughters.
Because Carly’s mother didn’t speak English, any work she managed to find had to be
at night and under the table. She still barely made ends meet. Spider was Carly’s
next-door neighbor. He had spent most of his childhood creeping through her window
in the evening and sleeping on the floor next to her bed, keeping Carly’s father away,
usually with a baseball bat or a broom, like one would an alley
rat.

One night, as a luckily not-quite adult, Spider had accosted Carly’s father after
he had gone on a drunken rampage of the house, breaking everything in sight, including
Carly’s mother’s jaw. Spider ended up in juvie, and Carly’s father ended up in jail
after he was released from the hosp
ital.

Time was running out until her father was done paying his debt to society and ready
to take his revenge on the six women in his
life.

Kids like Spider and me belonged in juvie. It prepared us—people like us—for things
to come. First comes juvie, then comes prison. That’s just the way it is for people
who come from the same shitholes as us. There’s no sense hoping for anything different.
A kid like me should have never been enrolled in Saint Emmanuel, the most prestigious
and expensive private school in the eastern Unites States. Hell, a kid like me should
have never been enrolled in any kind of school. We were lucky if we finished grade
e
ight.

And yet I was enrolled in Saint Emmanuel’s Academy. Not because of any kind of Daddy
Warbucks selfless rich benefactor. I just happened to be the kid of a con man who
needed to put on a show, who found a way to pay Saint Emmanuel’s ridiculous tuition
because he knew that it would pay off ten times over if he played his cards right.
With an outlandish foreign accent, a sports car, and a kid in prep school, my father
was irresistible to any rich old
lady.

When I’d told Spider about Saint Emmanuel, he didn’t believe me at first, until I
told him about my con-artist father. Fraud, scams—using innocent people to our advantage—these
things were second nature to us. So we started talking about using my so-called good
fortune to prey on the rich and reckless. The plan he and I concocted to sell drugs
at my private school wasn’t just a way for him and Carly to get out of the slums;
it was a way for them to pay her dad enough money to stay away from her mom and sisters
forever. Carly’s father left town with a wad of cash and never looked
back.

Now, once in a while, Spider showed up with cash in whatever hole Carly’s father had
been lying in. He woke her father up long enough to sign a letter of apology to Carly’s
mom and throw money his way. Carly sent the letter to her mother, along with a hefty
sum of money. Having it come from her useless husband was the only way Carly’s mom
would accept the han
dout.

Carly and Spider chose this life so that Carly’s mom and sisters could live a better
life.

Now we were on a plane, heading into another pile of trouble. And Spider was expecting
a child with the girl he’d devoted his lif
e to.

“You know we can’t have this, right?” I told
him.

“I
know.”

“There’s no room for a kid. Especially with all the shit that’s been goin
g on.”

“I know!” he barked. “I’ll figure something
out.”

Spider went back to the raindrop on the window, and I poured us both a stiff d
rink.

We landed at a small airport in Quebec, and a driver took us to downtown Mont
real.

Canada was loaded with ports, with two of the biggest ports in the world located in
Montreal and Vancouver. We had established them as our main conduits for everything
from guns to drugs to stolen cars to anything else that could put money in our pockets.
It had been a profitable relationship. And yet, over the past few months, infighting
among the four factions was causing delays in shipments and one major loss in drug
cargo. Blood had started spilling into small towns, reporters were starting to dramatize,
and the people were looking to the government to stop the violence. Once the government
started to turn its limited funds to the issue and got too involved, shipments started
to slow down, and we had to spend more money funding temporary meas
ures.

Unlike the cooperative we had created in America, the Canadian factions still operated
independently. This meant that whenever I needed something brought in through Canada,
I had to deal with five different groups: the bikers, the First Nations gangs, the
three street gangs, the Italian Mafia, and the Asian t
riad.

This was inefficient, and it was all about to change. As I had put forward to the
American captains a few months before, there was opportunity for us to move in and
“help” our Canadian brethren get organized and get richer and safer in the process.
By working as one coalition, the Canadians could benefit from the American Coalition’s
and each other’s resources and contacts and be better protected from police authorities
by working as one unit. After all, a lion is stronger in a pack than he is soli
tary.

Of course, once the Canadians were organized, we would be collecting our commission
while keeping total control over everyt
hing.

In the end, an American takeover was inevitable, and the Canadian underworld had,
with my firmness, finally come to terms with
this.

Word had already spread among the factions that we were now ready to establish a single
leader for the Canadian underworld. And they were all chomping at the bit, ready to
pounce on the top job. After deliberations from the American captains, only the triad
and Mafia bosses remained in the running. I was in Montreal to make the final decision
and promote an underling. Spider was there to make sure I didn’t get murdered in the
pro
cess.

Montreal was Italian Mafia territory and had been since the 1920s. They controlled
its ports, unions, and anything deemed entertainment—booze, drugs, guns, gambling,
girls. Two years ago, Ignazio had taken the reins of the Mafia after the former boss
had been shot down in his driveway while he was in his pajamas taking out the gar
bage.

Our driver stopped in front of a janitorial services building, and we were ushered
in by a couple of Ignazio’s men. We were taken through corridors and into a janitor’s
closet. Apparently even a janitorial services company needed janitorial services.
A shelf was pushed aside, revealing a dummy hidden passage. We made our way down through
a tunnel and then another until we reached double metal doors. When the doors were
opened from inside, a waft of air stifled with the smell of cognac and cigars hit
my
nose.

Ignazio was ready to greet Spider and me with a fervent handshake as soon as we walked
in. He was dressed humbly in jeans and a sports jacket but still well-manicured, perfectly
tailored. The room was meant as a restaurant for Ignazio’s elite. A shark tank behind
a bar adorned one wall, while a twenty-foot-high wine rack adorned the other. Two
tables had been set up in the middle of the room: one for the bosses and one for their
seconds-in-com
mand.

It seemed we were the last ones to arrive and all had been waiting for Spider and
me to show, though based on the ridiculous grins spread across the faces, they hadn’t
been b
ored.

I felt as though I had walked into a New Year’s Eve bash. There were more girls in
small sparkly dresses than there were men in overpriced suits. The music was louder
than my own thou
ghts.

As soon as Spider and I were shown to our respective heads of table, the music subsided,
the beautiful girls disappeared, and Ignazio called for a toast as Italian waiters
refilled gla
sses.

“There is a time for business and a time for play.
A travola non si invecchia.
At the table with good friends and family, you do not become old. Tonight you are
my guests. Tonight we play. S
alud!”

Ignazio raised his glass to me, and everyone at our table and the second table followed
suit.

We had expected to be wooed, but the lavishness Ignazio showered was unprecede
nted.

He personally went around refilling glasses with whatever booze of choice, clapping
men on the back, making small talk, making jokes. Ensuring that no one was left wanting.
Plates were brought out at Ignazio’s click of fingers, exotic foods were served, and
a brick of cocaine was thrown in front of every patron. There were smiles all around,
except on the faces of Seetoo and Zhongshu, triad boss and his underboss. Which was
exactly why Ignazio insisted on having them t
here.

Unlike Ignazio’s recent rise to leadership, Seetoo had been triad boss for almost
twenty years. His ascension had been steady but slow, as had been his gang’s fortunes.
The Mafia had been making more money than the triad, but this had come with the price
of constant struggles for power and messy, high-profile kill
ings.

Seetoo was on enemy territory, and by the glower of his face, he wasn’t happy about
it. I had decided that the bosses should all suffer together, given that they had
a lifetime—some shorter than others—to work together. Besides, his turn to woo would
come soon enough, but for now, he was forced to watch Ignazio make his pitch t
o me.

With his attention to needs and details, Ignazio obviously knew what we were looking
for in a leader—someone who knew how to make money; someone who knew how to bring
all these gangs together to form one collec
tive.