Burn (18 page)

“Okay. Okay,” Good Cop says. “They didn’t touch you. Not like we were saying.”

“No.”

“It’s just that when a victim puts a lot into denying something happened, it usually means it did.”

“It didn’t.”

“We heard different,” Bad Cop says.

“That’s a lie.” Cameron’s hands curl into fists. “And you better stop saying it.”

“Enough,” Randy says. He puts a hand on Cameron’s shoulder. “They’re trying to upset you, Cameron. It’s what they want.”

“Did you know Charlie Pinon?” Bad Cop asks.

“We’re done,” Randy repeats.

“I’ll answer that,” Cameron says. “Yes. I knew him.”

“Some of the boys in your PE class say Pinon hid in the showers,” Good Cop says. “Did you ever see him do this?”

“He did it all the time. He watched us dress.”

“You think Pinon was gay?”

“He was a perv.”

“Was he hiding in the showers the day Patterson attacked you?”

“I think so.”

“Was he there on Friday?”

“Probably.”

“Did you see him?”

“I didn’t look for him,” Cameron says.

“That’s not an answer.”

“Maybe I saw him. I had my mind on other things.”

“He was in there the day Patterson beat on you,” Good Cop says. “You know how we know?”

Cameron shrugs. “You’re going to tell me.”

“He told the principal all about it. Us, too. On Wednesday, when you were AWOL.”

Pinon told. He waited, watching, never ducking back behind the shower wall, not missing a moment of the show. Pinon watched him like it was some kind of porno horror movie, then he ran through the halls, bleating like a scared sheep. And he told.

Too little, too late.

“Your coach says Pinon hid in the showers because he was no good at sports. He got harassed a lot by the jocks in the class. But never by you.”

“So I guess he wasn’t really a perv,” Good Cop says.

“He watched,” Cameron says. “I saw him watching.”

“When Patterson had you down?”

“That’s right. He watched and did nothing about it.”

“Maybe he was as scared as you.”

“He lived his whole life scared.”

“And that’s no way to live, is it?”

“I’ve been living scared all year,” Cameron says.

“And that’s why you decided to kill Patterson? Is it why you killed Pinon? Because he was part of the whole thing, too?”

Randy moves so that he stands in front of Cameron, blocking the cops and their questions. “This is over. You’re going to leave now. If you want to talk to him again it’ll be with his attorney present.”

The cops stand up.

“You can’t make people forget, so you take them out of the game? Is that right, Cameron?”

“Out,” Randy says, taking a step toward Bad Cop.

“It’s my last question. Will you answer it, Cameron?”

Randy keeps moving, herding the cops to the front door.

Cameron feels like he’s inside a toaster, his skin burning. He doesn’t care that they figured him out; he’s pissed that they think the whole thing was his fault. The tone of Bad Cop’s voice, the way he made it heavy with sarcasm, makes it clear he thinks Cameron is the bad guy and that his way of making it all stop was a bad decision, a fool’s decision. Like it never would have worked.

Cameron lets the truth settle on his face. Lets the cops see it. Yeah, he did it. It was the only thing left to do.

“Now that’s a real shame,” Good Cop says, reading Cameron’s expression like his face is a map. He pulls out a small plastic box and holds it up. “We need his fingerprints, Randy.”

“You have a warrant?”

“You’re going to make us get a warrant?” Bad Cop asks, like maybe Randy is joking.

“We’re doing this by the book,” Randy says. “He answered your questions in good faith, but it’s clear you have an agenda.”

“You knew that coming in.”

“I thought so,” Randy agrees. “Get a warrant.”

“You know that will happen.”

“I know.”

SUNDAY

5:40PM

Cameron’s attorney is short and about as thick around as the trunk of a redwood. His hair is shaved on the sides with a clump of curls on top that tumble over his forehead and into his eyes. He pushes at it a lot and Cameron wonders why he doesn’t get it cut. His arms are solid, even through his suit jacket, his triceps so puffed up they make his shoulders look too close to his ears. The guy lifts weights. He has to. There’s no other natural explanation for the thick muscles that wrap around his body. Cameron is wondering if the guy uses steroids when his thoughts are interrupted.

“Look, you’re going to have to talk to me,” Mr. Jeffries says. “I’m your attorney and everything you say is in confidence.” Then he throws his hands up like he’s trying to stop traffic. “But I don’t want to know if you did it. I don’t want to know if you didn’t. I’m not a priest. You can take that up with the clergy.”

“You defend the innocent and the guilty?” Cameron says.

“That’s right,” Jeffries says. “I’m equal opportunity. That’s how this lawyer business works. Answer my questions and feel free not to add anything.”

“What was your question?”

“How well did you know Charlie Pinon?”

“Not well.”

“You weren’t friends?”

“No.”

“You had PE class together and what else?”

“Spanish and math.”

“You ever interact with him in any of those classes?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t like him.”

“Why?”

“He was a sissy.”

“A sissy?”

“Yeah. He cried a lot. Whenever the Red Coats picked on him he teared up like a girl and ran to the office.”

“Who are the Red Coats?”

“The jocks. They wear their red letter jackets and hunt us in the halls.”

“You included?” Jeffries asks. “Were you one of the hunted?”

Cameron shrugs. “I guess so.”

“You don’t like thinking of yourself that way.”

“Would you?”

“No.” He writes a few notes. “This Patterson boy, he had it out for you?”

“I guess so.”

“Did he go after Pinon, too?”

“Yeah.”

“Was it a case of, ‘no one was safe’?”

Cameron shakes his head. “Mostly it was me and Pinon. A couple of times I saw him pushing around someone different.” Cameron tells him about SciFi and Jeffries makes a few notes, then asks, “But he had his favorites?”

Cameron nods.

“I hate dirtbags like that.”

Cameron hears the angst in Jeffries’s voice and guesses that, being as short as he is, he was probably messed with in high school, too.

“Did you see Pinon on Friday?”

“I answered this already.” Cameron shifts in his chair, stretches his legs out under the kitchen table.

“You spoke to the police. Now you’re talking to the man who’s going to save your ass.”

Cameron doubts it. It’s too late to save him. There’s no going back. When soldiers return from battle their lives are forever changed.

“Yeah, I saw Pinon on Friday. He was hiding in the showers.”

“You see anyone else? Hear a door open, maybe, while you were dressing? Hear people talking?”

“No. None of that.”

Jeffries frowns. “It would help if you remembered one of those things.”

“It didn’t happen.”

“Right.” He looks down at his notepad. “Did you ever have an altercation with Pinon?”

“No.”

“Even anything small?”

“No.”

“Ever see anyone other than Patterson pick on Pinon?”

“A lot of people picked on him.”

“All of those Red Coats?”

“I guess.”

“The police have your combination lock. They believe it was used to kill Pinon. Why wasn’t it on your locker, like everyone else’s?”

“I guess I left it off.”

“That’s not good enough,” Jeffries says. “Unless you have a death wish.”

He doesn’t get it. He’s already talking to a dead man.

“I was changing lockers,” Cameron explains. “Going back to my old locker. So I guess I left it off so the coach could make that happen.”

“Do you remember exactly where you left it?”

“No. On the bench?”

“I don’t know.” He sets his pen down. “You remember for sure that you didn’t see or hear anything else in the locker room, but you don’t remember what you did with your lock?”

“That’s about right.”

Jeffries nods. “Do you ever feel like you’re not a part of this world? Disconnected, maybe?”

Cameron stares at him.

“Your mom’s boyfriend, the cop, thinks you’re suffering from a dissociative disorder. Something like post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“Soldiers get that,” Cameron says.

“That’s right. People who lived a long time with domestic violence, too.”

“Yeah. Maybe I have a little of that. A little of living but not feeling it.”

“You’re going to see a psychologist,” Jeffries decides. “There are some good ones, but your mom will have to take you to Philly for that.” He tears a blank piece of paper off his pad and writes down a name. Then he consults his BlackBerry and jots down a phone number. “Don’t talk to the police again without me. Not even your mom’s boyfriend.”

He hands Cameron the slip of paper.

“Go to school tomorrow,” Jeffries says. “Like it’s just another day.”

Monday

8:42AM

The street in front of the school is swarming with teachers, Elwood and his better half, Mrs. Maroni — the girls’ counselor, Vega and the vice principal, all of them bent toward car windows, mouths and hands moving.

Cameron sits in the passenger seat of his mother’s minivan, listening to Mr. Ferguson, the shop teacher, explain that all students are expected to go to the auditorium first. They have counselors, specialists in trauma, waiting there.

“We want parents to stay, too,” Ferguson says. “For as long as you can.”

“I plan to,” Cameron’s mom says.

Ferguson walks away from the van and to the car behind them. Cameron turns in his seat and watches the shop teacher bend at the waist and lean into his announcement.

“I don’t like this school,” she says. “It’s not safe.”

No kidding.

“Do you think you could ever feel safe here?”

Cameron shrugs. Watches the drizzle spray the windshield, the slow lift of the wipers on intermittent. Three seconds. The wipers lift every three seconds.

The truth is, he won’t feel safe until Patterson is dead. And nothing that’s happened, nothing the police have said, that his mom or Randy have promised, has changed that.

“I’m going to find a place to park,” his mom decides.

She pulls into the heavy line of traffic, tapping the brakes every yard or two. When they pull even with the parking lot Cameron notices cop cars, two with bars on the roof, though they’re not flashing, and several unmarked cars with lights on the dashboard. Were they still in the locker room? Was Pinon still in there, his body slumped against the wall, his eyes open, watching? He feels an ache in his kidneys. His breath whistle in his throat. He has to go to the bathroom. Now.

“Mom —”

“I don’t know how they plan to fit all of us into the auditorium. Students
and
parents?” She pulls on the steering wheel, making a sharp cut into a vacant space between a police cruiser and an SUV.

Too close. They were too close to the cars, to Pinon, too close to the school.

“Mom!”

It’s too late. Cameron feels a flood of hot liquid squirt between his legs. He stares at his lap, the growing stain on his jeans. He can’t stop himself. He tries to put a mental vice on his bladder, but it doesn’t work.

“Cameron?” His mom’s voice is sharp, startled.

“No.” He looks at her, helpless.

“It’s okay, honey,” she says. “You’re scared.”

Her hands wring the steering wheel, the knuckles growing white.

“Delayed reaction,” she says. “Remember?”

A car horn blasts and Cameron jumps in his seat.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says.

“Do you remember, honey? Being attacked the way you were is something that you’ll deal with in stages. Randy said it could even be like those sneaker waves that catch you by surprise. It’ll feel like you’ve been hit from behind.” She leans toward him, her eyes questioning. Even she has trouble believing herself. “Right, honey? This is all about the attack. Those boys will go back to prison. They’re not coming to this school again.”

Cameron wants to tell her. He wants to confess, not just about Pinon, but all the stuff that’s happened. The way Patterson walked through the halls, sniffing him out. Patterson has a nose for fear and Cameron was afraid of him. Afraid, but he refused to give into it. He wasn’t like Pinon, running scared. Isn’t that something to be proud of? He never ran. He opens his mouth, but the words pile up in his throat. He coughs like he’s choking on a chunk of food. Tries to gasp for air around it and feels his mom’s hand hit his back.

“Cameron?”

The alarm in her voice reels him in. He pulls in a breath, coughs again, then eases back into his seat.

“Take me home,” he says.

She stares at him. “Mr. Jeffries says you have to go to school today.”

“I can’t go like this.” His hands spread out over his lap.

“I’ll take you home and you can change.”

She puts the van in reverse.

“I’m not going back,” Cameron says.

He takes another gulp of air and stares out the window. His throat is raw but the fear is ebbing. He feels it loosen its hold on him, draw back until it’s just a speck of black in the center of his heart, just waiting to bloom again.

The Toyota in line behind them brakes and Cameron’s mother pulls them back into traffic. They’re letting people park in the staff lot and on the football field, but his mom turns the van around and heads back to the street, where a campus security guard is waving cars into the lot. He stops them and his mom rolls down the window.

“There’s parking in the rear lot,” he says.

“We’ll be back,” his mom says and closes the window.

She turns left into the street and accelerates. There’s no traffic heading west.

“Are you cold?” She leans over the console and turns the heat up. “You’re shivering,” she says.

His pants are cold and stick to his skin and the smell of piss sears his nose. He pissed his pants.