The Acolytes of Crane (Theodore Crane, #1)(10)

Where my tailbone meets the floor, I slip my hand underneath my butt to futilely cushion the impact. I am feeling weak and skinny. My body has long been deteriorating in this hell hole.

I realize that even the acts of pacing and speaking into the tablet exhaust me. There is no rest in a small cell when oppressive boredom stalks you, minute by minute, and all you have are your own memories to entertain and torment you.

I pick the tablet up, and even though it is light like a full can of pop, my limp fingers buckle under its weight. Gravity almost snatches the tablet out of my palm, but I rescue it at the last second. Turning it on, I warily see double images, and figure it is best to get on with it before I pass out.

“Okay, now for the dirty business.” I say, breathing deeply to tally some strength to push through, “In the car, we were joking, singing, and producing fart sounds. It was amazing what a vacation would do to people: it has an amnesiac effect.”



Jason and Travis talked quietly about something. They whispered, to evade earshot, and the sound of psychedelic rock from the car radio masked their conspiring.

‘I actually thought MJ sounded like a wimp,’ Jason whispered.

‘Jason, I hate to break your heart, but that was a pre-recorded message. You didn’t say anything. So what makes you think a professional ball player would take the time to talk to you?’ Travis asked, with a whisper and a roll of his eyes. Jason shrugged his shoulders, crossed his arms, and leaned toward Travis’s face, as if about to break a sinister secret.

‘Your breath smells like a cow’s butt-hole,’ Travis said, deliberately not whispering enough.

Everyone heard him, and after a slight pause, we all laughed. Now, let me tell you about what they were speaking of previously.

See, they snuck a football-shaped phone into Jason’s room, and they used it to call the code nine-hundred numbers displayed on sports card packages. They also pranked a suburban cab company twenty times. The cab company’s number was (651) 555-2222. Really, what did they expect?

The trip continued. After all these games of padiddle and slug-bug, I grew tired enough to fall asleep.

I awoke as our journey neared the end, covered in sweat and greeted by Jason’s armpit stench. His hand was cupped against his underarm, ripping manufactured farts and wafting body odor in my direction. It was playful and funny.


We drove through the town of Taylors Falls; there were many people hauling the necessary camping equipment. People had kayaks, canoes, fishing poles and tackle. Excitement hung in the air. The woods were thick, and the ground around the base of each tree was woven with ferns and other vegetation.

I could smell the presence of a river. It smelled fresh and brisk rather than give off the odor of a port-a-potty. If you wanted that pungent smell, go visit the Mississippi River on one of its best days.

We stopped to fuel up. I pressed my face against the window of my parents’ car to make a face at a neighboring vehicle that also had a kid pressing his face against a window.

I contorted my face to look ugly, so I took it as a win. I left the trace of my oily skin from my nose and forehead onto the window. I then wiped them away quickly with the edge of my shirt, because my dad hated such nonsense.

After leaving the station, we drove about a mile to the campsite, parked, and it was time to unpack. My mom and dad waved us off, preferring to set up tent without us kids horseplaying around.

‘Here are the ground rules, guys,’ my dad said, even as he looked up at the darkening sky; a storm seemed to be approaching. He always set guidelines, even though he rarely abided by any. ‘No cliff jumping. That crap is for the older kids and grown-ups. If I catch you guys doing anything out of the ordinary, which includes pyrotechnics, Jason—you will be in for hell. Do you guys understand me?’

‘Yes sir,’ we all said in harmony, with false motivation.

We were instructed to walk east if we became lost, and to look for the fire. ‘Which would be difficult if it rains,’ I pointed out. My dad just shrugged.

As soon as Bill cut us loose, we started to rush to the wood-line, eagerly grabbing our compasses and flashlights. My dad yelled for me to come back before I got very far. Checking to make sure that Jason and Travis were out of earshot, he whispered conspiratorially to me, ‘Good job teaching that boy a lesson today in class. He will not mess with you again.’ Bill patted me on my ass and told me to catch up to them. He hardly ever gave me praise for anything; and when he did, it was always for the wrong reason. Still, I’d take what I could get.

It was a mad sprint, but eventually I met up with Jason and Travis.

We took the worn paths along the edge of the cliffs. The weather took a turn for the worse, as drizzling rain fell and temperatures plunged. The sky was dark and sinister, as a storm approached.

I had a coat on that my grandmother bought me from Big-Mart, back when it was actually a cool place to shop. On the coat, there was a label: Flyboy. I thought that was so cool.

When we had finally arrived at the highest cliff, we found ourselves peering out to the gloomy river, a sheer fifty feet below. Perhaps it was the worsening weather, combined with the dizzying sight from the cliffs, but when we rested, the mood among us changed entirely.

‘You retard! What were you thinking? I can’t believe you kicked me in the nuts!’ Travis shouted, his eyes scrunched. ‘You’re lucky the Bricky was right behind you, otherwise it would have been your death wish!’