The Acolytes of Crane (Theodore Crane, #1)(16)

See, my grandpa had a theory about cops. He called them monster-builders. He believed that cops could turn the most docile-warmhearted person into a raging and fire-breathing monster. He said it all starts with a belittling comment, because few people allow someone to make them feel inferior.

There were two cops about to engage a worthless junky, who probably felt inferior to begin with. There were so many unknown factors behind that dilapidated white door; it was the perfect cocktail for trouble. The door opened, and Dick’s eyes widened in anxiety. Seeing the batons withdrawn and hovering near his face, he knew the cops meant business this time.

‘Okay, okay, don’t hurt me!’ Dick exclaimed in a high voice as he darted clumsily out of the front door, holding his arms up in a sign of surrender. He stood limply, expecting to be tackled any moment.

‘Everyone in the house, out now!’ Officer Johnson bellowed in his best cop voice.

Five second later, two boys sullenly emerged, their eyes darting about. One was Tim, Dick’s son, and the other was…

‘Travis!’ I exclaimed.

The other boy, Tim, a reedy teenager with a shock of thick black hair covering his right eye, glanced nervously at Travis, then pointed at him with two hands. ‘He did it!’

Travis scowled, but did not rebut the accusation.

Officer Johnson, eager to prove his badge, held out the baton and slowly pressed its tip against Travis’ chest. Travis was no match for the six-foot-three-inch police officer, who towered over him.

‘Well, well,’ Officer Johnson drawled, ‘Travis Jackson, we know you down at the police station. Boy, we do know you.’

‘Shaddup,’ Travis retorted listlessly, then froze in fear.

The butt of the baton dug deeper into Travis’s chest. ‘That’s not what you say to a police officer. Speak up, boy, what do you say? Huh?’

Travis slowly raised his face to lock his gaze with that of Officer Johnson, his eyes still expressing contempt. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

This time, a sudden push onto the baton. Travis winced in pain. ‘Again,’ Officer Johnson threatened.

Travis’ expression wholly changed. He looked like a scared 12-year-old, not his usual sullen 15-year-old self. ‘I’m really sorry, sir.’

‘That’s better,’ the young cop said, finally withdrawing his baton. He nodded to Officer Carruthers. ‘Search the house for weapons.’ Officer Carruthers strolled into the house and disappeared out of sight, while Office Johnson started questioning the man Dick and his son, Tim.

Travis stood alone, seething. His eyes conveyed pure hatred. He lipped to me, ‘I know your secret.’

He had that same sinister look upon his face that he did that day on the stairs at the Red Bricks. He knew about the amulet. I figured he saw it at the cliffs before Jason died.

The mere presence of Travis brought to mind the tragedy that transpired at the edge of that cliff two years prior.

Every time I closed my eyes to envision or imagine Travis, I could only see Jason’s hand disappearing over the edge of the cliff. Selfishly, I savored seeing Travis being cut down to size by that police officer. But I couldn’t openly display my mirth in front of Travis. I was worried he would steal my amulet just to get even.

‘You’re free to go,’ Officer Johnson gruffly informed Marv and me.

‘What will happen to them?” Marv asked.

‘We’ll give Mr. Jackson a warning.’

‘Anything further?’

‘No.’

I burst in. ‘Travis is not going to jail anytime soon, is he?’

The young cop’s dismissive glare told me all I needed to know. ‘Come on, Ted,’ Marv said as he pulled me away.

Once back home, I thought about the ramifications that may have followed. I sat there all shook up on my grandma’s comfy couch, with my mind racing. My grandpa put his hand on my shoulder and unintentionally startled me.

‘Ted, we did the right thing. Those clowns created trouble for themselves. People like that don’t belong here. So don’t dwell on it. What is done is done.’

I showed gratitude to my grandfather with a hug, something that was indeed awkward. My grandpa was a man who didn’t like to show affection, but he was intent on sharing wisdom.

‘Grandma is going to be furious when she gets home,’ he said. ‘Really, you will learn Ted, that there isn’t anything you can do alone to stop someone who wants badly to do wrong. Heroics are reserved for certain people. Here’s something to think about. Whatever is going to happen is going to happen. The only thing you can control is what you do in that moment. How will you act or react? That’s it. We did the right thing with the punks next door. That is all we can control. What happens next, that is out of our hands. Trying to control the future is like trying to control the Mississippi. No matter what, that damn river is going to flood. Unless everyone tries to stop it.’ Marv turned up the TV and continued eating his milk and cookies. I put a lot of thought into that analogy over the years—hours of thought.

My grandpa lost his finger when he was eighteen while working a conveyor belt at his old workplace, Universal Mill. He was inspecting the rapidly revolving belt when someone called his name. When he absent-mindedly responded, the belt latched on to the sleeve of his shirt, then his index finger. This finger was ripped off right at the knuckle. Whenever my grandpa pointed at something, it looked like he was giving it the middle finger.