The Acolytes of Crane (Theodore Crane, #1)(40)

Lincoln and I did a background check on him to see if he was legit and of good character. Our findings were solid to say the least. Liam was the son of the local minister. More importantly, he helped me personally.

When I was in sixth grade, a boy came up to me and took my drawings out of my hands. At first, I thought the kids were just having fun with me, and then they crumpled the paper to toss back and forth.

They were teasing me, bullying me. I tried to stand up to them myself, but all the other kids were laughing and pointing at me. Just when I could not take any more ridicule, and I was ready to walk away defeated—Liam came to the rescue.

“Like a paladin warrior, he rose from the mob and stood by my side. He told the bullies that if they didn’t give my books back, he was going to smash their heads like little grapes. Throughout the years, Liam made continuous reference to grapes. I figured that he must have sat around squashing grapes all day. I knew that Liam was someone we needed.”

After telling the story about Liam, I realize I forgot about the nurse. What if she was someone who could help me?

She had called me Theo.

I rub my fingers through my hair, daydreaming that the love of my life was caressing my locks with tender, slender fingers and a contented sigh. The coarseness and grease within my tresses defeat my fantasy, and I quickly withdraw my hand in disgust.


I realize that if I pretend to be a casualty of dehydration, it is possible that the guards will send her in again. I place my hand on the wall and instantly drop onto the floor. I lie there lifeless as before, with my eyes closed and trying to mask the rise of my chest.

I try not to blink, leaving my eyes white and visible for the cameras.

“Prisoner, eight-six-seven-five. Stand up and approach the vault. Stand up, you scumbag! If I have to come in there, you are going to wish you were standing.”

I recognize his tone; he is the troubled guard, for reasons I do not know. Someone must have mocked and bullied him before my time, because he treats me poorly.

Dejectedly, I acknowledge that the nurse entering isn’t a likely conclusion. As I rise up slowly, I see something of significance. My pupils dilating, I glance away, pretending I didn’t see it.

“That is right, you punk! I knew you would get up,” the disgruntled guard says.

“He’d probably kick your ass if he wasn’t locked up, Shifty!” the veteran guard yells.

“I will write you up for using my real name!”

“Go ahead, how many times have you ratted on someone up around here? And when has anything come of it? Leave the prisoner be, or I will write you up.”

Their verbal squabble continues, but it ends for me, because the view box closes.

I decide to wait until the moment is right, to see what is on my floor, but to ensure its safety, I lie down near it to shield it with my body. Grabbing my tablet, I pick up where I left off:

“Ah hell, where was I? I said something about remembering, and then, oh yes, grapes—that’s it. Liam McCaffrey.”

We arrived at Liam’s house. His home was the only residence in our area that still had a functioning farm—one of those small one-acre “hobby farms” favored by some suburban families seeking to offset their taxable income. For homecoming one year, a group of teens kidnapped a goat from Liam’s farm, and streaked across the football field in loin clothes, tugging onto the recalcitrant goat with a rope as they did so. It was very entertaining. Thankfully, they returned the goat unharmed.

It was during the day that Lincoln and I first approached Liam’s house to seek his interest. The wind was gusting, and Lincoln kept losing a ridiculous bandana he was trying to wear.

We walked down that block many times before to feed their animals. The McCaffrey house was quite the novelty. They had five goats, ten sheep and two ponies. The ponies were usually locked up. The one time I did see them, they looked like over-fed dogs, as if they just sat and ate all day.

We cautiously walked up to Liam’s house. The driveway was gravel and was almost swallowed by brush. I could not see the driveway from the street, because of the thick cover that smothered it.

We took care; there was no telling how they might behave once we walked up to their house. We didn’t really know them well enough to make an accurate judgment. As we approached, I heard shouting from within the house.

Through the window, I saw Liam’s mother, Mrs. McCaffrey darting around on the main floor. She was gesturing with her hands erratically. Her scraggly locks, rusty orange in color, curled wildly off her shoulders. Her eyes were freakishly blue and mesmerizing. She seemed so intensely immersed in whatever she was engaged in. Lincoln looked over at me for guidance before he knocked. I gave him the signal.

‘Honey! Will you get that please? Hon, will you get the door,’ a man’s voice shouted from the second floor.

The front door swung open so abruptly, that we felt an inward draft breezing by the skin on our faces and upper arms. Just as quickly, the door slammed as Mrs. McCaffrey burst outside and closed it behind her. In her haste, she nearly thrust her body at us, so off-balance was she, breathing deeply.

She didn’t give us any time to manage a simple “hello.”

‘Okay boys, I want you to stand here,’ she said, pulling me over toward the plastic flamingos scattered about on the coarse lawn, as Lincoln, puzzled, followed in tow. Her eyes blinking rapidly, she dramatically held out her arms toward the heavens. ‘You both stand over there. Perfect. Now, you will play the role of the audience as I display my affection and distraught mind as Margaret. It is my most emotional act.’