Crow’s Row by Julie Hockley Page A

Spider had come to the kitchen to interrupt us.
    “Kid, if you’re done in here, go air out the boss’s car. It smells like death in there,” Spider ordered.
    Rocco winked at me, and with a salute and an “aye-aye, sir” to Spider, marched out of the kitchen.
    Spider ignored the fly in the kitchen and walked out too.
    When I’d finished my second bowl of cereal, I rinsed out the bowl and tucked my dishes away in the second dishwasher. I’d forgotten how great it was to have a dishwasher instead of a sink full of dishes. I then went outside to the warm May sun, looking for more answers.
    Cameron’s car was parked at the top of the circular driveway. All four doors of the Audi were opened and Rocco was crouched over the passenger side seat with a spray bottle.
    There was so much happening outside and big people walking around that it took a while for my brain to fully consider what my eyes were seeing. Four white, cubed passenger minivans with darkened windows were lined up at the far end of the driveway. Men were buzzing around the property, some leaning against the vans, basking in the sunshine, and others walking about, intent on some mysterious task. Then there were the men that were away from the driveway, past the grass clearing, all the way down to the edge of the woods; these men stood in a row along the property line, about twenty feet from each other, and watched the scene from the shadows of the trees—their long barreled guns either in hand or holstered over their large shoulders.
    I sped to Rocco who was muttering and shaking his head, absorbed intensely in a discussion with himself.
    “Need any help?” I offered keenly, withholding the alarm in my throat.
    He glanced up and chewed on my proposal for a minute.
    “Better not,” he said, sighing. “I don’t want to get in trouble again for talking to the inmate.”
    “Is that what I am?” I wondered, keeping a corner of my eye on the gun-wielders.
    Rocco shrugged. “Apparently.”
    While he sprayed some kind of deodorizer on the front passenger seat, I sat on the backseat, with my legs swinging out the side. I leaned my face forward in the outside air—because it was really stinky inside the car.
    “Who are all those people?” I asked him.
    He didn’t look up. “What people?”
    I pointed my thumb in the direction of the gunners. “The men with the guns,” I said, to start with.
    “Guards,” Cameron answered as he approached the car with Meatball at his heels. I noticed that he had showered. His hair was still dripping, and he had changed from jeans and red T-shirt—to jeans and gray T-shirt.
    “What are they guarding?” I managed to ask.
    “Precious cargo,” he replied quickly before changing the subject, starting with a cruelly charming smile. “I heard you got my kid brother back for putting that bump on your head.”
    “Whatever,” Rocco mumbled without lifting his head to acknowledge his brother.
    Still smiling, Cameron glanced at me, motioning his head toward Rocco, silently asking me what Rocco’s problem was.
    I shrugged in response; though my guess was that Rocco had probably been berated by the one called Spider for chitchatting with me—the prisoner—earlier.
    Cameron wasn’t fazed by his brother’s crankiness. “Come on. I’ll show you around.” By the time I realized that his hand had grazed the small of my back to lead me back to the house, he had already pulled it away. Meatball happily followed us.
    “Where are we … exactly?” I probed.
    “Vermont.”
    “Were not in New York State anymore?” I said before I had time to take the shock out of my voice.
    He peered from the corner of his eye. “Vermont is a different state, yes.”
    “Okay,” I said slowly and took a breath while he kept his eye on my expression. “And what is this place?”
    He pointed to the house. “It used to be a shelter for forest firefighters back in the day. I bought it a couple of years ago.”
    I was stunned. “This is