Snitch (The Bea Catcher Chronicles) (6 page)

“I know all about the snitch rule, Bea.”

“And just by looking at him? He’s scared shitless about something.”

“That’s why I need you to draw. You ready?”

I crack my knuckles. “I’m ready.”

“You got your phone with you?”

“Duh.” I take it out of a backpack pocket, place it on the table.

“Text me when you get a hit on something, okay?”

“Okay.” I put my pen to the page.

“And you’ll let me know if anything makes you uncomfortable?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The drug part of this case. It hasn’t been that long. That’s all.”

“Believe me, I know. You don’t have to remind me.” And then, looking into his eyes, a mukluk boot suddenly kicks me in the head—the boots I was wearing that night. It’s what he’s thinking about. My stomach sinks. “Sarge. I’m cool. Really, I am. You don’t have to worry.”

But the thought of it sucker punches me in the gut, and I know it does the same to Daniels as I watch him slouch at the memory and leave the room.

Damn. I hate thinking about it. It was so STUPID of me.

Last November I had just celebrated four months of sobriety and was so proud—until I saw him, my ex-boyfriend, and my ex-drug dealer, Marcus, waiting in his car as I scraped the ice off my windshield in the St. Anne’s parking lot.

My first mistake was crossing the snowy street to his idling Prius.

“What the hell do you want, Marcus? Why are you here?” I asked.

“For you.” He smiled his slippery smile. “I like your hair. It’s sexy.”

Pang #1.

“I told you to stay away from me.”

“I told you I love you.”

Pang #2.

“No, you didn’t, Marcus. You never said you loved me.”

“Well, I meant to.”

“Yeah, right.” I headed back to my car.

“I’m clean, Bea,” he called out to me. “A week now. Nothing. Nada.”

Pang #3.

I paused for a second and thought,
Could he be? Really?
Then I waved my hand, dismissing him. “Bullshit. It isn’t that easy. I would know.” And kept walking.

“It is if you want something . . . bad,” he called out. “Like you.”

Pang #4.

I reached my car and continued scraping the windshield. Maybe a little too hard. Chunks of ice flew off; some hit my face and immediately melted on my warm, flushed cheeks. A slow boil simmered in my belly—always had with his presence, and dammit, still did. I didn’t know if it was him, us—the trippy, pheromonal phenomenon that crackled like electricity between our two bodies, or because of the drugs that he’d provided the last couple years. Probably both. I was addicted to both.

I heard his car door shut. His footsteps neared and squeaked on the packed snow. Behind me, Marcus wrapped his arms around my waist.

Pang #5.

“I just want to talk. I miss you, Bea,” he whispered in my ear. Nuzzled his face in my neck.

No. Don’t let him take you in.

I stuffed my freezing hands into my coat pocket. “I’ve worked hard for this night . . . these four months. You’re not going to screw it up. Do you hear me?” I turned and yelled. But I knew it was too late; the ice was cracking under my feet.

I saw myself caving in the reflection of his round, wire-rim glasses. He took my hands out of my pocket; blew on them
with his warm, moist breath; and lowered them to his chest, his heart. “Bea, I told you, I’m clean. I’m not using. I love you. I miss you so much.”

Pang #6.

TKO.

I fell headfirst into those piercing, dark, hypnotic eyes—believed every word he uttered. Believed that he wanted, needed, desired me, like no one else ever had, and I disregarded the four months of sobriety I’d trudged through; said
screw you
to the months, the days, the hours, and to everyone who loved and cared about me. Chucked it, like a measly, melting ice chip into a snowdrift, only to be shoveled away by the approaching snowplow.

We ended up in Marcus’s hobbit-like room at the top of a frat house on the University of Michigan campus. He majored in pharmaceutical medicine, and was, aptly, a campus drug dealer.

I woke up, lying in his bed. Glimpsed at the clock: two a.m.

Oh no, no, no, no, no. What have I done?

Whistler, his Maine coon cat, was curled up on my feet. He yawned, stretched, circled, and settled himself on Marcus’s legs. I sat up, and the room started to spin, so I put one foot down on the cold wooden floor, grounding me. Marcus was asleep—mouth open, drool dripping. Stale, boozy-smelling snores. A bong sat on the side table. A half-empty bottle of tequila was lying on Marcus’s naked belly, moving in sync with his breath.

The spinning stopped, but my brain felt heavy, thick with substance—as if it were coated with itchy alpaca wool that I couldn’t get at and scratch.

I pulled the covers off my naked body and stood. Marcus groaned, rolled over, and faced the wall, away from me.

A window in his room was cracked open, and a gust of cold November air swept through, rustling the blinds. I started to shiver, and my stomach churned, sending a wave of nausea up through my body. My knees buckled. I was wasted. I stumbled to the john. Hung my head over the toilet and puked up tequila. It pooled in the toilet, spilled down the sides, splattered on my new mukluk boots which I’d kicked off earlier on the black-and-white tiled floor.

I hurled until my stomach was empty—but the smell made me dry heave—it felt like a hand had reached down my throat and yanked, tearing away at my intestines, bringing up my soul . . . whatever was left of it.

And then—a loud knock on the door. Sergeant Daniels’s voice. “Bea. Are you in there? Bea. Answer me!”

Shit.
I grabbed a towel hanging from a rack and wrapped it around myself.

Marcus stirred.

Another loud knock. “Open up, or I’ll kick this door in!”

Marcus jumped up. “Fuck.” He leaned over the bed, tried to grab his jeans—but not in time, as the sergeant did what he promised and barreled into the room.

Whistler hissed, ran under the bed.

I was leaning against the bathroom doorframe, the towel barely covering me. Marcus stood naked next to the bed.

Sergeant Daniels scanned the room. Looked at me, looked at Marcus. I thought I heard a throaty, growling noise—I wasn’t sure if it was coming from Daniels or the cat.

Marcus grabbed a pillow and placed it over his limp dick and crouched, anticipating what came next.

I held out my hand. “Dan, don’t . . .” But my words went unnoticed—flew out the window.

A good four inches taller, the sergeant placed his large, leather-gloved hands on Marcus’s skinny shoulders, lifted him, and with teeth clenched, threw him against the wall.

Marcus crumbled to the ground and groaned, rolling into a fetal position.

“Stop it, Dan!” I screamed, but I was immediately silenced by the sergeant’s raised hand.

“Stay away, Bea,” he ordered.

Using the toe of his boot, he gently nudged Marcus, rolled him toward the bed, snatched a blanket, and tossed it on top of him. He then knelt down, flashed his police badge in Marcus’s face, and seethed, spat, “You’re going to leave today. Pack up all your shit, all of it, and you’re going to get the hell out of Ann Arbor. Never come back—not ever to my city. And if you do, and believe me, I’ll know if you do, I’ll get a warrant and have your sorry, wimpy ass busted—locked away for good, for the rest of your miserable life. Do you hear me?”

Marcus coughed, moaned, and nodded.

Daniels stood. “Bea, get dressed.”

I dropped the towel, quickly threw on my clothes, and crossed to the splintered door. I took one last look at the broken mess of Marcus on the floor and left the devil’s den.

The sergeant drove. Made no eye contact with me.

My head pounded. “How did you find me? How’d you know where I was?”

His nostrils flared, steaming up the windows. “Spotted your car alone at St. Anne’s. A snowplow was circling the lot. He said he saw a girl leave with someone in a Prius.”

“How did you know it was Marcus?”

“That punk has been on campus police radar for a while. Wasn’t hard to figure out.”

“So you were following me again?” I shivered.

“I wanted to know if you could check out a perp for me—draw something out of him.”

“You mean a case?”

“Yeah. But never mind.”

“I’m sorry.”

I eyed the sergeant—his profile, his jaw set in a determined clench. I willed him to look at me. But he didn’t. He wouldn’t face me. “It’ll never happen again, I promise.” I dropped my heavy head in my hands. “I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”

“Yeah. I am, too.”

Oh my god. They’re going to send me back to rehab.
I panicked. “Please don’t tell my parents, please. They think I’m with
Willa.” I grabbed on to the sleeve of his nubuck jacket. “I don’t want to go back to rehab. I can’t go back to that place.
Please.
”

He turned into a subdivision, past rows of modest ranch houses—every one, just like the last—pulled into a driveway, and stopped the engine.

Sergeant Daniels spoke as if he were talking to himself, convincing himself. “You’re going to spend the rest of the night at my house. Max is with his mother, so you can sleep in his room. I’ll take you to your car in the morning, and you’ll drive straight home. Yes, I will follow you. And you’ll do a thirty/thirty. Thirty AA meetings in thirty days—no exception—starting tomorrow. You agree to that and I won’t tell your parents.”

I blubbered with gratitude—snot ran down my face. “Oh, thank you. Thank you . . .”

“Okay. Let’s get in the house. Take your boots off first. They smell like vomit.”

I did—I stepped out of the mukluks, and holding my arm, he walked me into his dark house, brought me to his son, Max’s, room. I sat on the bed. He took off my coat, gave me four saltine crackers, a glass of water, and two aspirins, and placed a puke bucket near the bed—
just in case
, he said.

The sergeant lifted a Spider-Man quilt, tucked me under it, and made eye contact for the first time. His sad green eyes bore through me, etched my brain.

“This is just a blip, Bea. Just a blip on the screen. It’s not going to happen again, and no one needs to know about it. It
will be our little secret.” Then he kissed my forehead and left the room.

That night I dreamed of
my
superhero, Dan Daniels.

The next morning I found my boots sitting on the floor by the bed—clean. And I started one day, one hour, one minute . . . all over again.

I take a deep breath, unzip my sweatshirt, shake out my hands, and watch Sergeant Daniels enter the room, pull up a metal chair, and sit across the table from the kid, his back to me.

“So, Junior . . . may I call you that?” I hear his voice through the speakers imbedded in the wall.

Junior shrugs. His head hangs low—he doesn’t make eye contact with the sergeant. His right knee rapidly jiggles up and down underneath the table.

“This doesn’t have to be difficult—prolonged. Just give me the 411 on your OG. Who set you up?”

Hah. Quick study, Daniels,
I think to myself.

Junior’s voice cracks, straddles high and low. “I already told the other cop. I fessed up—it’s all there.” He points at a manila folder. “I called the shots—nobody else. There’s nothin’ more.” His jaw sets in a grimace, and he shoots a well-rehearsed tough-guy look at the sergeant—but it doesn’t fly. The look falls flat.

“Okay, whatever you say.” Daniels leans back in his chair and reads from the folder.

I chew the tip of my pen, waiting for something to pop up.

Junior’s left leg joins in on the dance with his right, both legs jiggling so high they graze the underside of the table.

Daniels gets up from his chair and starts circling Junior. “You know what you’re looking at, right? You’re not considered a minor here in Michigan. They’ll throw you in the big house, and I’m not talking about U of M’s football stadium, we’re talking
years
—maybe life. You’re a good kid. No priors—squeaky clean record. I can throw that folder away—your confession—in the trash, right now, you know that, don’t you?”