Every few minutes, a car passes. One guy slows to match our speed and says, “Nice hood ornament!” But takes off when Charlie turns the gun on him.
Twenty minutes later Charlie motions Willow to stop.
“What now?” she says.
“We’ve got phone service,” he says. “Turn into the next driveway and drop us off. We can call mom from here.”
“You’re sure?”
“Cameron needs to get to the hospital, and we’ve detained you long enough.”
“Thank you Charles,” Willow says.
We drop them off, say our goodbyes.
Willow looks at me and says, “Does she really need to go to the hospital?”
“No. Cameron needs medical care, but she’s eminently safer with me.”
“How’s that possible?”
“Don’t get me started.”
“Were you ever planning to take her?”
“Yeah, but I worry about leaving her in the hospital. And you’re right. The police will want the details.”
“Any chance we could take Cameron somewhere and you could care for her till she heals?”
I think about that. We could drive to New York and I could keep a swollen eye on her when I’m not working. But if she wound up dying I’d have a problem with the authorities. Not to mention her parents.
“No,” I say. “Too many people are involved.”
“If you mean the twins, I expect they’ll keep quiet.”
“What about Gary, from the Firefly?”
“What about him?”
“He pinned my arms while Bobby beat me up.”
“That brings up a good point. Why did Bobby beat you up?”
“He caught me at the club, trying to leave money for you and Cameron.”
“Money?”
I nod. “In envelopes.”
“How much?”
“Six thousand each.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
She says, “Bobby didn’t spend twelve thousand on drugs.”
“I don’t know how much he spent. But he and Chuckie were in my car. And some other guy drove Bobby’s motorcycle back to your place.”
“Mark Boner,” she says. “Boner the Stoner. You’re right. Too many people.”
“Exactly.”
“Okay, then,” Willow says. “We need to do three things. Third, get our story straight.”
“What’s first and second?”
“First, we drive back to the farm and fish through Bobby’s clothes for the rest of the money.”
“That’s first?”
“Cameron and I earned that money in the most disgusting way imaginable,” she says. Then adds, “No offense.”
“You can’t mean having sex with me was worse than living with Bobby and getting the shit beat out of you all the time.”
Willow says nothing.
“Be honest,” I say. “It can’t have been that bad, could it?”
“You really want me to answer that?”
I sigh. “I guess not. What’s the second thing we need to do?”
“Dump the bedding and vacuum cleaner in dumpsters in Dayton.”
“Okay. And then we take Cameron to the hospital?”
“Yup.”
25
The biggest surprise is the Dayton cops buy our story, even the bogus part, with few questions asked.
A quick call to the Cincinnati police tells them what kind of person Bobby was.
They totally believe I tried to leave two thousand dollars at the Firefly Lounge for the girls in hopes of getting in their pants tonight, after getting lap dances last night, and totally believe Bobby caught me there, beat me up, tossed me in the trunk, and stole my car.
They believe Bobby’s friend, Mark Boner, met him at the club and drove his motorcycle home. Mark confirmed it, though he denied knowledge of my being in the trunk.
They believe Bobby bought heroin, cocaine, and Black Stone powder from Chuckie the dealer, who’s well- known to both police departments.
They believe Bobby drove to Cameron’s house and forced his way into Willow’s car, and expect that to be corroborated by neighborhood witnesses.
They believe Bobby forced Willow and Cameron to go to Maggie’s Farm with him, and have no problem with our story of how he shot Cameron when she tried to get away to avoid being raped.
They believe Bobby accidentally shot himself and tried to stop the bleeding by pressing nutmeg into his wounds.
And they believe after Bobby died, Willow opened the trunk of the Mercedes and let me out so I could save Cameron’s life. Side note: hospital surgery personnel tell police they’ve never seen such a remarkable surgery performed under field conditions at dusk, not even counting the fact my eyes were so swollen I could barely see.
After getting my broken nose set and bandaged and my cuts cleaned and stitched, I camp out in Cameron’s hospital room to ensure her safety. She’s groggy, mumbling incoherently. Thinks she’s going to die.
“You’ll be fine,” I say.
“Need to…change my life around,” she says.
“That’s probably true.”
“God’s punishing me…for what I did. Need to…confess…before I die.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong, Cameron. And you’re not going to die as long as you don’t eat anything here, and make sure everyone washes their hands before touching you.”
Dayton police take a quick trip with Willow to Maggie’s farm, recover Bobby’s gun, ask a few more questions, and shoot some photos, including two of the gun in the grass, two of Bobby’s face, four of his leg wound, and a hundred forty-seven photos of his penis. Then they bring Willow back to the hospital, where she spends the night with Cameron and me.
Cameron’s pissed because I won’t allow her to eat anything. She’s lucid enough to ask me to step out of the room so she and Willow can talk in private. I oblige them, but when I return I ask, “Did you eat anything?”
“You’re so paranoid!” Willow says.
“I work in a hospital, remember?”
“You’re a nut!” Cameron says.
“Just don’t eat anything.”
“Do I look like I eat much?”
No, she doesn’t.
By noon the next day the cops say we’re free from suspicion. The swelling around my eyes has reduced enough to permit limited vision, so I take the opportunity to drive Willow back to Ream’s Park in Cincinnati to get her car. When I try to hug her goodbye she slaps my face.
