Still Life With Crows

held to the button as it clicked through one raspy channel after another: game shows, soaps, cartoons, all divided by loud blasts of white noise.

Search unsuccessful, the shuffling of footsteps and grunted comments began again. Corrie heard them pass the open doorway to the back room, where her cell was located. There was a sudden pause and then Brad spoke in a low undertone. “Hey guys, check out who’s here. Well, well, well.”

She heard them shuffling through the doorway, snickering and whispering. There were at least two of them, maybe three. No doubt Chad was one of them, and probably Biff, too. Brad, Chad, and Biff. The fucking Hardy Boys.

Someone made a low farting sound with his lips. There was suppressed laughter.

“What’s that smell?” It was Brad again. “Somebody step in it?”

More low laughter. “What’d you do this time?”

Corrie spoke without turning around. “Your Deputy Dawg John Q. Ratface left his car running, keys in the ignition, windows down, for half an hour in front of the Wagon Wheel while he refueled on eclairs. How could I resist?”

“My what?”

“Your Ripley’s Believe It or Not amazing chain-smoking eclair-to-shit converting dad.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” The voice was rising.

“Yourfather, dork.”

Muffled laughter from his two friends.

“What a twat,” Brad said. “At least I’vegot a father. Which is more than I can say for you. And you don’t exactly have much of a mother, either.” He cackled and someone—Chad, probably—made another disgusting sound with his mouth.

“The town slut. She was in this cell just last month, wasn’t she, on a drunk and disorderly. Like mother, like daughter. Guess the apple never falls far from the tree. Or in your case, the shit never falls far from the asshole.”

There was another burst of smothered laughter. Corrie lay still, facing the wall.

Brad resumed his whisper. “Hey, did you read the paper today? Says the murderer might be local. Maybe a devil worshiper. You fit the bill, with that fucked-up purple hair and black eye makeup. Is that what you do at night? Go out and do mumbo-jumbo?”

“That’s right, Brad,” said Corrie, still not turning around. “At the dark of each moon, I bathe in the blood of a newborn lamb and recite the Curse of the Nine Gates, and then I summon Lucifer to wither your dick. If you have one.”

This brought forth another muffled snicker from Brad’s friends, but Brad didn’t join in.

“Bitch,”Brad muttered. He advanced a step and lowered his voice still further. “Look at you. You think you’re so cool, all dressed in black. Well, you’renot cool. You’re a loser. And I’ll bet for once you’re not lying. I’ll bet youdo go out at night for a little animal killing. Or better yet, animal fucking.” He gave a low chuckle. “Because noman would ever want to screw you, you freak.”

“If I see anymen around here I’ll let you know,” Corrie replied.

She heard the door into the back room open and a sudden silence fell. The sheriff spoke, his voice low, calm, and full of menace.

“Brad? Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“Oh, hi, Dad. We were just talking to Corrie here, that’s all.”

“Is that so?”

“Right.”

“Don’t bullshit me. I know exactly what you were doing.”

There was a tense silence.

“You harass a prisoner of mine again and I’ll book you and lock you up myself. You hear me?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Now get the hell out, you and your friends. You’re late for scrimmage.”

There was the sound of guilty shuffling as Brad and his friends left the cellblock. “You all right, Swanson?” the sheriff asked gruffly.

Corrie ignored the question. Soon the door closed and she lay there, alone once again, listening to the sounds of the television and the voices in the outer office. She tried to keep her breathing normal, tried to forget what Brad had said. One more year and she was out of this loser town, this butt-crack capital of Kansas. One more year. Then it was goodbye, Medicine Shit Creek. It occurred to her, for the millionth time, that if she hadn’t blown it in tenth grade she’d already be out of here. And now she had done it to herself again. Well, no use thinking about that.

The door to the outer office tinkled again. Someone new had come in. A conversation began in the outer office. Was it Tad, the deputy? Or her mother, sober for once? But no—the new arrival, whoever it was, spoke so softly that Corrie couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. The sheriff’s voice, on the other hand, took on a hard edge, but Corrie couldn’t make out the words over the blaring of the television set.

Eventually, she heard footsteps enter the back room.

“Swanson?”

It was the sheriff. She heard him draw heavily on his cigarette and smelled the fresh smoke. There was a rattle