Kevin Provance

Here’s a sneak peek of the first two chapters of Scorpion, which will be released on April 15, 2024. Preorder now, and don’t forget to meet the characters!

Chapter I

Friday, April 12, 1957

I

Drip.

Nine-year-old Burke Alvarez squeezed his eyes closed to clear them of the icy water. He couldn’t move his hands. Manuel Alvarez, Burke’s father, bound his son’s wrists above his head with old, weathered cuffs. Burke lay chained to a flimsy steel table while a device above slowly dripped cold water onto his forehead and face. Punishment for acting up in school again.

“Please, papa! No more!” Burke cried, licking his lips to remove the excess moisture. “The scorpion…it wasn’t poisonous!”

“I care not!” Manuel snapped, exuding a gruff, gritty Spanish accent. “You have no discipline, boy!”

“I’m sorry, papa! I won’t do it again!”

Drip.

Burke felt a single drop of water splash onto his nose, prompting him to squeeze his eyes shut.

“I know you won’t,” the elder Alvarez said, staring harshly at his son. “I will remove the piss and vinegar that flows through your veins…even if I have to do this to you every day!” Burke pruned his face and wept. “Stop crying, boy! You made your choices! Choices have consequences! Take your punishment like a man!”

Drip.

Burke sniffled, squeezing his eyes open and shut several times to push the water – and tears – off the side of his face. He said nothing more.

“That’s another hour for your weakness, boy,” Manuel whispered. “I’ll send your mother down when it’s over.”

“Yes, papa,” Burke whimpered.

Drip.

Manuel left his son strapped to the table. As he walked away, he pulled the string of an overhead 75-watt bulb, engulfing the room and his son in darkness. Burke listened to his father’s boots clomping against the wooden stairs, the slam of the solid oak door filling the basement as Manuel left, leaving Burke to whimper silently in the dark.

Drip.

Burke licked his lips and squeezed the water from his eyes.

II

Manuel’s reputation for brutality was infamous, spreading fear among his enemies and disrespectful employees.

He demanded two things above all else. Respect and fealty. Manuel wasn’t afraid to punish the lack of either, often using methods far worse than his water-dripping device. His cruel and violent acts since forming the Alvarez drug cartel in 1941 earned him legendary status. Most times, all it took to instill terror was the mere mention of his name.

In 1947, Manuel married Vivian Conrad, an American woman. Vivian was often mistaken for Rita Hayworth because of her full, dark hair and hazel eyes. She also carried Hayworth’s elegance.

A year later, Vivian gave birth to their son, Burke. While the ruthless Manuel was an effective leader, he didn’t make an exemplary father. During Burke’s formative years, Manuel’s absence left Vivian with a wild and unruly child. Burke began acting out in grade school, leading Manuel to punish him in horrific ways. Traditional punishments that parents typically employ on their children, such as grounding and removing access to the radio or television, proved ineffective against Burke. He was too headstrong and defiant…like his father.

Burke’s recent punishment resulted from the assault of an older classmate. He’d knocked the bully to the ground with a thick, heavy textbook. While the confused and half-conscious student writhed on the ground, Burke picked up a passing stripe-tailed scorpion, common in Southern California, and dropped it on the boy’s face.

The school administration frowned upon Burke’s latest act of rebellion. However, knowing Burke’s father was the head of the Alvarez drug cartel, they showed Mr. Alvarez the respect to mete out any discipline he saw fit in the privacy of his home.

Unable to control his son, Manuel employed his organization’s techniques against uncooperative employees and enemies. Water torture. When set to random intervals, the method proved effective in subjecting one to mental anguish. The level of Burke’s disobedience would determine how long Manuel would leave him alone in the dark basement to suffer the agony. One or two hours usually proved sufficient.

Today, Burke would spend nearly four hours in the cold, murky basement, strapped underneath the steady drops of icy water. The more Burke complained and begged his father to stop, the longer Manuel left Burke in the device.

Manuel was determined to break the boy of his rambunctious spirit and bring him into line. While Manuel hoped his son would one day run the family business, he didn’t need a rival. That was Manuel’s biggest fear. Burke would want power and make a move against him.

There wasn’t much Vivian could do regarding Manuel’s punishments. After all, her husband was the head of the largest drug cartel on the West Coast. His word was law. She pleaded with him, in the beginning, to not hurt her son. Manuel met her pleas with beatings, sometimes cruelly, ending with an unwilling trip for Vivian into unconsciousness. Eventually, Vivian relegated herself to believing Manuel’s behavior, including how he disciplined her son, would be the sum of her life. The best she could do was comfort Burke when his torture sessions were over.

When Manuel was satisfied Burke had suffered enough, he instructed Vivian to go downstairs and ‘deal with the boy.’

III

The Alvarez family lived in a vast mansion in Southern Los Angeles.

Manuel insisted on placing Burke’s sleeping quarters far from the lavish bedroom suite she shared with Vivian. But as the years passed, and the frequency of the whores Manuel fancied increased, he relegated Vivian to her own smaller bedroom.

She complied without complaint or objection. Fewer beatings that way.

Upon the conclusion of Burke’s latest punishment, Vivian carefully guided him to his modest room, sat on his bed while he lay his head in her lap, and tried desperately to console him. Burke lay there, saying nothing, appearing catatonic. He withdrew into himself as he’d done all the previous time his father strapped him to the cold, steel table and forced him to endure the endless drops of cruel, icy water.

Years ago, Vivian moved her portable Sears record player into Burke’s room after Burke’s first water torture episode. She’d play one of her favorite and calming Debussy records, “Reverie,” while Burke recovered from his terrifying experience.

As with all the other torture episodes, Vivian laid Burke’s head in her lap and stroked his wet, stringy, dark brown hair. She hummed along with “Reverie’s” beautiful and tranquil melody as if singing it to Burke, hoping to keep him calm. Burke wouldn’t talk. He’d not ask why. He’d squeeze his eyes open and closed, voiding them of water that wasn’t there while licking his lips.

IV

Manuel’s plan to break Burke of his disobedient ways through water torture wasn’t as effective as he’d initially hoped.

The punishments continued for years, although they declined in frequency when Burke entered his teenage years. Manuel assumed the reason revolved around the eventual effectiveness of his methods.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Burke eventually withdrew not only from Manuel but also from his mother. When his torture sessions were complete, he’d leave the basement alone, return to his room, and play “Reverie” on his mother’s old record player until he was well again. Burke bided his time, making plans and playing the long game with his father. As he got older, he lacked the courage to retaliate, unable to get his father alone since Manuel’s men constantly surrounded him as a layer of security.

Everything changed in 1964 when Burke Alvarez turned sixteen.

V

Friday, March 13, 1964
10:23 p.m.

Burke and his older confidant, Kenneth Bentley, stole a bottle of tequila from a local liquor store and disappeared into the desert after another one of Manuel’s punishment sessions. They sat on the hood of Bentley’s ’62 Plymouth Fury Super Stock 413. Its headlights cast long beams into the never-ending desert while Del Shannon’s “Runaway” played over the radio.

“I’m going to kill my papa,” Burke whispered in the same gritty voice his father used.

Bentley gazed at his friend in surprise. His full, thick, black hair defied the desert breeze. “Because of all the shit he puts you through in that basement.”

Burke tossed back a shot of tequila, silently groaning as the burning liquid slid down his throat. He wiped his mouth on the cuff of his sleeve and nodded. “After he’s dead, I’m taking over his business.”

“You’re only sixteen, buddy,” Bentley said. “Your father’s men won’t take orders from a kid.”

“Oh, they will.” Burke’s icy stare fell on Bentley. The intensity of it sent a shiver down Bentley’s spine. Burke squeezed his eyes open and closed several times and licked his lips. “After I cut off Manuel’s head and throw it at their feet, they’ll swear fealty to me.”  Bentley stared at Burke without replying. “I want you in this with me, Ken. We’ll call Hector, too, since he’s as big as a house and has a bone to pick with mi padre.”

“Anything you need, bud,” Bentley said, shooting tequila from the bottle and lighting a Marlboro cigarette.

“We arm up with everything we can get and do this tonight!” Burke snapped. “I’m not taking another one of that pendejo’s punishments ever…again!”

“We’ll get bloody,” Bentley warned.

“Then we’ll fucking get bloody!” Burke shouted into the empty desert. “We’ll kill anyone in and out of the house. Except mi madre and Manuel. He’s mine.”

“I’ll make some calls when we get back to town,” Bentley said, dragging on his cigarette. The glow of the cherry lit up Bentley’s face. “You sure Hector’s copacetic with this?”

Burke tossed Bentley a doubtful glance. “Manuel treats his papa like shit. Hector hates Manuel as much as I do.” Burke looked away, clearing his throat. “Here’s the deal. Manuel keeps six men roaming the grounds. We take them out first. Since we’ll have the element of surprise, we can take out the ones upstairs near his room without much trouble. They’ll never expect it from us. But…we’ll need silencers.”

“Easy,” Bentley said, taking a longer drag of his smoke. He passed it to Burke, who finished it and tossed it into the desert sand.

Burke rubbed his chin and licked his lips. “We’ll need a couple of ketamine injections. Enough to knock Manuel out. Who do we know for that?”

Bentley stared off to think. “That we can get tonight?” Burke nodded. “There’s a kennel on Melrose that has some. We can hit that.”

“When we get into Manuel’s room, I’ll distract him,” Burke said. “You and Hector take the syringes. Firsts one to inject ketamine into his neck…wins.”

“What about your mama?”

Burke shook his head. “Mi madre doesn’t sleep in his room anymore.” He looked bitterly at Bentley. “He enjoys his whores more than he does her. She’ll take a Librium and be out cold for the night.”

“Then what?”

Burke turned to Bentley, his gaze filled with unwavering seriousness. He squeezed his eyes open and closed several times. “Then Manuel and I talk about his future. Or lack thereof.”

VI

Burke’s plan unfolded seamlessly, just as he’d envisioned it.

He stood towering over an unconscious Manuel securely tied to a chair with bungee cords. Bentley and Hector stood a few feet behind Burke, their weapons poised, alert for any sign of additional men patrolling the mansion.

“Did you bring it?” Burke asked Bentley.

“It’s in the hallway.”

Burke’s hand shot up, delivering a sharp slap across Manuel’s face. The man Burke called Papa for sixteen years fluttered awake. With glassy, deep brown eyes, he stared at Burke’s angry, twisted face. “Burke? What happened?”

“I happened,” Burke said in a flat, emotionless voice.

Manuel looked past Burke, noting Bentley and Hector standing further back in the room. He understood the gravity of the situation all too clearly. “Let me go.”

“No,” Burke muttered. Manuel’s eyes shot open with surprise. “It’s time to come to an understanding, Manuel.”

Manuel tensed up in his chair at the use of his given name. It rattled on the floor from his weight. “You will address me ‘papa’ or ‘padre!’”

“No,” Burke replied in the same dull voice. “I will no longer honor you.”

“That is a sin against our Lord, Burke!”

A slight gasp of a laugh escaped Burke’s lips. “That’s rich…coming from you! How do you think your Lord feels about the torture of your only son?”

“Spare the rod. Spoil the child!”

Burke punched his father directly in the nose. Bentley and Hector heard the cracking noise from the other side of the room. Blood poured down Manuel’s face as Burke eagerly watched. He licked his lips and squeezed his eyes closed twice. “No longer will I suffer from your barbaric punishments!”

“I will kill you when I get free!”

“A sin against the Lord, papa!”

“¡Te alimentaré con la muerte, muchacho!” (I will feed you death, boy!)

Burke reached into his pocket, pulling out a pair of brass knuckles that glinted under the ceiling light. He slipped them deftly onto his right hand and delivered a devastating blow to Manuel’s mouth with a massive swing. Manuel’s front teeth shattered, spilling onto his bare chest and clattering onto the hardwood floor below. Bentley winced at the amount of blood flowing from Manuel’s mouth. It poured onto Manuel’s chest, drenching his torso and creating a puddle at his feet.

Manuel locked his gaze on Burke with fiery eyes and spat his remaining teeth at Burke’s face in defiance. Burke unleashed a feral scream, landing another brutal strike on Manuel’s face. The sound of metal meeting flesh echoed across the room. A deep gash appeared on Manuel’s cheek, cascading a stream of fresh blood onto the floor. Bentley glanced uncomfortably at Hector. Unaffected, Hector stood silently with his arms folded across his chest, nodding as if agreeing with Burke’s rage.

Burke forcefully seized Manuel’s head by grasping his thick, black, sweat-drenched hair and, with his thumbs, dug deep into Manuel’s eye sockets. Manuel screamed in pain, the sound of his suffering reverberating across nearly the entire second floor of the mansion. He yelled for his men to come to his aid. None came. Most were lying in a pool of their own blood, scattered across the hallways outside the suite or on the stairwell downstairs.

With a massive pull, Burke violently ripped out Manuel’s eyes. The sound of each extraction echoed with a sickening pop. Burke furiously tossed them down, crushing each one beneath the weight of his boots. In Spanish, Burke screamed, “Now you are blind, old man! Just as you left me blinded by dripping water for many years!”

“¡Te mataré!” Manuel shouted at the top of his voice.

“No! I will kill you!”

Burke’s next strike landed squarely on Manuel’s face in one rapid motion, causing him and the chair to topple over. Now screaming furiously, Burke stood over his incapacitated father, planting the fist with the brass knuckles into Manuel’s head until there was nothing left of his nose and teeth. Blood and bits of flesh sprayed through the air with each strike, staining the rear wall and floor. Manuel no longer screamed. The eerie sound of gurgling filled the space, the mutilated flesh pulsating with the flow of blood. Bentley looked away, breathing deep through his mouth to prevent getting sick. Hector stared on, still nodding in agreement, utterly unaffected by the violence and gore.

“¡Soy el escorpión!” Burke screamed in his father’s unrecognizable face. He stood, his chest heaving in deep, purposeful breaths. Blood and chunks of flesh stained his face and shirt. His piercing gaze fell upon Hector. “Bring me the box!”

With a nod, Hector retrieved a shoe box from the hallway and handed it to Burke. Bentley watched, his eyes wide with a combination of horror and fascination. Burke yanked the lid off the box and tossed it across the room. He carefully lifted the venomous Arizona bark scorpion from the box with two fingers. Its venom would cause severe pain, coupled with numbness, tingling, and vomiting, assuming Manuel still could. Burke’s smile stretched wide, baring teeth stained with his father’s blood. He tightly closed his eyes multiple times. Licking the blood from his lips, Burke lowered the scorpion onto the mound of ground flesh comprising Manuel’s face. Burke stopped before dropping the scorpion. “It won’t kill you quickly, Manuel,” he whispered. “You will suffer before I take your head…and your empire!”

Burke dropped the scorpion near the hole that used to be Manuel’s mouth. It crawled inside, stinging the bloodied flesh multiple times. Sounds one could interpret as screams blew from the blood-soaked chasm as Burke walked away.

“Now?” Bentley asked.

“Yes,” Burke replied in a near whisper. Bentley turned and left the room. Hector continued to stare at the twitching Manuel, nodding.

Bentley reappeared, holding a shiny, brand-new twenty-inch machete with a black handle. He met eyes with Burke and handed it to him.

“Thank you, Ken,” Burke whispered.

Bentley nodded in acknowledgment, watching Burke turn to face his dying father. Burke walked around the chair and faced the burbling mess on the floor in an expanding pool of blood. With one hand extended and the other holding the machete above his head, Burke bent his knees, adopting the stance of a kenjutsu warrior with the tip pointed forward.

“This is for all the years of torture,” Burke fiercely whispered, licking his lips. “This is for treating mi madre as a peasant and treating Hector’s padre as a slave.” Burke paused, staring at Manuel, violently squeezing his eyes shut and open. “But mostly, this is because I hate you! You made your choices, papa! Choices have consequences! ¡Soy el escorpión! ¡Siente mi aguijón!”

I am the scorpion! Feel my sting!

Burke twisted the machete in his hand and, using both, brought the blade swiftly and decisively down on Manuel’s neck. It cut through the flesh without effort. Manuel’s spine snapped, leaving deafening silence in its wake.

“Wow,” Bentley whispered, watching with wide, eager eyes and a dropped jaw. Hector, as before, continued to nod.

Burke picked up Manuel’s decapitated head, blood dripping liberally onto the floor from the clean cut across the neck, and held it into the air. “I am the scorpion,” he whispered, staring at Bentley and Hector.

“Yes, sir,” Bentley and Hector replied in unison in the light of awe and a newfound respect for the boy who’d just become a man.

“Leave the mess. Contact all the captains,” Burke said, firmer in tone. “I want them all here within the hour.”

“Yes, sir,” Bentley said.

“I have to tell mi madre she’s free.”

VII

While Bentley and Hector made the calls to the cartel captains, Burke retrieved his mother’s record player and Debussy record from his room and brought them to hers while she slept.

He set up the record player on her nightstand and carefully placed its needle on the beginning groove of the record. The beautiful, airy piano notes of “Reverie” floated through the room as Vivian Alvarez lay in bed, cocooned by her covers.

Burke pulled the white blanket and sheets aside to crawl into bed with her, his shirt still drenched with Manuel’s blood. Vivian stirred as Burke cuddled up beside her. He carefully wrapped his arm around her, holding her close.

“Mama,” he whispered. The music swelled as a flute and strings joined the piece. Burke’s heart rate lowered. The calming effect of “Reverie” took hold. “I did it, Mama.”

“Burke?” she whispered in a groggy and medicated voice. She didn’t open her eyes. “What did you do, my sweetheart?”

“Manuel will not be a problem for us anymore,” Burke whispered, licking his lips and squeezing his eyes closed and open. “What was his…is now mine.”

“Okay, my love,” Vivian whispered, not fully comprehending Burke’s words.

“You’re going to be free now, Mama.”

Vivian smiled. She leaned into Burke’s chest and the fresh blood there. Something felt wrong to Vivian, causing her to stop smiling. She clumsily pawed at Burke’s shirt, smearing blood on her fingers. “Why is your shirt wet, Burke?”

Vivian felt Burke’s arm wrap around her shoulders, squeezing her tightly in a headlock. “It’s Manuel’s blood.”

Vivian opened her eyes. The calm, peaceful atmosphere of “Reverie” lifted into a dreamlike state. “Son?” she asked, realizing Burke was choking her.

“It’ll all be over soon, Mama. Everything will be okay,” Burke said, pulling tighter against Vivian’s neck.

“Why?” Vivian asked, now fully awake. Traces of panic crept through her voice.

“For years, Manuel tortured me…thinking he could tame me. But I am the scorpion,” Burke whispered in his mother’s ear. He squeezed his eyes shut and licked his lips. “You stood by and let him. You didn’t stop him…or even try!”

“Burke, honey, what could I do?” Vivan asked, now struggling to free herself. “Your father is a powerful man. To stand against him is to suffer punishments.”

“Yes, Mama. I know that all too well.”

“I tried several times, my love. He beat me. Every time. What could I do?”

“I don’t know, Mama. What could you do?”

“I tried to comfort you when he sent me downstairs to get you,” Vivian said, pleading her case. “I stayed with you. Played soothing music. Stroked your hair. What else could I have done differently, honey?”

“I don’t know, Mama. What else could you have done differently?”

“Stop, sweetheart. I can barely breathe,” Vivian gasped, pawing at Burk’s arm. The middle section of “Reverie” began, dropping into a somber mood with its eerie whole tones.

Burke pulled out his right hand, complete with brass knuckles. “I hold you equally responsible for the years of suffering I had no choice but to endure, Mama.” He pulled his fist back and rammed it into Vivian’s face. She froze, still stuck in Berke’s headlock, and screamed in agony. “But I will still honor you, mama. I will take your family name as my own to never forget how the one I loved the most disappointed me like no other!”

“Why, Burke! Why!” Vivian screamed.

Burke ignored her, ramming the brass knuckles repeatedly into Vivian’s face, breaking her nose. Blood spurted from the injury. It mixed with Manuel’s on Burke’s shirt. Vivian screamed, continuing to beg, ‘Why?’ over and over as Burke viciously caved her face into her skull.

Burke’s pulse never rose above seventy as “Reverie” played.

Vivian’s screams and spasms ceased. She died in her son’s arms.

“You’re free, Mama,” Burke whispered, kissing her over her head. “Te quiero, mi madre. Esta terminado.”

I love you, my mother. It is finished.

VIII

Burke returned to both his parents’ rooms to take Polaroid photographs of their mutilated faces.

Forty minutes later, Bentley returned upstairs to Manuel’s room. “They’re all here and waiting downstairs, sir. Except for one.”

Burke nodded. “Are you ready for this, Ken?”

Bentley took a deep breath and blew it out. “Yes, sir.”

Burke smiled for the first time that night. “Relax, old friend. You’re part of my inner circle now. We’ll fix Manuel’s badly run cartel and turn it into something huge. In a few years, we’ll be filthy rich. You’ll be filthy rich.”

Bentley grinned. “I’m with you ‘til the end.”

Burke picked up his father’s decapitated head, the face so mangled that it was impossible to recognize. “Let’s go.”

Burke Alvarez entered the dining room flanked by Bentley and Hector, carrying his father’s bloodied head by his outstretched arm. The ten captains stared back, wide-eyed, jaws agape.

“What happened to senior Alvarez?” one demanded.

“Quiet!” Burke snapped. “We live in America. You will address me in English at all times. Am I understood?” No one replied. The captains gazed at each other in shock and confusion. “You know me as Burke Alvarez, son of Manuel Alvarez. No more, gentlemen. I understand some of you are aware of the way Manuel tortured me with his nasty, water-dripping machine. I’m here to tell you, today, that’s over. Manuel will no longer be a problem. That boy, Burke Alvarez, died tonight. I am Conrad Burke, head of the Escorpión drug cartel. You may address me as ‘Mr. Burke’ or ‘Escorpión.’” Burke hoisted his father’s head into the air. It landed at the feet of the nearest captains. “Anyone who doesn’t swear fealty to me and the cartel from this point forward can join my father there on the floor. Am I misunderstood in any way?” Burke turned his head to the side to glance at Bentley and held out his hand. Bentley slipped the two photos of his father’s and mother’s destroyed faces into Burke’s hand. Burke stepped forward and laid the pictures on the coffee table between him and the fear-stricken captains. “This is what became of my parents. Two people who failed me over and over again throughout my life. Consider it an example of what happens to those who fail me! The rewards, however, will be far greater than those of the Alvarez cartel. Any questions?”

There were none.

Burke turned to Hector. “Find the captain who refused my invitation and have him killed.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Burke.”

“Oh, and Hector?”

“Sir?”

“Burn this place and all the bodies in it to the ground.”

“Done, sir.”

IX

Over the next four years, Conrad Burke, Escorpión, grew his cartel into one of the most potent syndicates on the West Coast.

In the autumn of 1966, Darla Linnell left her hometown of Westminster, Maryland, and embarked on a journey to Los Angeles, California, to attend UCLA.

She met Conrad Burke the first week she was there. They both attended a concert by “The Doors,” who opened for Van Morrison’s band, “Them,” at the Whisky a Go-Go. Conrad, always flanked by Bentley and Hector, found the short, red-haired girl from the other coast with green eyes attractive and free-spirited. Conrad’s influential power and prominent position in the community, even as a young drug kingpin, captivated Darla. Falling for him happened instantly, as if he’d cast a spell on her.

Conrad liked her, too.

He quickly learned of Darla’s desire for a degree in accounting from UCLA. Conrad also knew having the woman he intended to marry with such skills would benefit the syndicate. Not only did he encourage her to finish, but he also generously paid her tuition.

In a surprising turn of events, Darla discovered she was pregnant after only one month of attending classes. Conrad was thrilled beyond measure. He was also bound and determined not to repeat his parents’ mistakes. Darla had everything she could want. Conrad went above and beyond to support her during her four years of study, even hiring a team of daycare workers to make sure their daughter, Susannah, was well looked after and had everything she needed.

Life was good as Conrad’s business grew with Darla at his side, keeping his books straight and his money clean.

Chapter II

Saturday, May 23, 1970

I

Jeffrey Thomas ran his hands through his thick, light brown hair as he hurriedly walked away from Western Maryland College’s Alumni Hall.

He and the other nine members of Scarecrow, a group of students protesting black students at the college, had recently finished sealing the body of John Myers in the building’s sub-basement. John’s only sin was openly dating a black woman named Beth Brown.

Jeffrey had brought a Beretta to their meeting with John, intending to mutiny control of Scarecrow from its founder, Adam Jones. Fearing for his life, John kicked the gun from Jeffrey’s hand during a scuffle. Adam picked up the pistol in the melee and used it against Jeffrey to regain control of an already out-of-hand situation.

Reluctant Scarecrow member Nora Gordon tackled Adam to the ground as he held the gun to Jeffrey. Nora mistakenly thought Adam was moments away from shooting John. Sadly, she caused the very thing she tried to prevent. John quickly succumbed to his fatal wound, dying in Beth’s arms. Fearing for Beth’s life, Nora told her to flee. In the aftermath, Norman Miller, a criminal justice major and Scarecrow follower, helped them cover up the murder by dumping John’s body in a sealed-off sub-basement of Alumni Hall, an area known only to a few.

Scarecrow officially disbanded. They swore never to speak again of that night. Everyone went their separate ways.

Sort of.

II

“Jeff!” Adam shouted from farther behind. “We need to talk!”

“Fuck off, A.J.!” Jeffrey snapped, watching other students returning to their dorm rooms. The Vietnam protest at the stadium field was clearly winding down. “I think we’ve said everything we need to say.”

Adam caught up to Jeff, barely matching his pace. “You were going to fucking shoot me!”

Jeff stopped and spun around to meet Adam’s angry gaze. “I was never going to shoot you, A.J. I was just…trying to move things along! Scarecrow was all show and no go under your so-called leadership!”

“We were making progress!” Adam hissed.

Jeffrey’s bitter laughter echoed across the quad. “Bullshit! What does it matter? It’s over now. We lost.”

Adam’s jaw dropped. He gasped in shock, his thin black hair falling over his eyes. “We killed a man tonight,” he whispered. “If anyone lost, it was John.”

“Ha!” Jeffrey scoffed, a disdainful sound escaping his throat. He continued his hurried trek toward his dorm at the other end of the quad while Adam struggled to catch up. “Maybe you shouldn’t have shot him.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have brought a gun, you hawkish son of a bitch!”

Jeffrey opened his mouth to retort. Norman Miller, shouting at them from the direction of Lewis Hall, stopped him. “Hey, assholes! Where the hell are you two going?”

Jeffrey and Adam turned to look in Norman’s direction as he approached in a state of agitation. “Away from here,” Jeffrey said with indifference.

Norman stopped within inches of Jeffrey, intruding into his personal space. He thrust an object into Jeffrey’s chest and held it there until Jeffrey took it from him. “Here! I think you forgot this!”

Jeffrey stared emptily at the .22 Beretta in his hands. Norman dropped a single shell casing next to it. “What the hell should I do with this?”

“Get rid of it!” Norman snapped. “Look, I’m pretty sure they’ll never find John’s body. But if they do, there’s a bullet in his chest that’ll match up with this gun, and that would be a real bummer for you!” Jeffrey peered at Norman. His face twisted in disagreement, offended at Norman’s suggestion that the problem was solely Jeff’s. Norman nodded before Jeffrey could complain. “If you go down, we all go down. I fucking told you when we started this that I wouldn’t be party to violence because that shit always goes sideways! And here we are! I did the hard part, getting rid of the body. All you have to do is get rid of the gun!”

“Fine. I’ll drive out to Eldersburg and throw it in the Liberty Reservoir. Good enough?” Jeffrey asked, stealthily slipping the Beretta into his front pocket while staring down at the shorter Norman. Adam watched the boiling discussion with great interest, knowing Norman was about to let Jeffrey have it.

“No! It’s not good enough!” Norman hissed under his breath. “And what happens if the reservoir level falls and some happy do-gooder with a metal detector looking for trinkets finds it? Huh?”

“Well, excuse the fuck out of me, Mr. Law Enforcement! You tell me what I need to do! Why can’t you just do it yourself?”

Norman stood on his toes to stand face to face with his adversary. “Own your part in this, Thomas! Smelt it, cut it up, crush it, I don’t care! And if you’re smart, you’ll file off the serial number, too!” Norman and Jeffrey stared at each other like they were waiting for a boxing bell to begin the match. “I promise you…if you fuck this up and tonight’s shit storm finds its way to my front door? I won’t hesitate to throw your ass under the bus! Are we clear?”

Jeffrey pursed his lips, his eyes fixed on Norman with an indifferent gaze. “Crystal.”

Norman backed off and returned to his shorter stature. He nervously scanned the dwindling groups of carefree students, who were talking and laughing as they walked.

“I don’t want to hang with either of you for a while,” Norman advised, distancing himself. “This shit was just too close. I’m sorry as hell I ever got involved.”

“There, we’re agreed,” Jeffrey whispered. Norman shook his head in disgust, turned, and walked away.

Jeffrey glanced at Adam, who held up his hands, anticipating the question. “No. That’s your bag of shit.”

“Thanks for nothing,” Jeffrey mumbled.

“Jeff, I think we both need to think about what really happened here tonight,” Adam said, a hint of concern in Adam’s tone. “We’re going to graduate next week. Maybe it’s time to start thinking about the future.”

“I have been thinking about it!” Jeffrey said, anger seeping through his voice. “What do you think this was all about? Can you imagine what this college will look like by the time our kids are old enough to go here? What this town will look like? This county?”

“I don’t know, Jeff. I don’t know what the future holds anymore.” Adam whispered. Jeffrey swore he saw hints of regret in Adam’s eyes. Of course he did. In his opinion, Adam’s weak, do-nothing personality caused Scarecrow’s ultimate demise. The man was a pussy. It showed in his wide, penitent stare.

With a sigh of exasperation, Jeffrey tossed up his hands and walked away.

III

Jeffrey crossed the quad and approached the hill toward his dorm building when another voice called out for him.

He thought it might be another Scarecrow comrade looking to give him grief over bringing a gun to their meeting with John. Expecting that, he turned around to give whomever it was a verbal what for.

The gangly Milton Donner approached. His long, flowing blonde hair flapped around his head as he pushed his horned-rim glasses from his nose to his face. “Hold up, Jeff!”

Jeffrey scoffed. “Isn’t it a little late for you to be up, Milt?”

“I went to the Vietnam protest,” Milton said, hitching in deep breaths from his trot across the quad.

Jeffrey laughed. “I didn’t realize you gave a shit about the war.”

“Well, I don’t. Not really,” Milton said, his voice showcasing a typical Baltimore nasal twang. He grinned like the geek he was and pushed his glasses back to his face when they threatened to slide forward again. “That said, there’s lots of trim there that does.”

With a return grin, Jeffrey rolled his eyes and began walking toward his dorm building. “I’ll give you an A for effort, dude. Look, you’ll lose your cherry by default once we make our first million. Skirts love money.”

Milton followed and laughed. “I don’t understand what Donna sees in you.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Did you go, too?” Milton asked. “I didn’t see you there.”

“No. I had…other things to do.” Jeffrey abruptly stopped walking. Milton also stopped, giving his friend an inquisitive glance. Jeffrey surveilled the immediate area. Too many students were still loitering about. “Walk with me.”

“Where we going?”

“Glar.”

Milton’s blank stare suggested befuddlement. “But…the cafeteria’s closed.”

Jeffrey glanced back at his nerdy friend. “Yes, I know, Wile E., Super Genius. Less people.”

As was his way, Milton followed dutifully. He’d been looking up to Jeffrey since they were in middle school. Both carried the scars of relentless bullying, bonded over the mutual grief of that awkward era in their young lives.

Without speaking, they cleared the hill and approached the entrance to the Englar Dining Hall. A series of outdoor metal tables devoid of outdoor lamps greeted them, and thus, no other students to eavesdrop.

“I need a solid, Milt,” Jeffrey whispered, sitting at the table nearest the locked cafeteria doors.

“Anything, dude.”

Jeffrey pulled the Beretta from his pants pocket, ejected the clip, and pulled the slide back to expel the bullet in the chamber. He set the gun on the table and studied Milton carefully. The Beretta’s metallic thud resonated through the still night. Jeffrey felt like the echo resounded louder than thunder.

Milton leaned forward and stared wide-eyed at the weapon on the table as Jeffrey pocketed the clip and bullet. “That’s a gun, Jeff.”

Jeffrey sighed. “No shit, Sherlock! There’s a problem. I’ve been asked to get rid of this, and I don’t have what I need to do that.”

Without moving his head, Milton made eye contact with Jeffrey. “Just throw it in the Liberty Reservoir and be done with it!” Jeffrey chuckled. “What?”

“I’ve been told that’s not copacetic. Somehow, I’m supposed to melt it down and cut it up.”

“I wouldn’t know how to—”

“Doesn’t your dad own something that can do that?”

Milton sighed. “It’s for precious metals and too small for a gun.”

“Shit,” Jeffrey whispered. “Is there anyone you trust that could get rid of this thing?”

Milton finally raised his head to face Jeffrey. “What’s the skinny on this, really? Did one of those guys in your Scarecrow club do something stupid?”

Jeffrey raised his eyebrows in phony surprise, racking his brain to spin a believable tale Milton might buy. “No, no, nothing like that. I don’t know the whole story. A friend of a friend was target shooting up in Taneytown and killed one of Marlowe’s cows. He’s a grumpy old son of a bitch that’ll probably tear the town apart looking for whoever did it. No gun, no proof. Get it?”

Milton appeared doubtful. “That’s unreal, Jeff.”

“Preaching to the choir, dude,” Jeffrey said, tossing his hands in the air. “You don’t understand Old Man Marlowe. He owns practically half of Taneytown and has a lot of pull. I’m talking, like, cops and important friends who look the other way. Catch my drift?”

“Yeah. Kinda,” Milton said, returning his stare to the Beretta. Several seconds of silence passed while Milton fingered his bottom lip in thought. “Actually, I might know someone who could make this disappear.”

“Who’s that?”

Milton looked back at Jeffrey. “Remember your high school girlfriend, Darla?”

Jeffrey appeared surprised, his eyebrows furrowing. “Sure I do. She left Maryland to go to UCLA in California. We kept in touch for a little while, but then I met Donna. I think Darla’s studying to be an accountant.”

“Right on all counts,” Milton said. “I still talk to her sometimes since she was my friend before she was your lay. She’s going around with a guy out there who’d help us dispose of it.”

“Do you trust him?”

“I trust Darla,” Milton said. “I’ll call her later today and ask if it’s okay to send it to her.”

“Can we send a gun through the mail?”

Milton pursed his lips and lowered his eyebrows. “Who do I look like? The postmaster general? I don’t know, Casanova! If we get a decent-sized box and stuff it with filler. I don’t think anyone will care. We could hit the post office in Sykesville and leave off the return address.”

Jeffrey nodded in approval. “I can dig it.”

“If Darla’s down with it, we’ll get it to her that way. Then Conrad can do his magic.”

“That’s her boyfriend?” Jeffrey asked.

“Husband,” Milton replied, rolling his eyes at the thought of Conrad Burke. “I met him once when Darla visited her parents a few years ago. He’s a strange sort of space cadet, always walking around whistling some Debussy melody.  But he’s good to Darla and their baby girl Susannah.”

Surprise flickered across Jeffrey’s face. “She’s a mother already? Far out.”

Milton eyed Jeffrey up carefully. “Yeah. You down with that?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Milton shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, I don’t know? You and Darla were pretty close once.”

Jeffrey shook his head. “That was four years ago and in the past, dude. Darla and I parted on good terms. Donna’s my future.”

“Just checking,” Milton said, sliding the Beretta across the table. “You hold on to that until I get the go-ahead.”

“Fine,” Jeffrey said, heaving out an enormous sigh. He stuffed the Beretta into his front pocket and stood to leave. “Let me know if it’s a go.”

Milton stood and nodded. “Catch you on the flip.”

Jeffrey watched Milton walk around the corner of Englar, where he’d eventually find his dorm building, Rouzer Hall, on the other side. He thought briefly of Darla Linnell as Milton disappeared into the night. Four years had passed since Jeffrey had last laid eyes on her. Darla and her shiny red hair and green eyes. She’d been as intelligent as she was beautiful. He understood if Darla hadn’t moved to California for college, there was a real chance he’d have married her.

Jeffrey turned and left for his dorm room in Whiteford Hall, thinking whoever Conrad was, he’d best be taking proper care of Darla and her daughter.

IV

The phone rang in Darla Burke’s office shortly after 10 a.m.

She’d been awake since seven working on ledgers, attempting to give Scorpion’s money legitimacy. A challenge, to be sure. Yet she did the work lovingly since Conrad needed to appear above board. Susannah needed a father, after all.

Without looking up from her ledger, she brushed her long red hair dangling off her forehead and picked up the tan rotary phone near the edge of her desk. “Hello?”

“Hey, Red. It’s Milt. Long time no talk to.”

Darla smiled, always happy to hear from her best friend from high school. “Hey, dude! How’s life in the sticks?”

“Same old, same old,” Milton said, blowing out an audible sigh. “Your old friend Joanne Gorski got engaged last month.”

Darla’s eyes widened with surprise. She set her yellow number two pencil on the desk. Joanne was her closest friend in their senior year at Westminster High before becoming deaf from otosclerosis and moving to Pennsylvania to be closer to her mother. Joanne’s father, despite his best efforts, found difficulty accepting her handicap and never quite mastered sign language. “Far out! She still in Pennsylvania?”

“No,” Milton replied. “She and her fiancee, a cat named Gary Beck, moved back to Westminster. He graduated from U Penn last year.”

“Does he sign?” Darla asked.

“He picked it up well enough. He really digs her.”

Darla smiled. “That’s good. Jo deserves some happiness after that shit with her father.”

“Right on,” Milton said in agreement. “How’s your ankle biter?”

Darla glanced at the photo of her three-year-old daughter on the desk, still smiling. “Anna’s doing great. She’s Conrad’s ‘baby girl’ by far. He spares no expense for her.”

“Groovy,” Milt replied, minus his usual enthusiasm when talking to Darla. He sighed. “I need a solid, Darla. It’s big.”

“Anything.”

“Jeffrey’s got himself in a hangup and is flippin’ his wig,” Milton said cautiously. “Some geek thicker than a five-dollar malt shot one of Old Man Marlowe’s cows and asked Jeff to help lose the gun.”

Darla’s jaw dropped in shock. “That doesn’t sound like Jeff.” Darla paused, waiting for more. “What really happened, Milt?”

“I don’t know,” Milt said, groaning. “I didn’t know Jeff knew anyone in Taneytown, and I don’t believe Everett Marlowe would spaz over one cow.”

Darla’s eyes darted toward the phone. “And?”

“Jeff hooked up with a protest group this semester. I think they screwed up and got into some hot water,” Milton said. “I dunno. He’s been around the bend since he started hanging with them.”

“Did they kill someone?” Darla asked, still amused her former high school boyfriend would do something involving a gun.

“Oh, God! I hope not!” Milton said, audibly anxious. “He wanted me to help get rid of it, and tossing it in the reservoir isn’t copesetic. I remember you saying Conrad had connections.”

Darla laughed. “He has a few.”

“Can you help an old friend out, Red?” Milt asked. “If Jeff really got in over his head, he doesn’t need the heat, especially if we’re going to start this contracting business next year.”

“Yeah. It shouldn’t be a problem,” Darla said. “How would you get it to us?”

“Through the mail, in a box stuffed with paper,” Milt said. “But he has to destroy it or melt it down. Anything but keep it.”

Darla chuckled. “Trust me on this, Milt. Conrad isn’t that stupid.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Send it to me at our business address,” Darla said. “Do you have it?”

“It’s in my little black book.”

“Of course it is,” Darla mumbled with a smirk. “But you’re going to seriously owe me one!”

“I’ll owe you ten if you save our asses, Red!”

“Don’t think I won’t collect, buddy!”

Milton laughed. “Yeah. I know you will. I’ll ship it later today.”

Darla’s office door slowly opened, creaking as it moved. She watched a small girl with long auburn hair wearing a pink dress peek around the edge. The bashful stare of Susannah’s piercing green eyes locked onto her own. “Mama, I’m hungry. Can I have lunch?”

Darla glanced at the wall clock over her desk. “It’s early, baby girl. How about a snack?” Susannah’s face lit up with a huge smile. She nodded vigorously, her movements becoming more animated as she jumped up and down. Darla laughed at her daughter’s enthusiasm. She glanced at the phone. “Gotta run, Milt. I’ll let you know when your package arrives.”

“Thanks a mil, Red.”

“Later,” Darla said, dropping the phone’s handset in its cradle. Her gaze met Susannah’s. She couldn’t help but break into a bright smile. “How about an apple?”

Susannah nodded eagerly, her tiny feet trotting across the room as she bound into her mother’s lap. “I love you, mama!”

Darla closed her eyes, hugged Susannah, and smiled. She stood, savoring the unadulterated innocence of her daughter’s unconditional love. “I love you, too, baby girl.”

V

Milton informed Jeffrey that afternoon their plan to send the Beretta to California was on. Jeffrey gave Milton the gun and some money for postage. Milton covertly took care of the rest.

A week later, Darla received Milton’s package and gave the Beretta to Conrad with instructions to make the pistol disappear. Conrad agreed, although he didn’t destroy the gun as Darla requested. He kept the .22 Beretta Minx as his own without informing Darla. She never asked if Conrad disposed of the weapon. Darla simply assumed he had.

Twenty-four years later, in 1994, the DEA captured the Beretta as part of a major sting operation to take down the Escorpión drug cartel, often called the Scorpion syndicate.

A year later, in 1995, the Maryland State Police recovered a bullet from the grave of John Myers beneath Alumni Hall at Western Maryland College. It matched the Beretta recovered during the Escorpión bust. Detective Ian Perri, who led the Scarecrow investigation, requested the DEA send the Beretta to Maryland as potential evidence in a twenty-five-year-old murder investigation.

As of October 1995, the gun that killed John Myers and once belonged to the now deceased Geoffrey Thomas sits in an evidence locker at Maryland State Police G Barrack in Westminster, Maryland.