The Killing House

17

Seventeen-year-old Jimmy Weeks saw police lights explode across his rearview mirror.

It wasn’t an ordinary cop car. Directly behind him and practically riding his back bumper was a big, black Chevy suburban — an undercover-cop car, he thought. No sirens, just flashing lights installed in the front grille.

Jimmy felt his chest tighten. An inner voice urged him to relax.

You haven’t done anything wrong, that voice said. The cop probably just wants you to move out of the way since you’re hogging the lane and driving like an old lady.

He was driving slowly — and with excessive caution. His dad had agreed to hand over the keys for his BMW. In return, Jimmy had agreed to run to the grocery store to pick up a few items needed for ‘Wafflepalloza’, his father’s hip term for the waffle extravaganza he cooked up every Sunday morning in an attempt to get everyone to sit down and spend ‘quality family time’ together. Completely lame, but Jimmy had to admit the waffles were pretty good.

Jimmy pulled off the main road and banged a right on to Haymarket Street.

The Chevy followed. The flashing lights shut off as it pulled up directly behind him.

‘But I haven’t done anything wrong,’ he mumbled to himself.

And that’s why you have nothing to worry about, that inner voice counselled.

But that didn’t stop beads of sweat from popping out along his hairline. He parked against the kerb, removed the Velcro-canvas wallet from his back jeans pocket, leaned across the console and opened the glove box. He was fishing out the registration from the piles of papers when the knock came at the window.

The undercover cop was a woman. She wore a bulky black winter parka and a pair of sunglasses with mirrored lenses. A black knit cap covered her head and ears.

There was something wrong with her face. Like the skin had been stretched too far back. Mrs Dempsey’s botched facelift came to mind as Jimmy rolled down the window.

On the heels of that thought came another one: Why would an undercover cop pull me over?

Jimmy handed over his licence and registration. The lady cop didn’t take them. She held up a leather wallet displaying a heavy gold badge. Beside it and tucked underneath a clear sheet of plastic was an ID with ‘FBI’ printed across the top in big bold blue letters. The accompanying picture showed a middle-aged woman with black hair worn tight across her scalp. Her name was Marie Clouzot.

FBI. She’s a federal agent, oh sweet Jesus.

‘Are you the owner of this vehicle, sir?’

Jimmy nodded. Then he said, ‘It’s my dad’s car.’

‘Your name?’

‘James Weeks. What’s — did I do something wrong?’

‘Well, Mr Weeks, it seems you’re driving a vehicle that was used in the commission of a robbery.’

The heat that spread across Jimmy’s face was so intense he thought his skin would melt.

‘Several eyewitnesses reported seeing this model of BMW at the pharmacy last night, and they gave us a licence-plate number. Your licence-plate number, Mr Weeks.’

Everything came into a sharp and sickening focus — the way her eyes moved behind her sunglasses as she searched his car, her breath steaming in the frigid Pennsylvania air. His lips and jaw trembled as he stammered his way through an explanation.

‘There’s got to… No, that can’t be true. This car belongs — it’s my dad’s car.’

‘Where were you yesterday, Mr Weeks?’

Yesterday. He’d had hockey practice after school. After that, he’d spent a few hours doing homework and preparing for Mr Glassman’s upcoming ballbuster history test, and then he’d gone over to George Durant’s house and played the new Call of Duty game until nine or ten — and he’d driven there in his mother’s shitty Toyota Corolla.

Jimmy told all of this to the FBI agent.

‘Where do you live, Mr Weeks?’

‘Boynton Street,’ he said. ‘It’s not that far, less than ten minutes.’

‘Are your parents at home?’

Jimmy nodded, kept nodding.

‘Do you have a cell phone?’

‘In my coat pocket,’ he said. ‘I can call him right now, he’ll — ’

‘Please keep your hands on the wheel, Mr Weeks.’

‘Call him. My dad. He’ll tell you where I was. I didn’t — I wouldn’t hold up a drugstore.’

She stared at him from behind her sunglasses.

‘I swear to God I’m telling you the truth,’ Jimmy said.

‘Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to get in my car. I’m going to drive you to your house, and we’re going to sit down and talk to your parents, see if your story holds up.’ She opened his door. ‘Make sure you lock your car.’

He did. Agent Clouzot told him to get into the passenger’s seat. He did. After she got settled behind the wheel, she asked him for his cell. Jimmy gave it to her. She examined it for a moment before slipping it inside her jacket pocket.

She started the Chevy. Then she took out a pair of plastic handcuffs.

‘Please turn around and place your hands behind your back.’

‘But I–I haven’t done anything wrong.’ Jimmy felt the sting of tears. Felt embarrassed and ashamed for acting like such a pussy — especially in front of a woman.

‘Mr Weeks, the last person who professed his innocence attacked me while I was driving and almost got me killed. If you’re as innocent as you say you are, then you won’t mind wearing these until we arrive at your home. It’s for your safety, and mine. If you refuse, I’ll place you under arrest.’

Jimmy’s mouth felt like cotton. He swallowed dryly.

‘We can talk to your parents at your house, or you can call them from our federal office. What do you want to do?’

Jimmy, frightened by the idea of being arrested and having to call his parents, turned around in his seat. He stared out of his window and, heart thumping at a frightening and furious clip, placed his hands behind his back.

This is some sort of mix-up, he told himself as the woman tightened the cuffs against his wrists. I didn’t rob a pharmacy. My parents know where I was yesterday. There are at least, what, a dozen witnesses who can tell this agent I was -

Something sharp pierced his lower thigh. Startled, he swung around in his seat, knocking his head against the side window as a hot and stinging liquid flooded his muscle; FBI Agent Clouzot had stuck a needle into his leg, and her thumb was pressing down on the plunger of a syringe.

He tried to twist away, his shins slamming into the glove box. The woman reached up, grabbed him by the back of the neck and sent his face crashing down against the console separating the two seats.

The impact broke his nose. Jimmy felt it crack, heard the sound boom through his head, certain that bone fragments were flying through his brain. His eyes watered, and blood poured out of his nose and down his throat, and he kicked underneath the glove box. He couldn’t move his head; the FBI agent was placing all of her weight down on his neck, like she wanted to snap it. With his face smashed against the console, Jimmy let out a garbled scream, spitting blood against a brown leather sunglasses case.