Lost in Clover Page 3

  6. VIOLENCE

  As they drove closer to the Coopers, Jeremy’s stomach twisted into knots, and the nausea began to overwhelm him. He knew he was going to puke. As they turned on the dirt road, Jeremy knew he wouldn’t be a part of this mob, and he felt a violent upsurge.

  “Pull over. I gotta puke.”

  The truck hadn’t completely stopped when the passengers bounded out and Jeremy tumbled head first to the ground where he hurled and heaved, wrenching out everything in his stomach, including air. A couple of minutes later he saw a circle of boots and tennis shoes.

  “Looks like Rogers couldn’t hold his booze down,” Randy said.

  There was some muffled laughter. Kevin knelt down, putting a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. “You okay?”

  Jeremy shook his head. “I can’t do this. Go on without me,” he whispered.

  “Why don’t you get in the truck and rest? We’ll do our thing.”

  Jeremy shook his head again. “No, I don’t want to go. I’ll walk home.”

  “What are you talking about? It’s five miles or more.”

  “I can do it.”

  “We ain’t going to do much to Crazy Eddie, you know,” Kevin whispered. “Just harass him a little.”

  “I’m not going,” Jeremy said, turning to look at Kevin in the eye.

  “Suit yourself,” Kevin said, rising. He addressed the group. “Looks like Jeremy doesn’t have it in him—”

  “Literally,” somebody said.

  “We’re leaving him here. He wants it that way. Let’s keep going. Crazy Eddie’s at the end of the road. Let’s show that smartass what’s what.”

  There were more whoops and hollers as the boys piled back into their trucks. A few of them taunted Jeremy out the windows.

  “Man up, Rogers.”

  “Wuss,” Randy shouted.

  Jeremy waited, still prone, watching over his shoulder at the trucks speeding down the road, kicking up dust, as their lights shrank into the distance. With a deep inhale, he stood, brushed off, and walked towards the main road. It was going to be a long walk after a long day of work, but he wasn’t going to be a part of a mob. Eddie had been through too much, and he wouldn’t take a beat down like other guys would. He’d be unpredictable, not giving up when he should, only to get pounded even worse.

  Jeremy stepped on the paved road when he heard the first shot. It was followed by dozens more. A cold sweat broke out on Jeremy’s face. He was nowhere near civilization, but he sprinted into the darkness, running as hard as he ever had. His heart thumped wildly. Something bad happened, something evil.

  Jeremy staggered to the Quick ’N Go convenience store with a painful stitch in his side. He saw Shirley, a middle-aged lady who knew almost everybody in Clover, behind the register reading a magazine. He was relieved she didn’t look up when he fumbled with the receiver of an outdoor telephone. He had planned to call 911, but already heard sirens in the distance. Jeremy dialed and was grateful Gary, his father, answered instead of his mother.

  “Coming home? Your mother is watching the clock. Ten minutes till curfew.”

  “Can you pick me up at the Quick ’N Go? I don’t have a ride.”

  There was a pause over the line. “Everything okay?”

  Jeremy trembled. “Sure. Fine. Can you pick me up? But not with mom.”

  After another pause Gary said, “Ok, I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

  Jeremy hung up, shivering in cold sweat.

  Jeremy dry heaved in the shadows of darkness behind the store. He had seen a sheriff’s cruiser fly past, followed by highway patrol, and then two ambulances, and knew the worst had happened. He thought of Crazy Eddie, his mother, and his sisters, all slaughtered. Maybe it was Randy or Trevor who did it. They got knocked down and retaliated with gunfire. Maybe both sides shot at each other. Several shots had been fired. Was it from the same gun or different ones? Jeremy couldn’t remember the exact sounds of the popping gunfire. And when he had run down the road, he had thought he heard even more shots, or had that been a hallucination—half drunk, light headed, empty stomach—he wondered if any of his memories were valid. It seemed impossible that he had been toiling on a roof earlier in the day.

  Jeremy stayed in the dark shadows. When Gary pulled up in the family Oldsmobile, Jeremy felt an urge to stay hidden, but trudged to the car.

  “You have anything to do with all this commotion?” Gary asked after Jeremy buckled up.

  “Sort of.”

  Another sheriff’s cruiser flew past. Gary studied his son. “What is it? Do we need to go to the police?”

  “Maybe, but not now.” Jeremy held back tears. “I don’t know what happened. I left before…whatever happened.”

  Gary waited while his son inhaled and exhaled. “Tell me what you know,” he said in a soft voice. “Besides talking to the police, you need to have your story straight for your mother.”

  Jeremy sighed. “I didn’t do anything, but I sort of did…”

  *

  Jeremy told Gary everything that had happened, including the beer drinking. Everything except the directions he gave to the Cooper house. That was something he couldn’t tell anybody. The story was then abbreviated for Gail, not mentioning the beer.

  “I told you that you’re never allowed to go to the Coopers. Never.” Her hands were planted on her hips.

  “I got out of the truck before they got there.”

  “And you don’t know what happened?”

  “I heard a lot of gunshots. And none of those guys’ trucks left.”

  “I told you to stay away from there. Do you ever listen?” She shook her head.

  “Can it, Gail,” Gary said. “He did the right thing and walked away from a bad situation before it got any worse. That’s better than most boys, so give him a break.”

  7. CHAOS IN CLOVER

  Jeremy and his parents stayed awake all night watching the local news channels in the living room. A sheriff’s cruiser, haloed with red and blue flashing lights, had parked perpendicular to the dirt road, blocking the media from driving to the Coopers. On each channel reporters stood near the car, confirming that several people had been shot and rushed to the hospital, conditions unknown. The shooter, apparently, was holed up in the house. Cameras zoomed in on whirling police lights further down the road.

  Cable networks picked up the story around three in the morning as “A Shooting in Clover, Kansas.” Then it changed to “The Standoff in Clover” when the sheriff confirmed Crazy Eddie and his family had barricaded themselves in the house. By the middle of the morning, after the Coopers surrendered and were arrested, the total carnage was revealed: seven dead, one critically wounded. A new name was slapped on that finally stuck: “The Clover Massacre.”

  The shooting was the top story in America that morning. Reporters from Kansas City, Wichita, and St. Louis as well as network and cable news flocked to the town. The Clover and Shelby local police, the Kansas Bureau of Investigations, and the ATF were all there trying to figure out what had happened.

  As bits and pieces of the story emerged, it seemed that the boys began their taunts when Crazy Eddie walked out with a MAC-10 and an extra clip. Though a couple of the harassers kept firearms in their trucks, they didn’t use them. Reporters said that Crazy Eddie had opened fire on all of them and then walked up to each body and shot them point blank, making sure they were dead. Jeremy felt sick. He could see the boys crawling, bleeding to death, trying to hold their guts inside, when Crazy Eddie finished them off. Somehow, against all odds, Randy survived. Barely. He was on life support, having been airlifted from Emporia hospital to Kansas City General. Reporters bearing grave faces reported that he was not expected to live. Jeremy wondered “Why him? Why couldn’t Kevin be the one hanging on?”

  Jeremy hadn’t slept all night, and in the shower his tears mixed with the soap and shampoo. He scrubbed hard under the hot water, trying to wash away his stench of what had happened. Why didn’t he go home after work?
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br />   He had emails, texts, and phone calls from friends asking what he knew about the massacre. Jeremy didn’t want to answer anybody.

  After an untouched breakfast and a few hours of watching the news, Gary drove Jeremy to the sheriff’s office in the late morning. As they crawled towards Clover’s town square, traffic clogged up worse than anything Jeremy had ever seen. Not even as bad as the annual Thanksgiving night celebration, when the town spruce is lit, all of the local stores open for business, and, most importantly, Santa sits in the square’s gazebo for pictures with children.

  Gary parked several streets away. Clover felt surreal as they walked the five blocks to the police station. News media staked out sections of sidewalk. Countless reporters with video cameras or audio recorders covered the massacre from their designated territory. Hundreds of curious people loitered in groups watching the spectacle, and a few took pictures like Clover had the Eiffel Tower. Jeremy knew some, but more looked like strangers.

  Jeremy and Gary took wide berths around the media, ignoring them when they tried to get their attention. Passing by the “citizens of Clover” who were interviewed, they heard the same mantra repeated: “Nothing like this has ever happened here.”

  They walked towards the Sheriff’s office, a two-story gray box and probably the ugliest building in the square. A crowd surrounded the two steps in front of a podium, blocking the entrance.

  “What’s going on here?” Gary asked two gray haired women with matching Clover Cavalier visors and windbreakers. They looked like they could be sisters or cousins. Jeremy had seen them around, always together since he was a boy.

  “Suppose to be a statement any minute now,” one said.

  “They’ve been saying that for last two hours, though,” the other said in a huff.

  “Doesn’t look like we’re going to be able to get in there,” Gary muttered to Jeremy. “At least until this thing is over. Let’s get something to eat.”

  Jeremy nodded, staying calm, but feeling fifty pounds lifting from his shoulders. He didn’t have to talk to the police or anybody for now.

  Jeremy and Gary crossed the square to the Main Street Café. Although it was crowded, they managed to get a booth with a view of the square. After ordering slices of pie, they watched the chaos outside silently. I caused all of this, Jeremy kept thinking.

  “Crazy, ain’t it?” the waitress said as she pushed a slice of Mississippi mud pie to Jeremy, breaking him out of his trance. “All these reporters and people from who knows where.”

  They both nodded.

  “Looks like Clover’s finally on the map.”

  “Too bad it ain’t for something good,” Gary said.

  “But it’s better than nothing, which is what we’ve been for a long, long time.”

  She sauntered to another table, refreshing their coffee. Jeremy, finally feeling an appetite, shoveled his slice away, while Gary pecked at his cherry à la mode. They ate quietly, looking out the window. Instead of the crowds lessening they grew with cameramen bearing tripods and reporters with microphones until the entire street was blocked. The waitress returned.

  “I hear they still haven’t started the press conference yet. I guess they’re trying to figure out what to say, huh?” They nodded back to her. “Would you guys like to order anything else? If not, we’ve got a buncha people waiting for a table.”

  Jeremy looked at his father, pleading with his eyes to leave.

  “No thank you, we’re heading home.”

  Jeremy sighed with relief.

  8. AFTERMATH

  Jeremy never talked to the police. It seemed that they and the public knew the events before the shooting, at least the barbeque and the angry mob.

  “Jeremy needs to go to the station and tell them what happened,” Gail said.

  “And do what? Tell the police what they already know. We’d end up with reporters up on our lawn for days, trampling on your azaleas, and labeling Jeremy something like “the lone massacre survivor” or “the lucky Clover kid” or something as stupid. Nothing good will come of it. Aren’t I right, Jeremy?”

  “Yes,” Jeremy said quickly. He never wanted to be the center of any attention, and definitely not this. Finally Gary convinced Gail to at least sit on it until things calmed down.

  Besides, the Clover Massacre took on a life of its own. The Kansas ATF found a few acres of pot growing in the back of the Cooper property, along with extreme right-wing militia propaganda and a cache of unregistered automatic and semi-automatic weapons. Mr. Pete Cooper, who claimed to be passed out drunk during the entire bloodbath, turned out be Mr. Edward Nickles from the Missouri Ozarks, wanted for a string of armed robberies and a murder twenty years earlier. The two youngest Cooper girls were shipped out to foster families far away. The eldest, Naomi, who had just turned eighteen, was arrested along with her mother for distribution of marijuana.

  In town, the older people were saying that this was the biggest thing in Kansas since In Cold Blood. Several reporters from the coasts rolled into town, including the Los Angeles Times, The New Yorker, and Newsweek. Rumors circulated that Hollywood wanted to give Crazy Eddie a million dollars for the rights to his life story. Of course that sent the Clover residents into a tizzy. How could those godless liberal moviemakers give money to a mass murderer?

  Jeremy kept his involvement in the massacre to himself. Although others had seen him at the barbeque, nobody was sure who left with whom. Randy was the only survivor, but he was in a deep coma. People were saying that if he survived he would be paralyzed and probably wouldn’t remember much since half of his head was missing. Jeremy hoped Randy would recover to full health, but perhaps with a little forgetfulness. He didn’t want to be tied to the party at all.

  Whenever the phone rang, Jeremy’s heart raced. Was the sheriff on the line wondering why he gave those boys directions to Crazy Eddie’s? Why he ran away? Why he was keeping quiet?

  9. FUNERAL

  The funeral for Kevin was held at the Prairie View Methodist Church. Parishioners, relatives, and friends crammed into pews with dozens more crowding the aisles. Even though he didn’t want to go, Jeremy felt that he must. Sitting with his parents and sister, Jessica, who drove out from Wichita State, he could barely hold his head up. Instead he stared at his feet, waiting for the services to be over.

  L.T. Diamond, with sagging shoulders and unkempt hair, looked as if he had aged by ten years since Jeremy saw him a week earlier. Jeremy had grown up watching L.T. in awe. He had been so outwardly confident—Kevin, his only son, emulated him perfectly—but when Pastor Edwards eulogized the brief but colorful life of Kevin, L.T. let out a low moan that chilled the audience. Later, when Jeremy shook his fragile hand, desperately wanting to apologize, he saw hollow eyes in a man no longer there.

  Jeremy avoided the other funerals. Though several of his friends and Jessica attended them, he couldn’t swallow the idea of watching more families suffer. He felt ill and spent hours in the basement playing video games. The noises, the predictable movements, it was like medication. When insomnia struck, which was almost a nightly occurrence, he’d sneak downstairs and play until morning light.

  The news media covered all of the funerals and the comings and goings of Clover residents—the IGA grocery store, the post office, and even church services. People walked briskly away from the cameras keeping their heads down. Everybody complained about the intrusive media. Then, shockingly, they were gone. Clover, it seemed, was no longer significant.

  10. SCHOOL

  When school started two weeks later, students were saying that Crazy Eddie—the “Crazy” prefix permanently affixed—was a part of a nihilistic separatist group like Timothy McVeigh. It seemed he had his sights set on shooting up the school to rail against institutionalized education. Good thing that those boys, God rest their souls, intervened. The boys were becoming martyrs. Jeremy kept his mouth shut and watched, with something like amused detachment, as the drunken ass has-beens turned into saints.

 
; During third period on the first day, all classes were sent to an assembly in the gymnasium. Jeremy nodded to several friends, but he wanted to be alone. He found an end bench next to a cluster of freshmen. He sat and stared at the sandstone wall. Principal Morgan stood behind a podium under a basketball hoop, looking at notes. After everybody was seated he made his speech.

  “Students, faculty, and staff, thank you for coming today.”

  As if we had a choice, Jeremy thought.

  “Our town of Clover suffered a horrible tragedy a few weeks ago. The fallen men were Cavalier alumni. All of us probably knew one or all of the victims. Several of you are related to the deceased. It is going to be tough for some of you…some more than others, but I want you to know that we have hired extra counselors for the next two months.”

  Principal Morgan had three counselors stand next him. Two men and a woman. All three had sad sensitive faces and pale clammy skin. Jeremy knew he couldn’t talk to any of them. They wouldn’t understand. They looked like they lived in basement libraries, reading Freud or whatever psychology books were popular. They hadn’t lived outside, mowing lawns, fixing roofs, playing football.

  “If you need to talk about how this tragedy has affected you,” the principal continued, “I truly encourage you to take advantage of their services. They are trained professionals.” He then looked out at the students in the bleachers and sighed. “Please bow your heads. This might not be considered proper by some folks, but you all know it is the right thing to do.” He closed his eyes. “Dear Lord God Almighty, please look down on us and give us strength to persevere through this time of tragedy. We have lost our sons, our brothers, our teammates, our classmates. We know you have a greater plan, but please look kindly on those poor boys’ souls. Also, please help Randy Cochran to pull through and return to the health and happiness he once knew as a Clover Caviler. In your name we trust, amen.”