Page 69 of Catching Camila

John

Friday 7:01 a.m.

John hobbled toward the apartments in the dim morning light as his leg stitched itself back together.

The pain was awful, but he kept himself occupied by following the scent of strawberry shampoo. It was faint, but when he honed his mind, the scent was there like a thin ribbon drawing him to her. He glanced around at the apartments: the busted front windows, the spray-painted dumpster. A baby cried in an upstairs window and someone was either vacuuming or drying their hair. The rest of the windows were shut or humming with AC units. A willowy old man sat on a stoop three buildings down, puffing on a cigarette. John smelled burnt bacon, motor oil, and garbage.

What was Camila doing in this seedy complex?

Her scent led to a door propped open with a rock. John lumbered up the rickety stairs, pain spiking at every step, but it was duller now. His broken foot seemed to be totally healed, and the shin, too. His femur still felt brittle as glass, but he focused on her scent, the strawberry smell close now, sending tingles up his spine. He found the door and knocked, not sure what to expect.

A boy flung the door open. As soon as he saw him, his face fell. John recognized him now, Travis from the ice cream shop. He looked awful, hair disheveled, pants sagging over dirty boxers, a red welt forming on one cheek.

“What d’you want?” Travis asked, glaring at John. Then, slowly, his face morphed into a look of panic, his jaw dropping. “You…you're the psycho dude!” He shoved the door closed.

John thrust his foot in the gap, the door slamming against his toes and jangling open. Then he shouldered into the door, helping it snap back. Travis stumbled backwards, skidding to his butt on the dirty carpet.

“Where is she?” John said, striding in, looking around. Some of the rage from the forest had followed him. If this boy had done anything to her…

He shook his head, trying to clear the anger away. If he didn't calm down, he could hurt someone. Bad. “Where is she?” he repeated.

Travis jumped up, the veins on his neck pulsing. “I'm not gonna tell you.” His wide eyes flicked toward a cellphone on the coffee table.

John shook his head, striding forward, arms flexed. Travis backed up, his eyes widening. John towered over him, eyes slitted. “You're not going to call anyone.” Realizing fear would get him nowhere, he took a deep breath and lightened his tone. “Look, I'm not here to hurt her. I'm here to protect her. She's in danger.”

“Yeah, from you!” Travis shouted. He balled up his fist, reached back, and socked John in the face.

It felt like a child's punch, but John’s body reacted anyway. Before he knew it, he had his hands around Travis's scrawny neck and was lifting him into the air.

Travis's legs wheeled, one bare foot catching John in the stomach. His hands circled John's wrists, scratching and clawing. His eyes bulged behind the clump of greasy blond hair that had fallen over his eyes. None of it stopped John. Anger vined through his brain, snaked through his synapses, blocked out thought. He slammed Travis into the wall, the drywall denting. This boy wanted Camila. John wanted to smash. To tear.

The boy's face was turning blue, the veins on his neck pulsing as he took small, gasping breaths. His scared, watering eyes found John's. “Please.”

Gods, what was he doing? John shook his head, releasing Travis, who slumped down the wall into a pile on the floor. John stepped back, his hands trembling. Why had he attacked this boy? What was happening to him? He backed away as Travis sat up, gasping. When he looked up at John, the terror was still there.

“Sorry,” John mumbled, staggering out of the apartment.

“You…better not hurt her!” Travis rasped as John pushed out the door.

John didn't answer. He came for Camila.

His eyes searched the parking lot, the shrubs, any place she could hide. He sniffed again. There, faintly, was the ribbon of scent, and something else too. Something…charred? He followed it around the building and down the alley. It didn't take him long to find the singed brick. He blinked at the two blackened triangles for a moment, a sense of dread stealing over him.

The drawing looked like someone had taken a blowtorch to the wall. John's whole body went numb. He walked over and placed his hand on a seared drawing of the Mackinaw Island Bridge. Still hot.

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