A police cruiser sat under the sheltering arms of an ancient oak. The tree had nearly died when teeths of flame had gnawed at it during the fire that ended the Trouble. It clung to life, though, just as it had clung to the side of the drop-off for well over a century. Thick roots were dug deep into the flesh of the earth, holding the tree in place through storms and snowmelt and forest blazes.
Over those years a lot of cars had sought shelter beneath its twisted arms. Lovers gasping out promises in the dark. Criminals hiding until the bloodhounds lost the scent. A priest masturbating over memories of a very special altar boy. A man fitting the barrel of a pistol into his mouth in hopes the bullet would blow away the memory of a wife whose Humvee rolled over an IED in Afghanistan. So many lives. So many stories. The police car was a story still unfolding. It was parked there often. Sometimes the officer would sit behind the wheel and cry. Sometimes he would listen to music for hours, the radio and his cell turned off. And, occasionally, on nights like this, the car would sit empty. The officer’s uniform folded neatly on the back seat, underwear, shoes, and all. On nights like this that car would be empty for hours and hours.
On this night, the officer came back, naked and trembling. He stood beside the car, leaning on it while the brutal rain washed the mud and blood from his pale skin. It washed away his tears. It removed everything except the memory of what had happened down in the swampy depths of Dark Hollow far below. The oak tree kept all these secrets close and did not even whisper them to the other trees.