The Silent Scream of the Straw Man

by Corinne F. Gerwe

  “What’s the latest on him?”

  “He’s still undergoing psychiatric evaluation at the state hospital in Raleigh. His parents are staying in a hotel nearby. According to Danny Foster, Trent’s primary goal was to shake up the town and immortalize his hero, but I think he wanted to shake up his parents more than anyone, and he certainly succeeded. They’ll have to change their rigid lifestyle to care for him until he fully recovers. If he does, he will have to face the consequences of his actions and either way, their lives will never be the same.

  “But I got off track. I was making a point about not finding a similar modus operandi in the databank, and the nature of the murders. I suspect the murders are connected to the place where the woman’s body was buried. If the killer had a connection to this woman, do you think it’s possible that a return to the vicinity where her murder was committed started a pattern that might continue?”

  Dev replied, “Yes it is very possible, and it wasn’t simply being in the environs of the hidden grave. The straw man also has marked significance and symbolizes something to the killer. It would be ironic if the Scarecrow Murder headlines that influenced Trent to initiate the sightings were the catalyst that prompted the killer to bring the second murder into town.

  “If we accept the hypothesis that the murders were initiated by a return to the area, we should add they were triggered by an abusive incident. If the killer had witnessed the violent death of the woman in the grave, it would explain the violent reaction to Willis Gaither’s abusive behavior.”

  Farley added, “Zack Tanner had a history of abusing his girlfriends before he moved in with Margaret Bowling. She has never filed a complaint, but I doubt that he changed. He must have done something to enrage the killer.”

  Dev asked, “But who was Tanner’s victim?”

  Farley thought of Miss Pen taking Megan to Mamma Phoebe and replied, “I’m working on that.”

  Farley’s car speaker phone crackled.

  Deputy Purdy came on, “Chief, Margaret Bowling and Rupert Mills are on the move. She’s locked up the house and the pick-up is gone. I went down to the landing where he works and he’s quit his job. I’ve got his license plate number. Should I call it in? Sorry, Chief, I figured they were hiding something, but didn’t think they’d split.”

  Farley replied, “Call it in. They won’t get far. You stay put. I’m sending the Serena Rescue Squad down to help. I want a search of the bank area all the way down river. I’ll send Becky’s canine unit, too. They’re either running from something or to something. I’m putting you in charge.”

  Purdy replied in disbelief, “Are you sure, Chief? I mean, yes, sir!”

  After the call ended, Dev asked, “What are you thinking, Jeff?”

  “I’m thinking we need to head over to Jim Sutton’s farmhouse. I don’t know where Margaret Bowling and her handyman are headed, but we’re going in another direction. I’ll call the Lodge and make sure our wounded bear is in hibernation.”

  Farley was infuriated to learn from the sheriff’s deputy that Buddy Larson was nowhere to be found.

  Farley replied with exasperation, “It’s becoming an epidemic.”

  The deputy replied, “I don’t know how he could have slipped by us, Chief. He’d been in his room until letting me know he would be in the tavern for a while. I watched him go in and checked twice to make sure he was there, keeping a close watch like you requested. Each time I checked, he was sitting on the bar stool, drinking beer and telling stories. He had everyone around him laughing. When I came back the third time, one of his buddies said he’d gone to the men’s room and hadn’t returned. I checked, and he wasn’t there. I don’t know how he got out because there are no windows in the restroom, and the rear exit is on the other side of the tavern.”

  Farley replied, “He came out, alright. You just didn’t recognize him. Check the film company vehicles in the lot and find out which one is missing. He probably took one of the vans.”

  In the ancient cabin on the southeastern ridge near the winery, another storyteller held court to an audience of only one. Megan had fallen into a deep state of relaxation as she listened to Mamma Phoebe tell a tale of a young woman much like herself.

  The girl had lost her way on a path in the forest that led in many directions. Each direction she chose led her deeper and deeper into the forest. She lost confidence in her decisions and could not move forward or turn back. The canopy of treetops where she stood had become so dense the ray of the sun no longer filtered through. She grew afraid but in her stillness heard the sound of rushing water. She followed the sound to a stream that led to a large mountain of rock that blocked her way except for an opening at the center. The cave appeared to her as a giant black hole, a forbidden entrance to a terrifying unknown.

  When she turned away from the blackness she heard the growl of a wolf and the cry of a cougar and the hiss of a snake and each began to close in on her. She turned back to the cave where there stood a large beast all covered in fur. He beckoned her to him with a wave of his arm allaying her fears with a gentle expression. She moved toward him and then beyond him into the cave where she felt safe and warm. The wolf and the cougar and snake tried to follow but each met their death at the hand of the beast. No longer in danger, she reached out to thank him for giving protection and saving her life.

  Then came the intruders who’d been sent to find her; a hunter, a trail guide, and friend she once knew. They called and she answered. She moved out to greet them. The beast stood between them and pushed her aside. She fell to the ground, and then witnessed the horror. The hunter and trail guide and friend met their death. The beast turned toward her and looked down upon her and reached out to help her return to his lair. He’d been her protector and now was her keeper, her life had become his and was no longer her own.

  The story ended with Mamma Phoebe’s honey voice humming a melody strange and yet soothing. Megan drifted into a dream state, surrounded by darkness, the cave walls around her began closing in. His ominous presence was no longer with her but still she felt captive because of her guilt. She’d entered the forest and caused things to happen and could not undo them, and therefore must pay. The cost was her silence, the debt that she owed him. But what of the others who surely would come? He knew not the difference. He was the protector. The beast had his nature and this would prevail. Alarm overcame her. She woke from the dream, the melody stopped, and the answer was clear.

  “Mamma Phoebe, oh, Mamma Phoebe, what can I do? I know he must be stopped,” she cried.

  Mamma Phoebe reached over and took Megan’s hand. “You’ve come to the truth child. Let me see what I can do.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  THE DOOR WAS ONLY INCHES away. She stretched across the rotted threshold. Her body hung halfway out over three cement blocks that descended to the weed-covered earth below. The door hung askew on a collapsing frame. She prayed it would not collapse on her as she edged to a tipping point, and then sloped down, head first. The irregular edges of the blocks tore into the burlap, tearing one side open enough to expose her skin to more abrasion.

  She could not see her surroundings, but heard the sounds of nature and rippling waters. The lyrics of the Louise Armstrong song What a Wonderful World came to mind. She started to mentally sing the words, visualizing trees of green and skies of blue. When her bound feet plopped down from the last cement block, she lay perfectly still on soft cool earth strewn with rocks and pebbles. The pebbles felt small and round like those from a creek bed. She wondered if there was a road between her and the stream.

  She couldn’t remember how she had gotten there, and surmised she’d been transported in a vehicle. If there was a road, someone might come along and find her, but there had been no sound of a car passing since she’d regained consciousness. If someone did come along, it might be the person who’d brought her here. She reverted back to the song.

  The lyrics painted a picture for her to imagine. A pathway formed in her mind o
f the rushing stream she could hear. She writhed toward it as slowly, but surely. At one point she almost panicked when a creature, possibly a squirrel, rustled leaves as it scurried away. She wondered how she appeared to the wildlife around her; like a massive bleeding burlap covered mammal worming her way through their domain, squirming and inching rather than slithering like a snake. The thought of a snake could not be allowed; she was terrified of snakes and would panic if one touched her. Bears came to mind and she silently prayed, Oh, God, please help me.

  Melody and lyrics filled her mind, and I think to myself, what a wonderful world.

  The approaching van did move like a snake as it wound its way down the ridge. Returning to the camp house meant it had to be done. Confusion set in. How had it come to this? It wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t been late to the party. She’d come out of the lodge and walked right past the van, just as he had pulled into the parking space. She’d looked directly at him through the window, and then walked on in a hurry, her mind on something else. He’d watched her go inside. She’d not looked back once and probably hadn’t given it another thought. But she would later on. She was the only person who knew he’d left the party. He’d followed her back inside, blending in and watching her intently observe the woman Steven Frye had brought to the party.

  Then she’d gone back outside to make a phone call. He’d followed and peeked through a slight crack in the door, making it quick because people were milling around. He’d almost missed her exchange with the police chief, who had driven up to the front entrance. But he’d driven away, and she’d come back inside, returning to her table deep in thought. He’d been about to return to the bar when spotting Megan and asking her to dance. As they’d glided across the dance floor, he’d looked across the room over Megan’s shoulder, and met Joyce’s eyes staring back at him. He’d waited outside by the side of the building, knowing she would follow to confront him. She hadn’t expected the blow, or the van to be open and waiting.

  The narrow road curved like a ringlet before reaching the base of the ridge where it straightened and ran parallel but some distance from the creek. The rural route was overgrown and seemingly forgotten; a neglected back road less traveled. The sun was shut out by towering pines cloaked in draping kudzu. The monstrous vines would eventually cover the camp house and swallow it whole. He’d thought about burning it to the ground, but would let nature take its course.

  A question formed in his mind, what of my nature? Is it in my nature to do this? It hadn’t been before.

  His head started to ache, and his vision blurred. He adjusted the rear view mirror to see his reflection, eyes that were not his stared back. They were the eyes of his father, hard and cold. His soft cow-brown irises had been replaced by two black coals. The shock was so great he reached for the mirror to turn it away. The van hit a pothole and veered wildly to the right. He overcorrected and slammed into a tree.

  His head hit the wheel and lurched back. Blood streamed from a gash in his forehead. He climbed out, and fell to the ground. His legs were wobbly, but he got to his feet. The front of the vehicle was caved in by the tree. Smoke poured from the engine. There was nothing to do but walk the quarter-mile to his destination. Or was it his destiny? It had seemed predetermined from the time he’d learned the greatest role of his career would be filmed near the place that lived in his nightmares.

  How could he have turned it down? He knew Purvis McCabe down to the core of his being; his cruel stubbornness and void of compassion ability to judge and reject his daughter with cold-hearted authority, instead of protecting her from another abusive lowlife. Oh, yes, he knew this man inside and out, having been exposed to these traits at an early age.

  His vision was blurry, and his head throbbed with pain as he took one plodding step after another. The van would be a problem, but not if it couldn’t be connected to him. The only person who knew of that connection was in the camp house straight ahead. She’d been there for hours, he’d lost track of how many. Maybe she was already dead. Moving her was going to be difficult, but not as difficult as the rituals he’d performed on the last two. There was no need for them in her case. She’d just gotten in the way. It made him sick to think of it.

  He thought of the eyes in the mirror. Had he changed? Was he now capable of cold-blooded murder? The other murders had been righteous, in defense of others. Had they brought the genes of his father alive in him? He felt a swell of anger and from it felt a surge of energy.

  The ramshackle structure came into view as he steeled himself for the necessary task. The place was a ruin but enough of it remained to stir memories. Then he saw the front door hanging open on an angle. A feeling of dread erupted inside of him as the memory emerged.

  He’d been gathering wood for the wood stove and it was almost dark. As he approached the front door of the camp house, he heard the harsh sound of his father’s voice and the pitiful cries of his mother coming from inside. Suddenly, the door flew open with such force, the top hinge pulled loose from the door-frame. His father appeared in the doorway, wild-eyed and crazed, and then lunged toward him, grabbing a misshapen piece of wood from his arms. The other logs and branches he’d been carrying fell to the ground. His father went back through the doorway, while he stood there scared senseless, listening to him unleash his furious assault until the awful moaning and sickening thud of blows came to an end.

  He’d been unable to move or help his poor mother. He was only a boy and no match for a powerful violent man. But he should have done something, screamed, cried, something, instead of standing there paralyzed with fear. The terrible silence that followed seemed to go on forever until his father returned to the doorway, his clothing soaked with blood.

  The real horror began later that night and was burned in his brain like a hideous fable.

  He was forced to listen to his father’s excuses; claiming his mother had planned to leave them, had provoked him, had dared him to stop her, had caused him to lose control. He listened to his father’s lying words through ringing ears and stinging eyes and still he could not speak or move. His father grabbed his arm to pull him inside. The doorway loomed before him like a gateway to hell, imagining his mother’s lifeless body beyond it in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor.

  He yanked his arm away and ran. He knew where to go and how to get there. It was the only safe place he had. He’d gone there many times before, late at night, running from the sound of endless beatings. The ridge behind the camp house was an easy climb, not too steep or rocky. He’d worn a path through the tangled vines and sweet scented pines to the open field above, where the moon spread its gentle light over the corn rows, and his protector was there to shield him.

  The straw man was his constant and always smiled down upon him. He could lean against his post and cry his countless tears. The straw man felt his pain and this he was sure of, because the straw man was his friend and understood his fears. He knew this to be true because he felt the straw man’s presence. The straw man always listened and spoke through a voice in his heart. He ran to the straw man, fell to the cornstalk covered earth, and grabbed onto the post as if it were a lifeline to safety. He held to it tightly, began softly breathing, and then fell asleep.

  But when he awakened, his nightmare continued. His father had found him, had followed him there. He’d gone back to get her while he had lay sleeping, her frail little body no burden to bear. He woke to the digging, the dirt piled around him, the straw man above him, the grave just below. He kept his eyes closed to the sight of his father and lay there in terror of what was to come. Would he, too, be buried alongside his mother? Would he soon be punished for running away? He prayed to the straw man to give him the answers, the sound of the shovel the only reply.

  But then like a howl in the place he could hear him, the voice of the straw man screamed loudly and long. He opened his eyes to the wail of the straw man and watched as his mother was thrown in the hole. The mouth of the straw man was as open and gaping; the grave
of his mother, a gaping black hole. The sound of the shovel, the sight of his father, the scream of the straw man became all as one. And then it was over, the dirt piled upon her, the cornstalks were scattered to hide what was done. The straw man looked peaceful and smiled down upon him, and she lay below him, now in his care.

  They’d moved the next morning, just he and his father, a neighboring county, a home and new name. A life of pretending that nothing had happened, the death of his father was dealt with the same.

  The memory faded. He stared at the doorway. The present came back like a shock to his brain. He’d not left it open. He hurried to enter. The room where he’d left her was empty and bare. He looked all around him until he felt dizzy. She must have escaped, but how could that be? He looked at the floor and the drag marks across it. Someone must have helped her, but who and from where? No one would have come there, the place was abandoned, the house was collapsing, the road seldom used.

  He’d come back to kill her, to murder a woman. The eyes in the mirror had been without mercy. What had he become and what now must he do? He followed the marks back out through the doorway. Torn pieces of burlap were strewn here and there. The weeds had been crushed from the steps like a pathway, with fresh signs of dragging, but how was it done?

  He followed the signs to the road where they ended. Perhaps she’s been helped and then taken from there. He crossed to the middle, from there he could see them, the trail unmistakably led into the woods. He thought of the strength it had taken to get there, her will to survive, and the pain she’d endured. Something cut off his empathy like a swipe from a switchblade. A dark force took over and hardened his heart.