by Gerry Boyle
“But, Jack, what am I supposed to do? Hide in the cellar? I have a life. I have things I have to do.”
“I know. Just be aware of this, until it’s taken care of.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“So you all are going to go after this pathetic Peeping Tom?”
I said nothing.
“Jack,” Roxanne said.
“Honey, I can’t just—”
“Can’t the police handle it? Read him the riot act or whatever it is they do.”
“He tried to stab Louis,” I said. “Belle, at the restaurant—he burned her sister-in-law with cigarettes, threw her out in the yard, naked.”
Roxanne gasped.
“This is not some harmless creeper,” I said.
“I get it,” she said, quiet now.
I waited. Roxanne looked at me, then at the papers, then at the computer screen. “I was going to say, this presentation we’re doing—you all could be Exhibit A. This is exactly the pattern we’re trying to break in boys. That every slight has to be followed by an even bigger retaliation. That violence is the solution to every problem.”
“Not every,” I said. “Just some.”
Roxanne looked at me long and hard. And then she put her laptop aside, got up from the bed, and walked to the east-facing windows. She reached out and yanked the curtains together, then climbed back on the bed and picked up her laptop.
“If we call the police,” she said, “then maybe you can stay out of it, right? Right?”
I didn’t answer.
Dinner was scrambled eggs, Sophie’s favorite. Roxanne added kale and cranberry salad, with chopped walnuts. I added ketchup. Roxanne and I talked through Sophie, like our daughter was an interpreter. The mortification remained.
After dinner, Sophie had a bath and Roxanne went back upstairs to finish her presentation. I went to the study to work on my gun story, while Sophie, stretched out on the study floor, did drawings of goats and goats being milked, and a barn full of goats standing on little milking stands, like dogs at the groomer’s. In another series, all of her classmates were lined up waiting their turns to step up to the udders. Sophie drew each of them as likenesses, with distinctive ears and hair and glasses and clothing.
Off to the side were two adults, standing together and smiling.
“Who’s that?” I said.
“That’s Mommy and Salandra’s daddy,” Sophie said.
I looked closer. Salandra’s daddy’s arm, a long jointless appendage like a skinny balloon, was looped around Roxanne’s shoulders.
“What are they doing?” I said. “Hugging?”
“Yes,” Sophie said. “Because Salandra’s daddy doesn’t have a wife.”
At eight, Sophie went to bed. She ran into our bedroom and gave Roxanne a hug and a kiss, and then went with me to her bedroom and started hauling out her books. We read for a half-hour—One Morning in Maine, Blueberries for Sal—and then she was nodding. I kissed her good night and tucked her in, and she was asleep before I turned out the light.
I looked in on Roxanne and asked how it was going. She said fine. I said I was going down to work on my gun story and she said okay. Looked back down.
So I did, introducing Outland readers to Dicker & Deal, and how one went about buying a gun in Maine, should one need one. It was a fun piece, or should have been, describing the landscape, the characters, the guns. I wrote it straight as an arrow, with respect for all concerned. I had liked the gun sellers, except for the doofus with his dead dad’s shotguns. Most of the people I knew kept firearms, and I liked most of them. But if Maine guns were being used to kill people—ex-wives, and abused women, and teenagers and innocent bystanders and little kids who have the bad break to live in neighborhoods where there’s little hope—then there’s the rub.
I flipped through my notebook pages until I found the name of the ATF spokesperson in Boston. I’d call her first thing in the morning. In fact, a good number to keep on hand. I was reaching for my phone when it buzzed.
The ID said B. Porter. It took me a second. Belle from the restaurant. It was 9:10 p.m.
I answered.
“Jack,” she said.
“Belle,” I said. “Everything okay?”
She said she was sorry to bother me so late, which it was, if you got up at four a.m. I said it wasn’t a bother.
“It’s that guy?” Belle said.
“Billy?”
“No, the Amish guy. Or whatever he is.”
“Mennonite,” I said. “What about him?”
“I came by to check on the freezer and the fridges. The breaker popped yesterday and we caught it, but if I hadn’t, we’d have lost a lot of food.”
“I see.”
“So the guy. Your friend, there.”
“Abram?”
“He was standing just around the corner, at the end of the parking lot. Him and another guy and a girl. I drove past them. At first I didn’t recognize him, ’cause he had on regular clothes. Not the black-and-white thing and the baggy pants.”
“No?”
“No, all three of them looked like normal people. They had on jeans and sweatshirts and sneakers, and you wouldn’t have known they were Amish at all. Or whatever.”
“Huh,” I said.
“So I thought, and maybe this is crazy, but I thought maybe they were running away from the Amish. Or whatever. Taking off. Because they were carrying bags. Big paper bags, filled with something.”
“Their clothes,” I said.
Belle paused. I heard a faint sucking sound. A drag on a cigarette.
“So I looked out at them, from the restaurant. They were standing there like they were waiting for a ride.”
“How did they get there?”
“I don’t know,” Belle said. “And then when I locked up and went out to the car, they were walking down the road toward Thornhill. I said, ‘I have to call Jack. Something weird’s going on.’ ”
“Thanks,” I said. “When was all this?”
“Right now. They’re still walking. In the dark. I passed them and now I’m stopped beside the road. To call you.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t the Amish—I saw something on TV—don’t they have this thing where the kids go off and sort of go crazy?”
“Rumspringa,” I said. “But these guys aren’t Amish.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“And I don’t think they do that.”
“Well, they’re doing something. And, I don’t know, it just made me worried. Like, they’re not quite ready for the real world. Maybe I’m not saying it very well.”
“No, Belle,” I said. “You’re saying it just fine.”
After she rang off, I looked at my watch: 9:12. Hyde Corner was ten minutes away. I could take a quick ride up there, see what they were up to. Leaving the Bishop? Running away to New York? Talk about babes in the woods.
I went to the sliding doors, pulled the curtain back, unlocked the latch, and stepped out. It was dark but a little gray still showing to the west. I called Clair and he answered and I asked if he could watch the house closely, Louis, too. I was going to pop out for a half-hour, I said, and told him why.
“We got this,” Clair said.
I went upstairs and poked my head in. I told Roxanne I was going out for a few minutes, that Abram, the Mennonite Abram, was walking out by Hyde and might need a ride. Roxanne looked up from her laptop and papers and said, “Fine.”
In ten minutes I was on the Ridge Road, my headlights scanning the roadside. Minutes later I had them in sight, three figures, reflective patches on their shoes moving like fireflies in the roadside grass.
I slowed. They turned, squinted into the lights. It was Abram, Miriam, and Victor. They were, indeed, wearing jeans and sweatshirts. Abram even had a Red Sox ball cap. They looked like very bad undercover cops.
Pulling over in front of them, I got out and walked to the back of the truck. Abram looked alarmed. The others hung back.
“Hey
,” I said. “You guys should be careful. Hard to see you in the dark. You want a lift home?”
Abram looked away for a moment. The other two looked at him.
“We’re not going home,” he said. “I mean, not right now.”
“Where are you going?”
He hesitated, seemed to be gathering himself up.
“A party,” Abram said.
“Really.”
“Yeah, these guys from work are having it. It’s in the woods. With a bonfire and everything.”
A bonfire. Beer. Maybe some weed. The Bishop’s worst fears realized. And not just Abram tilting toward the gates of hell, but his sister and friend, as well. They looked at me, uncomfortable in their disguises. It was the first time I’d seem Miriam without her bonnet, and she seemed even prettier, her blonde hair loose, but somehow exposed. Victor looked nervous, hiding under his hoodie, like he was afraid he’d be recognized.
“Where is it?” I said.
“Powell Road,” Abram said.
It was two miles up the main road, at least two miles off in the hills.
“You gonna walk up there?”
“We can do it.”
“I don’t know,” I said, the chaperone in me kicking in. “It’s awful dark, walking out here. And you have those dark clothes on. How ’bout I drop you off?”
They looked at each other. The motor idled. I waited. Finally Abram said, “Okay.”
I got in first, slipped the gun back under the seat, then unlocked the passenger door. The truck wasn’t built for four, but they squeezed in: first Abram, then Miriam, then Victor. The shift lever was against Abram’s leg and when I shifted, he leaned to the right against his sister.
We drove two miles north, then swung off into the trees. The narrow black-topped road climbed and meandered, and I took a right at the first intersection and continued on. A mile east, I slowed at the Powell Road intersection, moths flinging themselves at the headlights.
“We shouldn’t go,” Victor said. “We should go home.”
“It’s okay,” Abram said.
“Come on, Victor,” Miriam said. “It’s only once.”
“You heard what the Bishop said. ‘Every sin will receive its reward.’ ”
“We’re not sinning,” Miriam said. “We’re just going to watch.”
“Listen to music,” Abram said.
“If you are dishonest or a scoffer at the truth of God, you’re damned to hell,” Victor said.
“Nobody’s scoffing,” Miriam said.
“But this is dishonest,” Victor said.
I slowed, started to pull over.
“So what do you want to do, guys?” I said.
“Go right,” Abram said, and I did, driving slowly, braking for potholes. They rode in silence. When a deer bounded across in front of us, vaulted a stone wall, and disappeared into an overgrown orchard, I said, “That was cool.”
They didn’t reply, just peered into the narrow swath of light.
Abram was watching the road. Up ahead we saw a truck parked in the ditch, taillights reflecting. Then a car, and then another pickup and a Jeep. When I looked closer, I could see other vehicles pulled into the trees.
“This is it,” Abram said, and I slowed, passed the vehicles, stopped at the entrance to a logging road, a rusty steel cable stretched across the opening. People were barely visible, walking up the road. I pulled into the ditch and the truck leaned right and the three of them piled together.
“I don’t know,” Victor said, but he unlatched the door and half tumbled out.
They gathered by the truck, still clutching their bags. I asked them if that was their food and drinks and Abram said no, which answered my question. They were carrying their Mennonite clothes, probably had changed in the woods. Ducking under the cable, they started up the road. I followed, walked behind Abram. Victor stayed by Miriam’s side, like marauders might spring from the dark woods. Crickets were chirping and mosquitoes hummed, and fifty yards in I called softly, “Abram.”
He turned.
“I need to talk to you,” I said.
I caught up and we walked side by side, the others forty feet ahead.
“Who’s having the party?” I said.
“Some guys from the wood shop,” Abram said.
“Good guys?”
“Yeah. I mean, sure.”
“Great. I hope you have fun. But listen.”
We kept walking, picking our way along the trail in the dark, but I could tell he was.
“This guy Semi,” I said.
No reply.
“I know what you’ve been doing with him. The guns.”
“It’s nothing,” Abram said. “Just helping him out. He fixes them up and sells them to hunters, guys who come up here from out of state.”
“What’s he need you for?”
“He’s been in trouble. A while ago, I mean. So some people don’t like to sell to him.”
“But they will sell to you?”
He hesitated.
“Yeah.”
“What do you get out of it?”
“Twenty dollars per gun. And a deer rifle. I got a Remington seven hundred.”
“Nice,” I said. “But how would you feel if one of those guns you bought found its way down south and was used to kill someone?”
He walked. One step. Two. Three. Four.
“Terrible,” Abram said. “But these are for hunters.”
“Says who?”
“Semi.”
“How does he know? And do you believe him? Why should a hunter buy a gun from him? They can go to Cabela’s. Or their local gun shop. Why some guy from Maine with a felony record?”
“He knows guns.”
“Do you get great deals?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes. Maybe.”
“If he’s making a good profit, it isn’t from hunters,” I said. “It’s from criminals. Sell them on the street and make two or three hundred per gun. Or more.”
“We’re not doing that,” Abram said.
“ATF is up here right now,” I said. “From Boston. Know what ATF is?”
“No.”
“Gun cops. Feds. They’re here because a handgun sold around here was used to murder a kid in Dorchester. That’s part of Boston. You buy handguns?”
“Sometimes. But a lot of hunters carry handguns. For if the deer or bear isn’t dead or whatever.”
“Or if you need to spray a car in a drive-by,” I said.
“It’s not like that, Jack,” Abram said. Miriam and Victor turned and looked back.
“Abram, I’m telling you. Cut loose from this thing while you still can. You get in too deep, you may not be able to extricate yourself. And if Semi goes down, you know he’ll take you with him. Or try to pin it on you.”
“He wouldn’t do that,” Abram said.
“He’s bad people, Abram. Believe me. I know a few, and he’s one. Not the worst, but definitely not somebody you want to hang out with.”
We walked. Abram looked angry, eyes fixed to the ground.
“I just want to see some things,” he said. “I want to see real life.”
“Real life could end up being a prison cell. I’m not exaggerating. Federal firearms charges? You could go away for a long time. The ATF doesn’t screw around.”
He didn’t answer, seemed to be wrestling with it all. Miriam and Victor, dim figures in the darkness, had slowed, waiting for Abram to catch up. We walked on and I began to smell smoke. Then hear music. Voices.
“One last thing,” I said. “You know what you’ve been taught. Right and wrong and heaven and hell. And I know you’re struggling with some of that. But, Abram, selling guns to murderers? That’s gotta be something that will send you directly to hell.”
He turned and looked at me, his eyes dark and unblinking.
“I get it, okay?” he snapped. “I get it.”
“Is Semi going to be at this party?”
Abram hesitated.
“I do
n’t know. He was supposed to pick us up but he never came.”
“You know a guy named Billy? Another guy, kind of heavy? Semi cuts wood with them?”
“Met ’em once. They’re like one side of Semi and I’m the other.”
“They’re serious trouble.”
Abram didn’t reply.
“How are you getting home?”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Abram, listen to me. You be careful,” I said. “I don’t know any other way to say this, but I think you’re in way over your head.”
I slowed.
“And look out for your sister,” I said.
Abram kept walking.
18
I stood on the path and watched them move around a bend. I checked the time: 9:52. Louis and Clair were on duty, so maybe I could afford to stay a few more minutes.
I moved down the path, followed it to the left and up a grade, and then I could see firelight up ahead, smelled the smoke. I walked carefully, staying close to the woods, and then a clearing opened up, an old wood yard, probably. There was the smell of freshly cut brush where they had widened their party spot. I moved off the path and between the trees, bending under branches, pushing them aside. When I was close enough to see, I crouched and stayed still.
There was a bonfire at the center of the clearing, flames ten feet high, silver-gray smoke billowing upward, the fire crackling. I could see twenty people, but there may have been more on the other side of the fire. Everyone was drinking, and there was music coming from speakers propped up on a parked ATV, one of three parked off to the side. The music was country. I searched in the shadows for Abram and Victor and Miriam.
She was in a group of five or six girls—late teens, early twenties—and they seemed to be gathered around her. There was a lot of laughing and excited girl voices. Another girl joined them, carrying two cans of something. She opened one and handed one to Miriam and they raised the cans and touched them.
Someone said, “You go, girl.”
There were twice as many guys, some of them standing at the fire, throwing in sticks, cigarettes glowing. A few more were by the ATVs. There was a lot of whooping, talking, some shouting and shoving. Someone moved and I spotted Abram, standing by the fire with a beer in his hand. He raised it and drank, a long chug. Then he lowered the can, flung it to the ground, and moved to a cooler and took another. He drank like a new drinker, and the night was very young.