Stories About Corn

by Ri, Xesin

  “Yeah, how many times do you think that stuff happens?”

  “A lot. Too often. Cops get blamed. Stupid, real stupid.”

  Thomas tried the coffee. “That is some strong coffee.”

  “Thought Sheriff Douglas liked it that way?” said Sheriff’s Deputy Reingold.

  “I don’t know,” answered Thomas, “never made any for him. Do you think it’s odd that we’ve been in here this whole time and nobody’s checked up on us? Two cops inside an office after a multimillion dollar theft and nobody’s worried?”

  “Lots of odd stuff on this farm. No real security, no active cameras the night of the crime—and then the landowner is that Synad fellow, Sheriff Douglas thinks nothing good about that man, I’ll tell you that—and the guy took away the best chance we had of finding the criminals responsible for this situation. Odd stuff, real odd.”

  Thomas was realizing just how green Austin was. Even the guy’s uniform looked like it’d just been made, but he carried himself in a way that suggested he’d seen a few things.

  “I thought that Mr. Duncan was security? Some of the farmhands too?”

  “Um, no. Sheriff Douglas said that Mr. Duncan runs these places but doesn’t stay near them at night. Sheriff said that he already checked on Mr. Duncan’s alibi personally to be sure he didn’t have anything to do with the theft since he was most likely—Why? What did Mr. Duncan say?”

  “Not exactly that. I’d better get out there and let the sheriff know that Mr. Duncan’s got some inconsistences before we do anything more. Best to keep your guard up, kid.”

  “Will do. You gonna wait for the rest of the coffee?” asked Austin.

  “Might as well. Whatever is going on, Sheriff Douglas might know more than we do. Maybe he sent us up here for a reason after all. He’s a smart one.”

  “Shrewd too.”

  “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

  Sheriff’s Deputy Reingold laughed.

  The strong black coffee was still streaming down into the pot and was nearly full. Thomas grabbed a few disposable cups from the table nearby.

  “Finally, how many deputies does it take to make me a cup of coffee?”

  “Sheriff, I was wondering—“

  “No time, Deputy Rightendale. We need to get up into that last silo now. Take—“ The sheriff took a big swig of coffee. “That’s some pretty good coffee. Thanks, Mr. Duncan.”

  “You’re welcome, Sheriff,” said Mr. Duncan.

  “Sheriff,” tried Thomas again.

  “Deputy Reingold will take point. He spent some time in Iraq and Afghanistan, so he should be a little more prepared than you or me. I don’t know about you Rightendale, but I’m getting to be a bit of an old dog.”

  The sheriff took another big drink of his coffee. “Whoa! That is some strong coffee. Which of you deputies made this?”

  “I did, sir.”

  “Well, Deputy Reingold, when we get back, you are going to be in charge of coffee. We’ll get a lot more done if you’re making the coffee.” The sheriff poured out the rest of the coffee then. “But we gotta stay sharp. No jitters today. Reingold on point. You follow him up, Rightendale. That man there—hey, what is your name?”

  “Jose.”

  “Okay, Jose will be following you. Jose, according to Mr. Duncan, is pretty skilled with a pistol and is actually certified. So, I will take those cards back, Deputy Rightendale. And, Deputy, according to Mr. Duncan you were taking some pictures before I got here. Did you get pictures of the tracks and the silo on your camera?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered Thomas.

  “The camera and card are safe in your car?”

  Thomas nodded.

  “Good, I think we may need that for the reports, and Mr. Synad’s going to need copies later on; but right now, we’re losing light. Lots of strange things happened here these last couple of days. We gotta be careful, especially once you three get up there. The rest of us will meet you in there, and Deputy Rightendale,” the sheriff leaned in close and whispered, “something is fishy here. I’m playing this a little different. Trust me, trust the deputy and yourself, and nobody else. Be prepared.”

  Thomas nodded.

  “We’ll get the safety harnesses ready down here. Should be okay to walk on the top of the h. h. powder, but watch your step in there,” warned Mr. Duncan. “Test each step and get a good look at where you are putting your foot and you should be alright.”

  Thomas looked to the sheriff. Sheriff Douglas said, “I’m sure the kid’ll be fine. Time to take a look up there, you two.”

  “Okay,” answered Deputy Reingold.

  Austin hurried to the ladder and began to climb. Thomas followed him slowly. Jose was just behind them both. The sheriff, Mr. Duncan and the remaining farmhands watched as they climbed.

  “Deputy,” said Thomas. “Slow down. We need to think a little before we reach the top.”

  “Yeah, sorry. Just in the hunt, I guess.”

  “Jose?”

  “Yes,” answered Jose from below.

  “You’re going to stay with us. Up at the top, I’m going to have you watch the door. We are going in, and you stay outside. If we need something, we’ll signal for you to go get the sheriff. You don’t draw that gun for any reason other than me telling you to. And you don’t aim it at anyone unless you got to, got it?” said Thomas.

  “Yes,” answered Jose.

  “We don’t want any friendly fire, do we Jose?” said Deputy Reingold from above.

  “No,” answered Jose.

  “We’re friends, aren’t we, Jose?” said Deputy Reingold.

  “Yes.”

  “How much English do you speak, Jose?” asked Deputy Reingold.

  “Some.”

  “Enough?” asked Thomas to Deputy Reingold.

  They climbed up a little over halfway when they reached the open spot on the ladder, and they could see back down to where the sheriff, Al Duncan and the other two farmhands were.

  Deputy Reingold stopped. “Hey Jose,” he called down, “When did you get told to come up here with us?”

  “Everyone,” said Jose pointing up at the top of the silo. He then pointed down to Mr. Duncan and the sheriff and the rest of the men who were beginning up the ladder.

  Thomas stared at the man’s dark face, tanned after years of outdoor work. Thomas looked up at Deputy Reingold then. Words didn’t need to be spoken between the two deputies.

  “What do you think?” asked Austin.

  “We’re getting’ squeezed.”

  “Who’s doing the squeezing?”

  “I don’t know. Mr. Duncan? Maybe, Mr. Synad?” answered Thomas.

  “Jose,” said Thomas, “Who said everyone is goin’ up to the top of the silo?”

  “Sheriff,” answered Jose. The innocence in his eyes was even more offsetting to Thomas.

  “Why did he say that?”

  Jose shrugged as best as anyone can on a ladder. The expression was innocent again. If he wasn’t carrying a gun and following Thomas, the situation would have made Thomas laugh.

  “What the hell are you two doing?” called up Sheriff Douglas.

  “I thought I heard something move inside the silo,” shouted Deputy Reingold.

  Below, Sheriff Douglas stopped and looked down at Mr. Duncan. The look must have been something, thought Thomas, because Mr. Duncan looked spooked.

  The sheriff turned and looked up the partly covered ladder-shaft that ran up the outside of the silo. Below, because of the partly covered ladder, dim light made the sheriff look dark in the shadows as the sun continued to dip down over the sea of tall, green corn.

  The floodlights popped on.

  “Deputies, we need to get into that silo before it’s totally dark. Keep moving up. Breach the moment you get there. Be prepared for anything.”

  Thomas looked up at Austin, who hadn’t moved either. “Go or no go,” asked Thomas.

  “Go,” said Jose.

  “Sorry, Jose. Sheriff’s d
eputies only on this vote.”

  “Go on. What are you waiting for?” shouted Sheriff Douglas from below.

  “He’s a superior officer,” answered Austin.

  “Go!” shouted Sheriff Douglas.

  “I wish I had a shotgun, but I think it is a go,” said Austin.

  Thomas nodded and followed him quickly to the top, leaving Jose coming up slowly from behind.

  At the top, they could not see inside very well. The floods were on full, and the sun’s final rays gleamed off the top of the silo.

  The sheriff bellowed, “Go!’ when they looked back one more time. They took the rungs of a ladder built into the inside wall of the silo and climbed down. Jose showed no fear and climbed down quickly after them.

  Thomas thought about sending Jose back out since that had been the plan, but he didn’t see much use in it since the silo appeared empty, except for the h. h. grain.

  Standing there, on top of millions of dollars in h. h. corn powder, the three of them looked around in the dim light. Both Thomas and Austin pulled out their flashlights to get a good look at the surface they stood on. Jose warned them saying, “Dangerous. Careful,” pointing down at the h. h. corn powder beneath their feet. Thomas felt like the man was fearful of snakes or scorpions popping up and biting their ankles.

  Thomas hadn’t pulled his gun. Austin did when he thought that he saw something funny. Sheriff Douglas and the rest came down a moment later. Al Duncan followed the sheriff and was carrying a shotgun he hadn’t had before.

  “What are we looking for?” asked Thomas. As the words came out of his lips, as the breath passed over his teeth, he saw, from the corner of his eye, Mr. Duncan raise up that shotgun. The blast hit Thomas in the chest knocking him down. The sheriff began firing alongside Mr. Duncan. They blasted Deputy Reingold, Jose, Jake and Don until just Mr. Duncan and the sheriff remained on their feet.

  Thomas realized that some of the shot had gone into his neck and throat. He lay on his back breathing as best he could.

  “Should I?” asked Al Duncan pointing the shotgun’s muzzle at Thomas’s face.

  “No,” answered Sheriff Douglas. Thomas reached for his gun but couldn’t move his head to look for it. “It’ll look better if he breathes in some of this stuff before he dies. Autopsy will show he was buried alive after the time of the shooting.”

  Mr. Duncan backed off along with Sheriff Douglas. They surveyed the carnage.

  “He sure was suspicious,” said Al Duncan.

  “Of course he was suspicious! Deputy Rightendale lived in farm country. He knew there was no realistic way that idiotic story was true.” The sheriff began climbing out while Mr. Duncan waited behind him watching Thomas and the rest. “It’s a wonder he didn’t start slapping handcuffs on you and them. Synad wants to get his competitors in deep trouble and promises me more and more. Well, I am not a fool. I’ve seen the writing on the wall. Synad’s going down with the other small timers. This’ll be Flint land or somebody else’s land soon enough, and I’m going to be ready. You just don’t spend that money and everything will be okay. I still can’t believe you would talk to a man who could easily have ruined everything. What kind of idiot are you? I have half a mind to shoot you and leave you in here with the rest of these fellas if I didn’t need you to run the damn machines!”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Glad ta hear it, let’s get out of here,” said the sheriff.

  Mr. Duncan climbed up while the sheriff watched from the opening at the top of the silo.

  Thomas breathed in and out. The air was so precious.

  What seemed like an instant—the machines were running outside, h. h. corn powder fell from the top of the silo. Thomas had a feeling Mr. Duncan was out there running the machine, sitting behind a bit of glass, laughing his ass off. The sheriff would go to Thomas’s car and get the camera and the card full of images still in it. They’d blasted a pair of cops and gotten scapegoats who were about to be buried in what would be an apparent shootout with the police with no one around to shut down the powder flowing into the silo. A stupid plan, a simple plan, a plan that was perfect. Lured in, trapped and then a shootout with men who were difficult to identify due to probably questionable immigration status. Two deputies dead, one who was still alive when he was buried in h. h. The anger and shock would be great. Maybe it would be pretended to be a drug issue or something else gone bad. And all for the sheriff and an idiot like Mr. Duncan to make a few dollars more.

  Thomas had been raised in farm country though. He had heard a lot of great stories about life and death on the farm. Horses broncing and bucking. Bulls goring men to death. Not cooking your eggs all the way through. His mother and father were walking encyclopedias of danger and death on the farm, better than any internet search could provide. His favorite stories, told to scare little Tommy, were those that dealt with the varieties of death available in and around a silo. He’d guessed his fascination was due to them being the tallest things he’d seen as a kid since he didn’t get into the city. Apparently, the dull Mr. Duncan was unaware of why the silos were being replaced. The dull man didn’t know what would happen were a man left inside a silo, alive, while the concentration of dust, made up of high hydrocarbon corn, rose and rose to maximum levels of floating debris, clouding up the air, no time to settle, and that dying man, left inside, had with him a Taser or other sparking device. Outside, Thomas imagined the dull Mr. Duncan and Sheriff Douglas congratulating each other for the fruition of their best laid plans; but like the old saying goes—Thomas spoke his final words, “Don’t count your chickens…“ Choking on the heavy, dust-laden air, he wondered whether this would work with h. h. corn powder like it does with other dry, flammable grains. He pulled his Taser’s trigger and let the weapon arc. The chain reaction was glorious. A major and thorough investigation was sure to follow.

  Mid-November

  Mid-November

  Jake Knews was down there again, riding in circles on his dirt bike across the paled gray street, back-and-forth, back-and-forth, pedaling without purpose. Sometimes, he would ride down to the end of the street and up one of the last driveways, on either side, and try to see what he could do, riding on the moist flat fields beyond the street’s end where the corn had been harvested only a few days ago and would not grow again for months.

  Chuck watched his pretty wife from the other room, as she watched the boy, as she always did, from behind the curtains, so she could see where the boy might go and what he might do. Someone had smashed their mailbox, and more than once, someone had burned something hot in the T-intersection in front of their house. Chuck had tried to explain over-and-over that it wasn’t directed at them that Jake was simply a kid, maybe even a kid with some issues.

  Again, it would seem, he would have to try again to calm her nerves and keep her from calling the police intending to get young Mr. Knews in trouble, again. “Loretta, there are lots of kids who live on our street, and who knows who hit our mailbox. Maybe it was an adult who hit our mailbox, you ever think of that? One of those twenty-somethings at the end of the block who work together at the motorcycle shop? Maybe one of their unemployable friends?”

  “It is ninety-two degrees out, in the middle of November, a record high, and that boy rides around and around in the hot sun staring into every single house on this block, and you think I’m just being silly. Why isn’t he playing with a friend or playing video games inside where it is cool?”

  “Maybe they don’t run the air at his house. Maybe they see November on the calendar and ignore unseasonable warmth for an Iowan fall. I have no idea.”

  “The Knews’s always run the air. You can hear that huge machine they run for air-conditioning night and day if you simply walk by their house.”

  “Fine, at least the fields have wind turbines. Good green energy like you like. And really, sounds like something must be wrong with their air-conditioner.”

  “Maybe there is—maybe there isn’t. What is wrong and what I am j
ust sick of is that boy idling around here looking at everyone. Sometimes he just sits out there all day long looking at all the cars and people. He just stares right into your car as you pass him.”

  “So, he’s a strange kid.”

  “Strange would be fine. I don’t mind strange. But strange in such a small neighborhood? Why doesn’t he have any friends? He goes to public school like all the other kids in the neighborhood.”

  “Well, maybe—“

  “I talked with Mrs. Smith, and she has heard this and that. Heard that he has discipline issues in school; heard that the Knews’s next door neighbors hear him cussing and yelling at night—sometimes at his own parents. They have issues with him too, Mr. Husband-of-a-year.”

  “Alright then, Mrs. Wife-of-one-year, you tell me what you think is going on. You solve the riddle. Is he casing the neighborhood? I saw we have fifty-two houses in this neighborhood surrounding our little lake. Surrounding us are cornfields on all sides. He might get into a couple of houses, but he wouldn’t be a thief for long until the whole neighborhood would be suspicious and either make it impossible for any more crime or run him and his family out of here. So, seriously, what do you think is going to happen?”