Ravens

by George Dawes Green

  She kept her eyes lowered. “Yes.”

  “You’ll do what I ask?”

  “Yes.”

  But he cocked his head skeptically. “No, you’re already scheming. I can see it. You’re thinking, how can we get word to the cops? How do we make a sign to the cops so they’ll come rescue us and cut this weasel down? Right? Are you scheming against me?”

  She kept her eyes down. “No.”

  “You want to know why your scheme won’t work?”

  She didn’t know what to say. Finally she whispered, “All right.”

  He commanded, “Jase. Turn out all the lights.”

  Jase didn’t move.

  “TURN OUT THE FUCKING LIGHTS!”

  Jase, in tears, got up and flipped the wall switch, then the lamp switch. All that remained was a trickle of feeble streetlight from the window.

  Shaw McBride said, “Look out there. You see him?”

  A shadow, a trace. Beneath the hickory tree.

  Mom moaned in fear.

  Said Shaw, “I want you to go out there, Tara.”

  “Out there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Never fucking say ‘why’ to me again. Just go.”

  “I’ll go with you,” said Dad.

  Again Shaw set the pistol’s muzzle against Mom’s ear. “Sit down, Mitch. This is just for Tara.”

  Dad considered resisting, thought better of it. Sank back down. Shaw told Tara, “Go now.”

  She got up and went to the door and opened it. And stepped out into the front yard. The figure beneath the tree said, “Come here.”

  Her breathing was no longer under control. She thought she might lose consciousness. She tried to pray, but every prayer flew from her head.

  Again the man summoned her. “Come here.”

  Then she was with him beneath the tree. Close enough to see his face in the dark. Childish. Big soft eyes, an overbite.

  She wasn’t sure, but she thought he might be trembling.

  He said, “Listen. If you oppose us in any way, I’ll kill the people you love.”

  He was silent a moment. Then he said, “You believe me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will, I really will. Your friend Clio? I’ll kill her. You hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll kill your grandmother. That’s just… Fuck it. And your cousin Alfred. And your cousin Vanessa, and your uncle Shelby and his whole family. Everybody. When Shaw sends me the signal. Or if I call to check in, and he doesn’t answer? I go. In whatever order I choose. You won’t be able to stop me. You think I’m scared? I am scared. All I want is to get the hell out of here, go home. But so what. I’ll do what I have to.”

  She nodded.

  He said, “For my friend. Not for the money. For him. I hate this whole deal, but I won’t fail him.”

  Silence.

  He said, “You don’t care about the money either, do you, Tara?”

  “No.”

  “So then. It’s up to us. You and me. Not Shaw, not your parents, just us. You hear what I’m saying?”

  “Yes.”

  Then a plaintive tone — almost begging: “So let him have what he wants.”

  Romeo, two hours later, was driving through the dark to Nell Boatwright’s bungalow — guided by the map that Shaw had made for him. ‘Points of Interest’ had been marked with stars, and Nell’s house was the southernmost of these. It was in an old, leafy part of town. When he got there, he pulled over across the street and cut the engine. She was in her bedroom. He saw the TV glowing, the footboard of her bed, her slippered feet. He waited.

  Presently she rose (first carefully relocating the cat she’d been holding), waddled past another window, and showed up in what he guessed was her bathroom. He couldn’t see her face, but he liked how she walked. A directness, despite her stooped carriage. There was another cat on the bathroom sill, and Nell gave it a brisk knuckle rub. Then she vanished and Romeo didn’t see her till she went back to the bedroom, regathered the first cat into her arms, and lay down again.

  If Shaw were to text him: Go, it would mean the Boatwrights were in open rebellion, and Romeo would have to step into her house and kill her without hesitation.

  He wondered, could I do that?

  I told Shaw I could. Why did I tell him that?

  He stayed there watching till the old woman shut off the TV and turned out the light.

  Then he drove out to Rt. 17, the main north-south drag. He went to the neighborhood called Belle Point, where Tara’s Uncle Shelby and Aunt Miriam had a rangy house and a basketball hoop and a badminton net, and a big backyard that unrolled right to the edge of the marsh. According to Shaw, Shelby and Miriam had two children. In an emergency, Romeo would be expected to execute the whole family.

  He headed south on 17. He put Cradle of Filth in the CD player and let the music batter his cerebrum. That crematory stink was in the air. It was so heavy he could almost taste it.

  At Island View he turned off and drove to Clio’s house, which bordered an empty, jungly lot. He pulled over, got out and clicked the door closed, and ventured into the palmettos. It was heavy going, and with everything so dry and brittle he couldn’t help but make a racket. But all over the neighborhood air conditioners were blasting away. He doubted he’d be heard, and even if he were, he was making pretty much the same noises that a deer or a dog would make, so who would give a shit?

  He broke through to Clio’s lawn, finding himself at the back of the house. White vineflowers, and deep grass, and one lighted window. He moved till he was below this, till he could look up and see Clio in her bedroom. At her desk, her laptop. She was tall and loose-limbed. Tattoos all over her arms and that silver serpent coiling through her cheek. Shaw had shown Romeo her pics on MySpace. It was as if Shaw had been goading him, trying to get him hot and bothered, knowing this girl was the kind he favored. And now here she was in the flesh, wearing only a T-shirt and panties, her right leg tucked beneath her. She seemed to feel safe. The night pressed snugly against her window. She had posters of rock bands on the wall behind her: Arcade Fire, TV on the Radio, and some band called Drive Fast & Shut Your Eyes. She wore headphones. For a moment, while she considered what next to write, she hugged herself, and this brought out the shape of her breasts, and Romeo felt anxious just looking at her.

  You made her a ‘Point of Interest’? Shaw, were you kidding? How am I going to hurt her?

  At last the mosquitoes and no-see-ums drove him away. He pushed through the jungle again, with the bugs all over him. This was too much. This heat, this assignment, these no-see-ums flying around his head; and Clio flying around, and that other girl flying around: Tara. Tara who had stood there in the dark while he’d delivered his threats, saying yes yes yes to him but not yielding an inch. If she’s not scared of me, then we’re fucked. When he got back to the car the prevailing stink assailed his nostrils again, and the car was filled with dancing gnats, and every fucking thing was flying around his head.

  He got back onto Rt. 17 but didn’t get far before he had to stop. He pulled into the parking lot of the Rent-All store, which was illumined by one of those old snappish mercury-vapor lamps. He opened his door and leaned out over the pavement. His dinner came tumbling out, blue as laundry. He stayed doubled up a while, breathing in the reek, thinking he might hurl again, but he didn’t. After a while he wiped his mouth and drove on. He found a gas station called Happy Times, and in the men’s room he gargled and brushed his teeth. Then he went back on patrol. No time off. Have to keep working. According to Shaw’s great plan I have to keep moving at all times.

  Shaw awoke from a thousand-eyed nightmare. House full of enemies, enemies everywhere. His heart swinging wildly in its cage.

  He groped on the bed beside him till he found his Walther .32 autoloader, and let his fingers close around the handle. He sat up. Peering into the gloom. Where am I? Somebody’s in here with me. Somebody’s breathing. I see him. A malici
ous presence, glowing. Should I shoot? Kill him before he kills me?

  Finally it came to him: the kid.

  Jase. This was Jase’s room, and Shaw was in Jase’s bed while the kid himself slept on a cot. The Boatwrights, the jackpot: it all rushed back.

  Except for the kid’s breathing, everything was silent.

  But he knew they were awake. They were just waiting for their chance.

  Ah God.

  What was the matter with him? How did he think he could survive this? This lunacy? Now there was no way out. Only way out was prison or death. No retreat, no running away. I even gave them our real fucking names.

  He looked at the clock on his phone. Twelve till two. Romeo should make his check-in in twelve minutes. But oh Christ, he was depending on Romeo? Romeo was his dark servant? If the cops ever touched him, he’d buckle. How had he gotten into this? Because of that MySpace page, because of Tara. Tara and her whole family coming off so naïve and big-eyed and pliant and spineless: she had sucked him into this; it was her fault. He had been minding his own business and their ‘innocence’ had roped him into this. Oh, you fuckers.

  The heat built up inside his skull till all his fear was gone and there was nothing but fury.

  He drew a deep breath. He reached up and turned the light on, and instantly the room was filled with toy warplanes and a glow-in-the-dark Iron Man doll, and behind the warplanes, a ceramic statue of Jesus. Shaw sat there gathering himself. Holding the gun. Jase was in the other bed pretending to sleep. Though he knew the kid was awake; of course he was awake: like everyone in this house he was scared out of his mind. All of them were awake. And that was OK with Shaw. You all lie there and be afraid now; you think about Romeo and Romeo’s sickness and Romeo’s bloodlust while I tap into the power and get the ground settled under me. You think about fighting back, all of you. Go ahead. I’m ready for blood whenever you want.

  Mitch kept rehearsing in his mind what he’d do if he heard any sound from his daughter’s room. Supposing Shaw tried to sneak in there? Mitch didn’t have his pistol anymore — Shaw McBride had confiscated it — but he could still jump out of bed, grab the letter opener off the rolltop desk, and rush into her room and with luck get in there before he could take aim. Go in low. Swing underhand, with all my strength, and twist as I pull out. Grab his gun arm with my left hand, and with my right stab and twist, stab and twist.

  Or should I wait?

  Till when? Till he’s in the act of raping my daughter?

  Maybe. Because he’ll be more vulnerable then.

  But the price.

  And what if he makes her go on top, uses her as a shield, keeps his gun in his hand and his eye on the door while he forces her to whatever. Oh my Lord Jesus.

  Maybe should I wait till he’s done? Till he’s sleepy after his business?

  Oh my Lord. How can I wait?

  Help me, my Lord. Guide me.

  Maybe he’s asleep by now? The bastard had looked exhausted when he lay down. Must be asleep. Kill him in his sleep?

  The rush, the terror in McBride’s eyes, me stabbing the knife and be sure to twist it so the blood will fly out of him and remember to clench tightly so my hand won’t slip even with his blood all over me, and keep plunging it and plunging it, and the blood flying, my Lord.

  But then there’s that other guy. The guy out on the road, the madman.

  My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? Why art thou so far from helping me, and from the words of my roaring?

  Next to him, Patsy slept. Amazing to him that she could sleep. But she was pretty drunk. The fumes curled from her nostrils when she breathed out. While Mitch just kept rehearsing the rush, over and over, a thousand times: the stabbing, the blood, the making ribbons out of that son of a bitch. Killing him all night long.

  Shaw got up and went into the bathroom and pissed. He left the door slightly ajar, and when he was done he stopped to listen for a moment. Stillness came pouring through that door. It struck him as an aggressive stillness — rebellious. He flushed, and went out and stood before the door to Mitch and Patsy’s room.

  “Mitch?” he said quietly.

  Naturally there was no answer.

  “Mitch, I know you’re awake. Say something before I get annoyed.”

  That earned a soft croak: “Yes.”

  “I just want you to know, Mitch, I’m not going to rape your daughter or anything, unless you’re planning to fuss with me. You’re not planning to fuss with me, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Good. If you do I’ll rape her and cut her tongue out so she’ll never be able to tell you how much she blames you, but you’ll see it in her face every day for the rest of your long shitty life. But if you cooperate with me, I’ll treat her like a princess, and no harm will befall her. Or you, or anyone else you love. All right?”

  A long wait. “Yes.”

  “OK. Get some sleep.”

  Shaw went through the house and out the back door, into the panting night. He stood on the wooden deck and waited, and at exactly 2:00 a.m., Romeo called.

  “Hey, Romeo.”

  “How’d I do?

  “With Tara? I think you did well. She’s scared.”

  A silence, then Romeo said, “I feel like I fucked up.”

  “You got to seem like you’re batshit. Like you’ve got the killings all planned out in your head. Like you’re ready to blow, like you’re just waiting for the spark.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Riding around Brunswick.”

  “You finding everybody’s house OK? You find the grandmother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Clio’s? Uncle Shelby’s?”

  “I found ’em. But I still don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

  “Keep moving. What I said: if I send you a mayday, you go kill whoever you’re closest to.”

  “Right.”

  “But keep moving, so they’ll never know where you are.”

  “OK.”

  “And if I don’t answer a check-in call, that means I’m probably dead. You keep trying me for twenty minutes — then you start killing.”

  “Starting with which one?”

  “Doesn’t matter. So long as you know which one.”

  “Start with Nell?”

  “Whatever you want. Just make a plan, get it in your head. Make it concrete. You’ve got to believe it so they’ll believe it.”

  “OK.”

  “You understand?”

  “I think.”

  “If it’s true for you, it’ll be true for them.”

  “Right,” said Romeo.

  Romeo, after that call, felt a dead ache in his stomach. It wasn’t hunger but still he thought he better eat something. He went over to I-95 and found a Huddle House. The bounteous light was repellent to him, but nothing else was open, so he went in and took a booth. The menu was so shiny he could hardly bear to look at it. He felt conspicuous and awkward. The waitress hovered. Though he knew perfectly well what grits were, he thought she was expecting to be asked, so he said, “Could you tell me something about grits?”

  The waitress shrugged. “They’re white.”

  He approved of this opacity: he thought it fitting. The hour, this job, this hash joint half-full of drunks, toads, and marginal grifters: why in the world should she open up to anyone? He ordered the grits plus scrambled eggs and bacon, and she went away. Then the woman in the next booth turned, and sized him up, and said, “Grits is nothing. It’s what you put your butter on. You makin a big thing about grits, you must be a Yankee.”

  He said, “I am.”

  “Knew it.”

  She turned to the gnarled cracker who shared her booth. She gave him a look like, what did I tell you, and he conceded, “You called it, Wynetta.”

  She turned back to Romeo. “I’m Wynetta. This is Lonnie.”

  “OK. I’m Romeo.”

  Naturally Lonnie thought that was funny. His laugh was petty, ja
gged. Wynetta killed it with a sharp look, and asked Romeo what he thought about the trial of Miss Glynn County. Was that a travesty or what? Romeo said he didn’t know anything about the trial of Miss Glynn County. Wynetta showed him the picture in the Brunswick News and laid the whole thing out for him: the cheating, the recriminations, the secret baby, the missing bullet.

  Presently Lonnie got tired of being ignored. He paid for his coffee and took off, and Wynetta came to sit in Romeo’s booth.

  She was large. She had thinning hair and a mail slot for a mouth, and there was nothing sexy about her unless you weren’t looking, and even then you smelled her breath which was a bouquet of onions, slim jims and gin. When Romeo’s breakfast arrived, he couldn’t begin to eat it. But he probably wouldn’t have eaten it anyway, and he was glad for the company, glad that Wynetta was talking a blue streak. It distracted him from his obligations.

  After a few minutes the waitress came by again and noticed his untouched plate. “You don’t like the grits?”

  “Oh, no, they’re fine, I just can’t eat right now. Could you maybe just bring me the check?”

  She muttered, “You don’t pay if you don’t eat,” and swept the plate away. She was vexed, but there was nothing he could see to do about this.

  Wynetta had lost the thread of her chatter. For a moment she and Romeo were quiet, looking into each other’s eyes. Then it occurred to her to ask, “So what’re you doing down here?”

  That was a tough one. Shaw had told him something to say to this but he couldn’t remember. He tried, “Well. I’m with my buddy.”

  “Yeah?”

  She waited.

  “And, um, we’re in business. My buddy and me.”

  “What business?”

  “Well, like insurance.”

  She said, “I used to sell insurance. Who you work for?”

  “It’s not like regular insurance.”

  She waited.

  “It’s hard to explain,” he offered. “It’s like, I don’t know. Like secondary insurance.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Oh. Well, it’s like if all the people you loved went out to a field in a thunderstorm? I mean, we could tell you the odds they’d get hit by lightning, and how much money you’d get if they did. But that’s secondary because we can’t give you anyone’s life back. You know?”