Ravens

by George Dawes Green

  He took a breath and pressed forward. Walked up to Mitch and gave him a big embrace.

  Inasmuch as they hardly knew each other, this took Mitch somewhat aback. But Burris held on, saying softly, “Hey, I gotta see you. Right away. Police business.”

  Then pulled back so they were looking eye to eye.

  Mitch muttered, “What do you mean?”

  “Meet me at Huddle House? Alone? In two hours?”

  Clearly Mitch was disturbed by this request. But what did that tell you? Out of the blue a cop declares he’s got official business with you: wouldn’t that rattle anyone?

  Still, Mitch’s eyes were buggy and furtive and he did look very worried.

  Burris insisted, “It’s important.”

  Mitch finally shrugged and conceded, “OK. Huddle House. What time again?”

  “Two-thirty.”

  “Tell me what this is about?”

  “Two-thirty, Mitch. OK?”

  Shaw discovered that just being around old Nell made him happy. Just hearing her laugh. He adored her little self-involved dramas and her frankness. He was pleased particularly now, as she took him and Tara aside and said under her breath, “Oh, kids, you gotta save me.”

  Tara asked, “From what?”

  “Deppity Dawg.”

  “The cop?”

  “He’s got this thing for me.”

  Shaw couldn’t hide his amusement. He laughed out loud.

  “I swear,” said Nell, “he’s about to invite me to something. I know it.”

  “Which one is he?” said Shaw.

  “Don’t look!” said Nell. “The one talking to Mitch. Can’t we get out of here? He’s always giving me these moony looks. Come on, we’ll slip out through the rectory. Will there be cameras out there? I’m getting weary of those cameras, I tell you that. This celebrity thing, how long is this gonna drag on?”

  Shaw shrugged and smiled.

  Said Nell, “I thought you’re supposed to be famous for fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes I wouldn’t mind. But this is driving me crazy. It’s your fault, Shaw. It was that ‘I’m giving it all away.’ That was such a damn fool thing to say. You want to get rid of your money, let me do it. I’ll make it disappear. Ha ha ha! Come on, let’s go, don’t dawdle. The vultures are right behind us.”

  Tara drove on their way home from church. Shaw rode in the passenger seat. They had a police escort now: pinwheels of dancing light, both ahead and behind. But a bold photographer, chasing on a motorcycle, managed to slip into the next lane — suddenly he was right beside her, snapping away.

  The world was closing in on her.

  And just then Dad said, from the backseat, “Hey Shaw? Something I got to tell you.”

  “What?”

  “Cop back at the church? Says he wants to meet with me.”

  Shaw turned in his seat. “What are you talking about?”

  “At the Huddle House. In two hours.”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t say. He just wants to meet me.”

  Shaw was glaring. “A cop wants to meet you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What the FUCK?”

  It was too much for Tara. Shaw’s anger, the paparazzi, the cops: she was overwhelmed. At Redwood Street, the cruiser ahead of her slowed to turn, but she didn’t notice this till the last second, and had to hit the brake hard. Shaw was pitched forward. Nearly thrown into the windshield.

  “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”

  He drew out his pistol and held it low where the cops couldn’t see it but Tara could. “WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING?”

  She said, “I’m sorry! I just, I wasn’t, these lights are confusing me!”

  “YOU LYING CUNT!”

  She tried to focus on her driving. She managed to make the turn, and then crawled along. As Redwood was only a two-lane street, the motorcycle had to fall back. Shaw got on his cell phone and screamed, “SHIT GOING DOWN. FIND A TARGET!” A pause. “WHENEVER I GIVE YOU THE WORD! JUST START KILLING. KILL EVERY BOATWRIGHT IN THIS COUNTY!”

  He shut the phone and turned to the backseat: “WHO TOLD?”

  Nobody spoke.

  “JASE, YOU GAVE US UP, DIDN’T YOU, YOU LITTLE FUCK?”

  Jase was bawling. “No sir.”

  “YOU READY, JASE? READY FOR THE KILLING TO START? READY FOR THE PUNISHMENT? I’M READY!”

  “I swear I didn’t tell! I swear to God.”

  Shaw turned to Mom. “WAS IT YOU, BITCH?”

  She had her face in her hands. “No, I wouldn’t! I wouldn’t! Ever!”

  “THEN WHICH ONE? WHO’S THE FUCKING PSYCHO WHO WANTS ALL THE KILLING?”

  I have to calm him, Tara thought. “Shaw, it wasn’t us.”

  He shifted his eyes her way.

  She said, “There’s lots of things that cop could want. Maybe he just wants to complain about the size of the crowd. Maybe he wants Dad to hire him for security. I don’t know, but I mean none of us would say anything, really, Shaw, we’re not that crazy, we wouldn’t —”

  “Shut up.”

  He was staring out at the street. They were already back at Oriole Road, which was lined with pilgrims. “Just shut the fuck up. I have to think.”

  Romeo sat in the Tercel across the street from Cousin Alfred’s house, awaiting Shaw’s command. He’d taken the Phoenix.22 from the trunk, and had it handy, wedged down beside the parking brake. He had the phone in his hand, and he was looking up at the grand façade of the house. Waiting. As soon as Shaw gives the word, I’ll make the word flesh. I will not let him down. Get ready. Any second. When he says go, don’t hesitate.

  Finally the phone buzzed, and he answered: “Yeah.”

  “It’s OK, you can stand down. We’re still alive here.”

  Mitch slipped out through the backyard, climbed over the fence into the Lumbachs’ yard. The Liberty was waiting for him there, and he got away with the paparazzi none the wiser. Headed for the mall.

  A line from Scripture came to him: If your sinful nature controls your mind, there is death. It seemed not to apply. Then he thought, If the Holy Spirit controls your mind, there is life and peace. Still didn’t pertain. There was no coherence to his thoughts. He passed the Arby’s and the Payless Shoes, and pulled into the parking lot at the Glynn Place Mall.

  He sat there. In two minutes Romeo approached the car. He got in beside Mitch and shut the door and said, “Unbutton your shirt.”

  Mitch did. Romeo taped a Radio Shack remote mike to his chest, and a transmitter to his back. The little bastard trembled as he worked. He was unshaven and pasty and looked like a wreck. If he weren’t such a nasty runt, Mitch thought, I might even feel sorry for him.

  For a few minutes Romeo fiddled with his laptop, testing the connection. Mitch watching intently. Till Romeo snapped, “What’re you looking at?”

  Mitch lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  And heard his own echo out of the laptop: “I’m sorry.”

  Romeo asked into the air, “OK. Can you hear us?”

  Shaw’s voice replied, from the computer, “Yes. Hey, Mitch.”

  “Answer him,” said Romeo.

  Mitch grumbled, “Hey.”

  Shaw said, “Mitch, I have a question. Do you think we’re afraid to kill your family?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You know that if you fuck up, everybody dies?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you falter for even an instant?”

  “I know.”

  “Look at Romeo. Look how insane he is. He doesn’t give a shit about anything. You see that?”

  “Yes.”

  “So tell me you won’t fail us.”

  “I won’t fail you.”

  “Tell your wife, because she’s right here beside me.”

  “I won’t fail you.”

  “Jesus. Say her name, Mitch.”

  “Patsy. I won’t fail you.”

  “Tell your daughter.”

  “Tara, I won’t fail you.”
r />   “Tell your son.”

  “I won’t fail you, Jase.”

  “OK. So. Make us proud. We’ll be with you every second.”

  Burris arrived at the Huddle House at 2:27. He knew the difficulty of the task he faced, and that he wasn’t the cleverest cop in the world — but he also believed, as he swung his feet out of the cruiser, and stood, and straightened his aching back, that he was a pretty good man for this job. Someone who cared, anyway, and someone who knew the lay of the land — you could’ve done worse.

  But as he was passing the big glass windows, he caught sight of his reflection, and thought, mercy. What a paunchy shambling loser. Wouldn’t you think, when a man goes bald, that at least the little hair he did retain would do as it was told? Not for Burris. The sides stuck out like a clown’s; the patch in front was as sassy as pubic hair. And why the hell wasn’t he in uniform? At least the uniform would have commanded some respect. But instead he’d chosen to wear the paisley shirt that Barbara had given him for Christmas twenty years ago. It had seemed stylish at the time. But now he looked like a Polynesian Rent-a-Clown.

  OK. There’s no remedy for any of it. Leave it alone.

  Mitch was already in a booth. When he saw Burris he started to get up but Burris waved him back down. “Sit down, Mitch. How are you?”

  “I’m good.”

  “I believe that,” said Burris, squeezing into the booth, aiming for breeziness. “I guess your life has changed completely, hasn’t it?”

  “I guess.”

  “Has it all sunk in yet?”

  “Not really.”

  “Them TV people, they getting kind of intrusive?”

  “You said it.”

  The waitress came over. They both ordered coffee.

  Burris said, “You fixing on keeping the business?”

  “Don’t know what else I’d do.”

  “Get yourself some quail land?”

  “That’s an idea.”

  “Couple thousand acres might suit you well.”

  “Mm-hm.”

  Mitch was being terse, withholding, and he kept plucking nervously at the top button on his shirt. Now’s a good time then, thought Burris — before he gets comfortable. Watch him closely, particularly those fingers, and let’s get to it.

  “Mitch, I need to talk to you about Shaw McBride.”

  For a fleeting instant, the fingers hardened into claws. Just a quick clasp though — then the hand relaxed, and when he spoke, he sounded OK. “What can I tell you, Burris?”

  “Well. Start with, was Shaw McBride with you when you bought that lottery ticket?”

  “You mean, was he in the store with me? No, sir. Why do you ask?”

  “Where was he?”

  “I guess headed back to his motel. I’d invited him to dinner, to meet Patsy and the kids. So he was gonna, just get changed or whatever. I was proud of him. You should have seen the kind of man he used to be — and then, how he turned out? I like to think maybe I had something to do with that.”

  It all came flowing out so smoothly. It seemed so genuine. Burris felt the ground giving way beneath him.

  Mitch went on, “I mean that man is just full up with love. When he says he’s gonna give all his money away? He means it. My gosh. He tracks me down to say thank-you for a kindness I showed him years ago? And next thing, we’re winning the lottery together. You say whatever you want, but I think there’s the hand of God in all that. Has to be.”

  He couldn’t be making this up, Burris thought. He couldn’t. This wasn’t some fancy Hollywood actor. This was just Mitch. Just Nell’s kid, who had a real spiritual way about him and went to church every week and Lions of Judah on Wednesday nights, and how in the world could he be pulling this off and looking Burris in the eye unless what he was saying was true?

  Ah Christ. Well, let me lay it all on the table, then.

  Burris took a sip of coffee. Looked around to be sure no one was listening, and said, “Mitch I want you to tell me something.”

  “OK.”

  “McBride putting any kind a squeeze on you?”

  “Squeeze?” Raising a brow to show how peculiar he thought the question.

  Burris held his gaze steady, and spoke with slow, deliberate weight. “Listen to me. I don’t know what the guy’s told you. What kind of fear he’s put into you. But I guarantee you, if you talk to me, I’ll protect you. I’ll protect your family. We’ll put him away forever. You hear what I’m telling you?”

  Mitch lowered his eyes. All he wanted was to give Burris a sign. He even seemed to hear a voice: Take their help, let them rescue you. Could this be the voice of the Lord?

  But the duct tape was tugging at the hair on his chest.

  He knew they were listening.

  They’d kill his family in an instant. If he said a single word.

  But — I could write something, couldn’t I? I could just reach back and take the pen from the waitress station and write a note on this napkin: Help me. Two of them. They’re listening. Wouldn’t that be enough? Burris could take it from there.

  But then Burris pursed his lips to suck in some coffee, and Mitch thought: What the hell am I thinking? This is Deppity Dawg. I write that note on a napkin and he’ll probably read it out loud. He’ll say, “Help you in what way, Mitch?” And then everything will be lost. Everything. My whole life. My wife and children, my mother, all lost forever and for what? I can’t risk it. I can’t even afford this silence right now…

  Shaw was in Jase’s room with Tara. The voices from her laptop sounded tinny and washed-out, but still you could hear most of what was being said. He looked at Tara. Her lips were moving slightly as she listened. He knew she was trying to project a message to her father; something on the order of, don’t screw up, Dad, don’t give us away, please don’t screw up…

  There fell a long scary silence. Shaw reached back and wrapped his fingers around the handle of the .32.

  But then they heard Mitch clear his throat. He said, “Something I’m trying to figure out, Burris.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  A smile began to crawl up Shaw’s face.

  Mitch went on, “You’re saying Shaw McBride’s trying to steal from me?”

  Voice of the cop: “Well, I’m not saying. I’m just asking.”

  Mitch: “But how would he do that?”

  Cop: “Threaten your family?”

  He put it as a question. Weakness had seeped into his tone. Mitch pounced. “Shaw McBride? Threaten me? Burris, are you out of your mind? The Lord brought that young man into our lives!”

  Mitch wasn’t just defending his position — he had a full head of indignation going. It was a thing of beauty. Could it be, Shaw wondered, that he was starting to believe? In Shaw’s dream? In the warmth of it, the sunny big-skied beauty of it?

  Shaw leaned back in his chair and grinned irrepressibly. This was no time to celebrate, he knew. There were still a thousand things that could go wrong. For example, this cop Burris: who the hell was he? What did he know, what did he suspect? But Mitch had come through! That was a triumph right there. We’ve got Mitch fighting for the cause. If Mitch himself is fighting for the cause, then really, how can we not succeed?

  Shaw told the family, “I think the old man has done it.”

  But his gaze was on Tara. She was trembling, and her lashes were wet, and she was sitting so close to Shaw that he could smell the sweetness of her breath. He put his hand over hers. When he squeezed, he felt a tiny pressure of reciprocation. This day, he thought. This day is the most dangerous and the most rapturous that anyone has lived for centuries. It was an absurd notion and it made him laugh at himself, but still: who else had ever lived the way he was living this very day?

  Tara in pieces in her room, the tears pouring from her.

  She had squeezed his hand.

  Within her was some creature who wanted his comfort.

  She sat at her desk, before her laptop, and loo
ked at her photo albums. This time she was too weak to resist: she went right to her favorite shot of Nell. Nell and Tara and the cat Horace Jackal on the swinging bed. With those yellow roses climbing all over the

  screen — though you couldn’t see them well in the picture. What you saw was Tara laughing and Nell laughing even harder.

  What had she done? What had she done to bring this hell smashing down on her?

  She fell to her knees, as hard as she could. My Lord! Why are you doing this! Why are you so angry with me?

  What did I do to you?

  Then she thought about that time on the porch, the time she had told Nell about winning the jackpot, when she was so drunk on dreams of coming loot: shoes and a BMW and a trip to Paris and a new apartment. When she’d still thought winning the jackpot would be some kind of blessing.

  How could she have ever thought that? What was it she had thought she needed?

  The only thing she wanted now was to be back in that swinging bed looking out at the chili pepper plants and the crepe myrtle and the bathtub. But that was gone now. She thought, I will never get back there. The Lord had seen her greed and arrogance, and to punish her had exiled her forever from Nell’s back porch. She knelt and clutched the bedclothes and sobbed, and when she thought of the Lord the face she saw was Romeo’s — she couldn’t help it! She couldn’t help it! Though she knew that this was another way in which she was betraying God and was deserving of her banishment and of all this horror and of this grinding wheel of terror.

  Romeo strolled toward the Kroger supermarket, like he was going in to buy groceries, like this was an everyday thing.

  A thirtyish mom with two kids was also heading in, and was much closer to the door than he was. But she paused to get a shopping cart, and then had to hold the hand of one of her kids while piloting him toward the door. Romeo had already guessed she’d do these things. He’d factored them into his pace. He had everything meticulously timed, so that he got to the door at the same instant the woman did. For a moment everybody froze — then Romeo graciously stood to one side, and signaled: you go ahead.

  The woman gave him a big smile. She and her kids went past him and headed to Garden Produce.