Ravens

by George Dawes Green

  Shaw sat at one of the wooden picnic tables, disposing of business details with Trevor and a guy named Charlie Cope. Cope was a librarian from Texas whom Shaw had appointed church quartermaster. Cope was running through their options regarding portable toilets. It was already impossibly hot, and Shaw was hardly able to keep his eyes open.

  Said Cope, “Danny’s Flushes out of Savannah will rent us a full twelve-unit suite for sixty a week per unit. That’s eight toilets, which we’ll split two male, four female, two disability; plus four wash stations, plus cartage, which I’ve been quoted at about two hundred, but if we go with Clean Machine there’s no cartage but the unit cost is somewhat higher …”

  Shaw nudged Mitch and murmured, “The mighty work of the Lord.” Mitch grinned.

  No sooner were they finished with Cope than they had to deal with Mrs. Riley. She said, “Patsy says we’re cooking barbecue today, and she says we gotta have pork. But it’s in Leviticus, Shaw. Pork is swine and swine is unclean and you shouldn’t even touch the carcass …”

  And on and on. But Shaw had ceased to listen; he was following the progress of a sleek car that was coming up the long drive to the big cabin. Something European — a Lamborghini? A true Lamborghini in all its splendor? As he watched this car, he cut Mrs. Riley short. “Do what Patsy says. Patsy is a humble servant of the Lord and we should heed her counsel …”

  The car stopped and Henry Lonsdale, the financial guy, got out. He gave a quick sidelong look to the crowd of pilgrims. If it was a disapproving look you wouldn’t have known it: he was too elegant to give himself away like that. He strolled up to the picnic table and smiled just a little. He wasn’t so crude as to announce that sixty-two million dollars had just landed in Shaw’s bank account. He just said softly, “Mr. McBride. You ready to go fishing?”

  Burris went to check out the “VIP” Lounge just after noon. The sun was in high broiling ascendancy, but inside it was midnight dark and cool. A handful of “VIPs” sat there. Pale, doughy, their waists blown, their earhairs corkscrewing out, each a private huddle unto himself. Burris took a seat at the bar, as far from the little stage as he could get. Making his own huddle, and averting his eyes from the dancing.

  The bartender, Holly Ann, a stone dyke who’d worked there for twenty years, said, “Sup, Burris?”

  “Not much, Holly Ann. Club soda?”

  They knew each other from his unfortunate stint at the Coastal Area Drug Abuse Task Force. Burris had organized a big raid, and she was among those arrested. As usual his reach had exceeded his grasp: the club had a smart lawyer and she’d walked. In fact everybody had walked. The whole thing was a fiasco. And since then, whenever he’d been summoned to the “VIP” Lounge for one disturbance or another, she’d treated him with a kind of mocking disdain. She did bring him his soda. But wordlessly, and then she started to move away. He stopped her: “Holly Ann.”

  “What?”

  “You got any new girls working for you?”

  “Depends what new means.”

  “I mean like this week. Like she was a missionary before?”

  “Missionary? Here?”

  “There’s a guy we’re looking for. She might know him.”

  “Burris, what you up to? Give some girl a hard time?”

  “Uh-uh. Just talk, I swear. It’s not about her.”

  She sniffed. She left him there.

  So as not to be watching the show, he studied the stains in the carpet.

  After a minute Holly Ann returned with one of the girls. “Frankie this is Burris. Burris is a cop. Don’t touch him, don’t dance for him, don’t do anything for him except answer his questions. Then make him go away.”

  The girl nodded. Holly Ann left them alone.

  Burris said, “Frankie’s your real name?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You have any other real names?”

  “Tess.”

  He instantly liked her. Her brow, big and bony, gave her a kind of petting-zoo vulnerability. He wished he could save her from this life. He said, “Were you really a missionary?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened?”

  “Church kinda folded.”

  “So you came here?”

  She shrugged.

  “Seems to me, between spreading the gospel and exotic dancing, there’s a lot of room. Can’t you work somewhere else?”

  “Like where?”

  “I don’t know. Wal-Mart?”

  “Wal-Mart? Jesus. This sucks but not that bad.”

  He felt stupid for having brought it up.

  He produced the photo of Romeo. “You know this guy?”

  She didn’t say yes or no.

  “Tess. Please. I know he’s a nice guy. But right now he’s in over his head on something. I just want to help him.”

  Tess kneaded her big brow with her fingertips, and Burris sipped his soda, and waited.

  Finally she said, “OK. He was at Blackbeard’s Motel. I was staying there.”

  “How long was he there?”

  “Just a few hours. They didn’t even stay the night.”

  “They?”

  “Him and his friend.”

  “You talk to them?”

  “Yeah. Mostly Romeo. I liked him.”

  “Did he seem dangerous to you?”

  She smiled. “No.”

  “You see him again?”

  “Once. Like Saturday night. He came in here.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Nothing. A friend of his had died. Some guy lived in a trailer. Out on that road with the Bible name. Palm of something?”

  “Balm-of-Gilead?”

  “Yeah.”

  He thanked Tess for her help and left a big tip for Holly Ann, and went out into the blazing day.

  Back in the cruiser, he got the call he’d been waiting for. Rose Whittle on the radio, saying, “Burris? Come on in. Chief needs to talk to you. In his office.”

  Hell with that, he thought. Hell with that preening rooster. Come in when I’m damn well ready to.

  Jase thought it was awesome when he caught his first redfish. Shaw had set him up with a quarter-ounce jighead tipped with a minnow, and he got a strike in less than ten minutes. First on the boat to score. Way sooner than Tara. It wasn’t big enough to keep, but right away there came another tug, and this one was a fighter. Shaw showed him how to handle it. Jase let out some line and the fish swam off the oyster bar and out toward the ocean. He let out some more and the fish jumped. Red with silver pouring off it.

  Jase could feel the presence of Shaw next to him. And the whole family watching and envying him. Today he wasn’t the kid who melted into the woodwork; today he was the star.

  “What do I do?” he cried. “Shaw, what do I do?”

  “You’re OK,” said Shaw. “Reel him in a little.”

  “I can’t!”

  “Yeah you can. Come on, get his nose up. He wants you to. He wants you to show him your power.”

  Jase pulled as hard as could. The rod bowed and quivered. He pulled till his arms were about finished — and then he felt the line slacken a bit.

  “You got him,” said Shaw. “Take him.”

  The fish kept fighting. But it gave and then gave some more, and pretty soon Jase was cranking him in. Finally it was close enough for them to net. Mr. Lonsdale said it was one of the biggest redfish he’d ever seen. Dad clapped Jase on the back and Tara applauded. Mom took photos while he held the fish. For one shot he puckered up his lips as though about to kiss it, and everyone laughed. Nobody told him his humor was gross, or stupid or childish; they just laughed with him. They were all with him, and he was with Shaw. Everything was awesome.

  Then Shaw’s phone started to buzz.

  Jase knew who it was. It was Romeo.

  Not now, he thought. Not in the middle of my perfect day! You jerk, stay out of our lives, we’re sick of you!

  Shaw took the phone from his pocket.

  “Wait!” Jase cried. “
Don’t even answer.”

  Shaw said, “I got to, buddy.”

  “No, it’s that buttwipe! Just let him go! We don’t need him!”

  Shaw turned away and opened the phone and brought it to his ear. Jase grabbed his arm and cried, “No, don’t!”

  Shaw yanked free, but the phone slipped from his grasp and went sailing. It bounced against the gunwale and flew out over the river and plunged in, vanished.

  One long moment of quiet when they all stared after it.

  Then Shaw turned and glared at Jase. With dark menacing rage. Jase burst into tears. “I’m sorry! Shaw, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”

  All of Shaw’s fury was in his eyes. Otherwise he made no sign.

  He drew a slow breath, and then asked Mr. Lonsdale, “How deep is this, Henry?”

  “Nine, ten feet. Mud bottom. I’m afraid you won’t find it again.”

  Shaw said hoarsely, “It’s gone?”

  “Afraid so.”

  More silence. Then Shaw said, “Well. No big deal, I guess. It was an old phone. I’m just concerned because my mother’s supposed to be calling me from the hospital.”

  Said Henry Lonsdale, “Nothing serious, I hope?”

  “Oh. My father had a stroke.”

  “My God, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “So I’ve really got to get to a phone in a hurry.”

  “You can use mine.”

  “That’s kind of you. But I don’t have my mother’s number. It was in that phone. I guess I better get back to shore.”

  “Sure. Of course.”

  “Hate to spoil the fishing.”

  “No problem,” said Lonsdale, and he went to the wheel and cranked up the engine. “The fish’ll be here tomorrow.”

  Shaw asked, “How long will it take to get back to your dock?”

  “Well, this gal is pretty fast. Fifteen minutes?”

  “Can we make it any quicker?”

  “Do the best I can.”

  Jase sat in the bottom of the boat and curled his knees against his chest, and held his feet in his hands, and stared at his toes. He knew what he’d done. He’d unloosed Romeo into the world. He was the one who had brought Romeo into their lives in the first place, when he’d bragged to his friends about winning the jackpot. Now this. His fault again. Always his fault. Like he’d been sent here to destroy everyone’s life. Like he was secretly working for the devil. He wished he were dead. He wanted to throw himself in the water and drown — although mixed with that was a deep shiver of pride that he knew he couldn’t tell anybody about ever.

  Burris found plenty of trailers on Balm-of-Gilead Road. No trailer parks proper, but all along were singles, or clusters of three or four. At each he pulled in, knocked, displayed the mugshot.

  Some of the trailers had boxes of geraniums and stone reindeer and stained-glass caterpillars, and nice old ladies who offered tea and wanted to talk; some were less friendly. Set back in the pines, with Firebirds on blocks and chewed-up screen doors and the gaping tombs of freezers. At one stop, a brace of pit bulls charged him. The sound of galloping, the earth trembling, and there they were, leaping at his throat — but midair they hit the ends of their chains and were hurled into the dust as though stricken down by lightning.

  The dogs’ owner said he didn’t know Romeo, but maybe his brother did. His brother was in the state pen at Reidsville.

  Burris kept canvassing, canvassing patiently until he’d used up about three-quarters of Balm-of-Gilead, and nobody knew anything, and it was near three o’clock in the afternoon. Rose called again. “43? Burris? Where are you, Burris? You better get the Sam Hill in here.”

  He ignored her. He kept working.

  He came upon a unit with a convivial jigsaw skunk out front, and a gardenful of happy tulips and sweet pea. He pulled up. Old lady standing at the door, behind her walker. When he told her his business, she laughed out loud. “Romeo? My goodness. And he’s dangerous?”

  She had a great growly voice. Burris got a kick out of her, and thought Nell would too.

  Stop thinking of Nell. Nell is not the measure of everything. What Nell will get a kick out of, or won’t get a kick out of, is not your concern.

  “We’re just looking for this guy, ma’am. Have you seen him?”

  “Well, he looks like that fella I saw going into Claude’s.”

  “Who’s Claude?”

  “Used to live right there. He died though. I think his daughter’s there now.”

  The trailer she pointed to was away from the road, almost hidden. Burris walked up and knocked. He heard a grunt, which he took to mean Come in. He opened the door.

  A large woman lay in bed, smoking, drinking beer and watching TV. She wore a faded pink nightie. “Sorry I don’t get up,” she said. “I’m in mourning.”

  He said, “I’m sorry about that.” He didn’t ask her who’d died because he didn’t care. He just showed her the mugshot and said, “You know this man?”

  Her face darkened. “Oh, yeah. Ro-meo. What’s his game this time?”

  “Why do you say ‘game’?”

  “ ’Cause he’s a bullshit artist. He tried to tell me he was like some kind of hit man. For some insurance scam or something. I never knew what the hell he was saying. Officer, why don’t you get yourself a beer out of the fridge there? Come have a chat.”

  “No thank you. He said he was a hit man?”

  “He said he was the angel of darkness. Wait, you wanna see something? Let me show you something.”

  She reached into the drawer of the nightstand beside her. Fumbling around. “You’ll like this. This is a hoot. Wait. Where is it?”

  She reached down into the flop of tabloids on the floor beside the bed. Stirring them around. Burris took a step back, afraid she might roll off the bed.

  Then she sat up and waddled in her nightgown to the TV.

  On top of it she found a map. “OK, here. He left this. His little tourist map.”

  The map had been issued by the Brunswick Chamber of Commerce. Stars had been scrawled at various places. Near the top, someone had written, ‘Points of Interest.’ But Burris’s eye was drawn immediately to the bottom, to the old part of town, where one of the stars had been drawn right on Egmont Street, near the corner of Albemarle.

  Nell’s.

  Another star, encircled, was on Oriole Road: Mitch and Patsy’s. There was a star on Poinsettia Circle, but Burris couldn’t place it. But the Belle Point star? That would be the house of Shelby Manford, Patsy’s brother.

  The stars assembling themselves into a pattern as he looked at them — the way the figure of Orion will jump out from the confusion of the night sky. The pattern was: Mitch Boatwright’s family.

  “Ma’am,” said Burris, “do you mind if I borrow this?”

  She shrugged. “I sure as hell don’t want it. But wouldn’t you like to join me for a beer, Officer? One PBR, come on. Don’t be such an old lady.”

  Mitch went to the back of the boat, where Shaw was looking out at the water. Mitch said under his breath, “You know my child meant no harm.”

  Shaw gave him a tight-lipped smile.

  Mitch asked him, “What does it mean? If he calls and you don’t answer?”

  Shaw shook his head.

  Said Mitch, “You can stop him, can’t you?”

  “If we get to shore. Yes. I think I know where he’ll go first.”

  They bounced along through the waves. Mitch watched as Patsy opened the ice chest and carefully measured out a little cocktail for herself. Tara was gazing at the riverbank, at the solemn oaks. Jase sat in his heap of misery. Shaw said to Mitch, “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have left Romeo out there.”

  Said Mitch, “There’s lots of things you shouldn’t have done. You shouldn’t be here in the first place. But I know one thing. You’re here because God wants you here.”

  They sat without speaking. Shaw began to softly weep. He said, “Is there a prayer for me? Is there anything that could save
me?”

  Mitch put an arm around him, and held him, and said, “There’s the psalm. My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? Why art thou so far from helping me, and from the words of my roaring?”

  Mitch turned his gaze to the boat’s wake, as it opened into the river, and he went on: “I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint: my heart is like wax; it is melted in the midst of my bowels. My strength is dried up like a potsherd; my tongue cleaveth to my jaws; and thou hast brought me into the dust of death.”

  Shaw wept into Mitch’s chest. Mitch said, “Be not thou far from me, O Lord. O my strength! Haste thee to help me!”

  Romeo had been braced for the world to collapse at any moment, but he’d supposed this fall would come violently, with lightning and thunder. Instead it was all happening in silence: the walls just quietly caving in.

  Shaw wasn’t answering his phone.

  That was all.

  Romeo kept up the rhythm with his thumb, calling again and again, but each time he got Shaw’s message machine. You know what to do.

  He kept driving. He took a left at the Sonic. Another left at Zachary Wiles’s Funeral Home. He passed the Empire Title Pawn Shop. He thought about that cry he’d heard: “No, don’t!” Whose voice could that have been? Someone younger than Patsy, shriller than Tara — maybe Jase? But Jase was too shy and timid to shout like that. Some girl at the fairgrounds? Just some girl Shaw was flirting with, and this was only a game?

  But then he’d have called right back.

  Maybe he’s got no signal? He’s out of range?

  But then why doesn’t he get back into range?

  Well. He’s thoughtless. Like a child sometimes.

  Romeo was back at the Sonic. He turned left, and made another left at the funeral home. Passed Empire Title again. He was driving in circles. Why not admit it? he thought. They’ve got Shaw. It’s so clear. Here’s what happened: the porks came, Shaw pulled his gun, someone yelled, “No, don’t!” So that’s it. It’s over. He’s either caught or dead — and I better hope dead, considering the torture that prison would be for Shaw.