Straw Man

by Gerry Boyle

  And then Abram appeared, slipping out of a corn row like he’d just escaped a maze. I got out of the truck as he approached and we stood by the front bumper, under the oaks. There was no fence.

  “How you doing?” I said.

  He shrugged.

  “Not great.”

  “I understand. But I want to let you know that we talked to Semi.”

  His big eyes narrowed under his hat.

  “About the video,” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “He won’t be posting it anywhere.”

  “He changed his mind?”

  I hesitated. “Yes.”

  “But he still has it? He could do it later, if he changes his mind again?”

  “I don’t think so. He gave it up.”

  Abram looked at me.

  “How did you get him to do that?” he said.

  “We can be persuasive.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, Clair especially. He knows how to reason with people, help them make the right choice.”

  A long pause, a longer look. An acorn fell from the tree and bounced off the hood of the truck, landed in the grass.

  “Semi, he has some tough friends,” Abram said. “They might—”

  “That would be a very bad idea,” I said. “I think Semi knows that.”

  “After your talk.”

  “Right.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “The Golden Rule,” I said.

  “Do unto others?”

  “Yeah. I don’t think Semi will be doing unto you anymore.”

  “And the video?”

  “He had it on his phone and on his laptop.”

  “So what does that mean for Miriam?”

  “I have his phone and his laptop now,” I said.

  “He gave them to you?”

  “Well, sort of. Just for safekeeping.”

  “And the video?”

  “It’s gone.”

  “Did you watch it?”

  “Yeah. We played it for Semi again, too, for discussion purposes.”

  “She doesn’t know.”

  “You think Victor will keep his mouth shut?” I said.

  “I think so. He cares for Miriam. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt her.”

  “Glad to hear it. He doesn’t like me.”

  “No,” Abram said. “And he’s not too pleased with me, either.”

  We stood. Looked up at the trees, across at the corn, down the road, at our feet. Then our eyes met again.

  “Thanks for your help,” Abram said.

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “But we have another problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “There’s a record of the gun buys on Semi’s laptop.”

  “Can’t you get rid of it? Like the video?”

  “It’s evidence.”

  “Am I on there?”

  “No. Not that I could see. You’re not on his phone, either, seeing as you don’t have one.”

  “So then it’s okay, right? I won’t do it anymore.”

  “Cops have seen you, I’m sure. And if they pick up Semi, he’ll want to spread the blame around.”

  “Dang,” Abram said.

  “Yup, dang.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We?”

  “Yeah. Well, you’ve been helping.”

  “Well, ‘we’ go in and talk to them. The whole story, start to finish.”

  I could see him running that through his mind. And I could guess the sticking points. Being charged. The Bishop knowing. Being let off. The Bishop knowing. Being called as a witness. The Bishop knowing.

  He looked away, spoke without looking back.

  “You’d go with me?”

  “Sure.”

  He looked back at me. “I’ll think about it,” Abram said.

  “I wouldn’t think too long. If they have to round you up, it’s going to go a lot harder.”

  Abram took his hat off, then put it back on. He squared his shoulders and held out his hand.

  “Thanks,” he said. “For what you’re doing.”

  “No problem,” I said.

  And there was a thrashing in the corn, the stalks waving, and the Bishop came crashing out.

  22

  He came bounding toward us, fist shaking, hat nearly flying off. Abram stepped to the side as his father bore down on us. I stood my ground and he stomped to a halt in front of me.

  Again.

  “I told you,” he bellowed, sweat beaded on his forehead.

  “Yes, you did.”

  “And still you persist in coming here. What is your interest in my son?”

  I hesitated.

  “Mr. McMorrow was giving me some advice,” Abram said.

  His father wheeled around.

  “Him? He has no advice to give.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” I said. “Interview techniques. Narrative writing.”

  “A scoffer at the truth of God,” the Bishop shouted, wheeling back to me.

  “I’m not scoffing at all,” I said.

  “He hasn’t scoffed,” Abram said.

  “Then what?” the Bishop said, wheeling back.

  Abram hesitated.

  “He wanted to bounce some ideas off of me,” I said.

  “What ideas?”

  “Ideas about faith,” Abram said. “And other religions and stuff. And what they have in common.”

  “What does he know about God? He drinks. He fights.”

  “But in moderation,” I said.

  “You think this is funny? I’ll call the police. I’ll tell them to stop you from interfering with my son.”

  “Not interfering. Having coffee.”

  “What are you?” the Bishop said.

  “I was raised Catholic.”

  “A papist.”

  “Yes, but I just wish they’d invent a religion that united people instead of dividing them,” I said.

  “We are united. And we don’t want to be bothered by the outside world.”

  “It has a way of making its way in,” I said, thinking of Billy and Baby Fat and how they’d muscled their way into my life. “And sometimes people want to go out and see the outside world firsthand.”

  “I won’t allow you to make your way in. This is a private road. You, sir, are trespassing.”

  “He was just talking to me,” Abram said.

  “He isn’t allowed on this property,” the Bishop said.

  “But he wasn’t—”

  “I forbid you to have contact with my son. I forbid you to have contact with my daughter. I won’t have him influenced by your tempting talk. I won’t have her violated by your corrupting ideas.”

  “But, sir,” Abram said. “Mr. McMorrow isn’t—”

  “—going to talk to you again,” the Bishop said. “You are banned from this property, sir. If I have to involve the sheriff’s office, I will.”

  “Not necessary, Mr. Bishop,” I said. “I’ll go.”

  I turned to Abram.

  “See you around. Think about what I said.”

  “He won’t,” the Bishop said. “He’s forbidden to do so.”

  I turned to the Bishop, held out my hand. He stared at it like it was a dead animal. I let it fall away.

  “No hard feelings, sir,” I said. “I know you’re doing what you believe to be the right thing.”

  He softened, said, “I don’t mean to be harsh.”

  “But there comes a time,” I said, “when you just have to have faith in God, sure, but also faith in your kids—that you’ve done your job, that they’re good people—”

  I looked at Abram and added, “—that, given a choice, they’ll do the right thing.”

  It was 1:35 p.m., school out at 2:05. I drove down from the ridge and northeast to the crossroad, then north. The sky was blue, the maples blood-orange on the shores of the marshes. It was harvest time in Waldo County—corn, vegetables. I passed a field of pumpkins, orange and yellow in the c
reeping carpet of green leaves and stalks. I wondered if the ATF thought of it that way: Plant the seeds, water the plants, swoop in for the harvest.

  I shook my head, the Bishop’s tirade replaying. I couldn’t blame him. He was lashing out because he saw me as a serious threat to his kids. I was his Billy. It was only his religion that kept him from punching me out.

  It was 1:50 when I pulled into the school parking lot, backed the truck underneath the oaks at the edge of the woods. There was nobody showing, just the usual minivans and SUVs, bumper stickers saying their kids had made the honor roll. No red Chevy pickup with black rims.

  I sat back. Waited.

  Saw the big Dodge flatbed roll into the lot to my right, Baby Fat at the wheel, Billy in the passenger seat.

  Baby Fat wheeled around, the nose of his truck pointed at mine. Our eyes met and then he turned, threw the big truck into reverse, and backed it into a space in front of the main entrance.

  Billy got out, sliding out of the cab to the pavement. He was wearing logging boots, jeans, a Carhartt jacket with his arm in a cast inside it. Looking across the lot at me, he reached back and pulled up his jeans, turned, and shuffled toward the door. He stood and waited, like he’d buzzed and was waiting for the doorman. And then a dad pushed out through the door, held it open as two kids tumbled out, a soccer ball flying before them. Billy grabbed the door as it slowly closed, turned to me, and smiled.

  He was inside, the door closing behind him. I was out of the truck, at the door peering in, waiting for the next soccer dad to come out.

  None came. I put my face up against the glass, shielding the light with my hands. Nobody in sight. I looked back. The truck was parked, Baby Fat still at the wheel. Where was Billy? What was he doing there? Where was Roxanne? Sophie?

  I thought about breaking the glass, but then a woman, vaguely familiar, crossed the corridor. I knocked on the window with my fist and she turned, then walked slowly toward me. I smiled; she did, too.

  She pushed the crash bar, and I said, “Picking up Roxanne,” and I was in.

  I managed a smile as I brushed past her, said, “I’m late,” and hurried down the corridor. Sophie’s room was at the far end of the building, and my walk turned to a jog. I saw kids in classrooms, the doors closed. A teacher at a chalkboard, another with his hand on the door.

  And then a buzzer buzzed and doors clacked open. Kids streamed out of the classrooms, teachers calling after them, “No running!” They flooded the corridor like lava streaming from volcanoes. Backpacks. Soccer bags. Dodging each other. Swirling around me like I was a tree rooted in a swollen stream.

  I was at an intersection, went left, and found myself going against the tide. Kids coming at me like snowflakes into headlights, moving left and right. I pushed through, and then saw Sophie’s room ahead.

  I broke left, got to the door. I peeked through the window. The kids had gone, but Sophie was inside, sitting at a table, Crayons strewn around her. I turned the latch but it was locked from the inside. I knocked. Sophie saw me and grinned, jumped up from her chair, and came running.

  As I smiled back she opened the door, said, “Daddy!” I pushed inside, bent to take her hand, looked left and right. Salandra was lying back in a wickerbasket sort of chair, a book on her chest. Roxanne and Welt were sitting side by side at a table, a laptop in front of them.

  They looked up.

  “Jack,” Roxanne said.

  “Hey,” I said, reaching back to make sure my shirt covered the butt of the gun.

  Welt smiled, glad to see me.

  “Hey, guys. Listen, have you seen the guy from the truck? The one at the farm, the smaller one?”

  They shook their heads.

  “He just came into the building.”

  Roxanne stood, hurried to Sophie.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe he has kids,” Welt said.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  The girls were looking at us, wary now. I moved to the door and poked my head out and looked up and down the corridor. There were a few stragglers—a little girl trudging along, hugging a violin case, a boy dragging his backpack on the floor like a dead body. I came back in the room. Welt was standing beside Roxanne now, his hand moving away from her back.

  “Lock this door behind me,” I said. “Just in case.”

  I stepped into the corridor, closed the door, heard the lock snap into place. I went right, crossed the intersection, passed walls papered with kids’ drawings, pictures of vegetables and fruits, the banner saying, “Seeds of Peace.”

  The corridor opened up to a sort of rotunda, glass-fronted offices to my right, the main entrance doors to my left. I slowed, looked into the offices, saw a gray-haired guy coming out of an inner door. He turned back—and Billy followed behind him.

  They were talking. Smiling. And then I could see the top of a boy’s head between them. The gray-haired guy bent and said something to the boy and the three of them moved to the corridor door.

  The door opened. Billy stepped out, then the kid, eight or nine. He was chubby, with black hair like a horse brush, and sneakers that looked four sizes too big. I was standing along the wall to their right and Billy looked over, grinned.

  “McMorrow,” he said. “This is my nephew, Troy.”

  Troy looked at me, unimpressed.

  “Mr. McMorrow is a newspaper writer,” Billy said. “He’s a friend of mine.”

  Troy gave me a sour look, then headed for the doors. Billy came closer, smiled, and said, in a quieter voice, “Doing a little scouting.”

  “That right?” I said.

  “Yeah,” Billy said. “There’s just this one teacher. She’s wicked hot. I’m thinking I should take her out on a date.”

  “You’ll die trying,” I said.

  “Can’t be everywhere, McMorrow.”

  “It’s not just me.”

  Billy shrugged.

  “You just seen how easy it is. Matter of time. A lot of country around here. Dark woods. Sometimes these teachers, they work late.”

  “I’ll kill you. You know that, right?”

  Billy smiled. The kid was at the door.

  “Hey,” the kid said. “Hurry up.”

  Billy looked at me and smiled. “Empty roads,” he said. “Deserted. Dark. Nobody for miles. Nobody to hear you scream.” And then he turned away, walked slowly across the corridor and out the door.

  I waited outside the office until I heard Baby Fat’s truck start and rumble across the lot and out.

  I knocked on the classroom door. Roxanne opened it, looked at me for a clue.

  “He’s gone. Came and got his nephew.”

  “Welt was right, then,” Roxanne said. “There was an explanation.”

  “He said he was scouting the place.”

  “For what?” Sophie asked as she came bounding up, waving a paper. “Daddy, I drew you and Pokey,” she said.

  I looked at Roxanne.

  “We’ll talk,” I said.

  I admired the picture, Pokey jumping a fence as tall as his head. A stick figure of me, watching from the fence. “Nice,” I said. “Pokey’s getting some air.”

  Salandra was at the drawing table and Sophie skipped back to join her. Welt was back at the laptop. Roxanne and I walked over to him and Roxanne said, “He was picking up his nephew.”

  “Who’s that?” Welt said.

  They looked at me.

  “Troy,” I said. “Big kid, gigantic feet. Third grade, maybe.”

  Welt looked at Roxanne. She looked back at him. I waited.

  “He’s got serious anger issues,” Welt said.

  “Comes by that honestly,” I said.

  “Difficulty accepting authority,” Roxanne said.

  “That, too,” I said.

  They were half listening, the visit having been explained away, Billy having a nephew somehow making him closer to normal. Roxanne moved around to the laptop, said, “We’re rearran
ging the presentation. We decided to start with impact. It means a lot of rewrites, to still have it make sense,” She added. “So could you take the girls to our house? We’re going to need to work on this right up until meeting time.”

  “Here?”

  Billy, how much in heat was he? Would he come back to the school?

  “Actually, we’ll be doing a run-through for Mr. Hanes. It’s his building, so that makes it his program, too.”

  “The gray-haired guy?”

  “Yeah,” Roxanne said.

  “In his office?”

  “Yeah. Mr. Hanes and Sabrina Pinney, from Guidance, and Mr. Fisk.”

  Five of them, and then a school board.

  “Strength in numbers,” I said. “Call when you’re done.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Roxanne said.

  “Call, please,” I said. “Promise me.”

  She did.

  23

  The girls rode side by side, chattering about Pokey, why horses ate hay. Sophie said it was because with their hooves they couldn’t hold the bowls to make cookies. Salandra said it was also because horses didn’t have ovens.

  We were on the Dump Road, coming over the rise. I saw a van coming up fast behind us, but then it fell back and followed at a distance. When I pulled into the driveway, it swung in, too. Parked behind my truck. Sophie and Salandra turned in the seat to see who it was.

  “Just some guys I know,” I said. “You girls go inside. Get a snack.”

  They did, sliding out of the cab of the truck and trotting up to the house and through the door. I leaned down, pushed the Glock further under the seat. Then I walked to the van, stood by the driver’s door, and said, “Long time no see.”

  “Think we met some friends of yours,” Ramos said, from the passenger’s side.

  “Is that right?” I said.

  “You tell us,” O’Day said.

  They got out and we stood beside the van. It was sunny and warm, one of those fall days in Maine that starts cool, heats up as it goes. They were in jeans and black T-shirts and boots, looked like bikers, except for the sidearms. I wondered if Clair and Louis would show up on armed patrol.

  “I need to check on the kids,” I said.

  “Just want to run some things by you,” O’Day said.

  “Like this,” Ramos said.

  He held up his phone. There was a photo on it of a young black man. He was sitting on the curb by a highway, cars streaming past, police cars parked around an SUV. The SUV was the one from the party. The last time I’d seen the guy I’d put tape over his mouth.