Straw Man

by Gerry Boyle

  “Yes,” I said. “But he got his comeuppance.”

  He glanced at me in the mirror, that word probably sounding funny coming from me.

  “You and your family have a place to stay? Got family around here?”

  “No. But a friend of my wife’s has a big house. We’ll stay there. She’s there already. My daughter, too.”

  “The farmer,” Cook said.

  My turn to glance.

  “Yeah.”

  I looked out the window again, then back.

  “Big spread,” he said. “Nice vehicles. A new tractor. Not like any farmer I know around here. He have a pile of cash or something? Can’t imagine there’s that much money in cheese.”

  “I don’t know. Family money would be my guess.”

  “Not that I care. I just notice that sort of thing. I’ve got four kids, my oldest starting to look at colleges. I mean, we do okay. My wife’s a nurse-practitioner. But, still, we’ve got every dollar spoken for.”

  I started to say something about Welt, then stopped.

  “What’s with the small talk?” I said.

  “Just chatting,” Cook said.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were just softening me up.”

  “Gotta talk about something, Mr. McMorrow,” Cook said.

  “And we already talked about how there was a twisted psycho pervert in my wife’s closet.”

  “Oh, we’re going to want to talk more about that. And the rest of it. But I thought we’d better wait.”

  “For what?”

  “For everybody to be there,” Cook said.

  Everybody was there, sitting around a conference table in the back of a stripped-out Airstream trailer. The trailer was called a State Police Mobile Command Center, or so it said on its aluminum side, and it was parked in a gravel lot just off the entrance to Abram’s farm.

  Cook was there, along with a trooper/detective named Carmello who was taking notes on a yellow legal pad. O’Day and Ramos from ATF. A deputy investigator from the Waldo County Sheriff’s Office named Karl, which was either his first name, or his last. Sheriff’s Deputy Staples. They were drinking coffee from white Styrofoam cups. I asked for tea and Staples got me Lipton.

  “Every time we think this is over, something else happens,” Cook said. “And when we make a Venn diagram of all these things that keep happening, you’re right in the center of it.”

  They looked at me.

  “Who do you think took a shot at you?” Cook said.

  “Two shots,” I said. “And I don’t know.”

  “If you had to guess.”

  “Semi. If he’s alive and he’s back.”

  “Why him?”

  “He lost considerable face.”

  “Second guess?”

  “Beefy Rowe, maybe?”

  “What’s his problem with you?”

  “We got in a scrape with them—Beefy and Billy and Semi and Baby Fat. Well, that’s what we call him. Wesley Junior. Ran into them in the woods. They were cutting illegally. They came out on the short end of it.”

  “Christ, time to cut the crap, McMorrow,” Ramos said.

  “Nobody here believes you’re just a reporter,” O’Day said.

  “We think you know way more about this guns-for-drugs thing than you’re saying,” Ramos said.

  “And now we’ve got a homicide,” Cook said. “And another probable fatal shooting. And a missing person. And an attempted homicide.”

  Carmello was to his right, still taking notes, the first page almost full.

  “And then we have you,” Cook said, the words spewing out of him. “Hanging out with a guy who is part of the gun ring, who later is killed. Doing some sort of Iraq-style interrogation of the soon-to-be-dead guy’s partner, now MIA. Going to Dorchester, and doing something either to or with the head gangbanger.”

  “And accompanying you as you carry out these various missions,” O’Day said, taking over, “are your buddies, these military veterans who act like the war never ended. And are heavily armed. And take on the locals and the Boston gangs, and one of them shoots a psychopath who happens to be in your bedroom closet.”

  “What was he supposed to do?” I said. “Shake his hand?”

  “The point,” Cook said, “is that you know more than you’re telling us. And this is your chance to come clean, or become what we could call adversarial.”

  I looked at him. I looked at O’Day. I looked at Ramos, who said, “Cough it up, McMorrow. Spit it out.”

  I smiled.

  “Sure,” I said. “It started with a story I was writing. . .”

  They listened as I ran through everything that had happened since I started making the rounds of the gun sellers. The only time I paused was when I talked about Miriam and the video. It was like I’d been hoping that if I didn’t talk about it again, they’d forget that I’d ever mentioned it. But I kept going, Carmello scribbling away, and then I was done. I picked up my Styrofoam cup and leaned back and took a sip of tea. It was cold.

  “That’s it?” Ramos said.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “That’s still bullshit,” he said.

  O’Day put his hand on his partner’s arm and said, “You’re telling us that all of this started with this story about guns.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And that’s the sum of your involvement?” Cook said.

  “Right.”

  “Oh, come on. You’re up to your eyeballs in this shit,” Ramos said. “You roam around this place with your freakin’ Navy Seals, march into Dorchester, and roust a guy who’ll kill you soon as he’ll look at you. Beat the ever-loving crap out of some guy who’s now disappeared, blow away some other dirtbag, and when some other shithead takes a potshot at you, your boys are out with shotguns and rifles, containing the perimeter.”

  He wiped at the spittle on his chin.

  “And you say it was all because you don’t want some freakin’ Amish girl to be embarrassed by her homemade porn video?”

  He remembered.

  “Old Order Mennonite,” I said. “And embarrassed is an understatement. Mortified. Devastated. Humiliated. Destroyed. Crushed—”

  “Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit,” Ramos said. “You barely know this kid.”

  “It’s not the kid,” I said. “It’s the principle.”

  “People don’t do stuff like this out of principle.”

  “I do,” I said. “And my friends do, too.”

  And I looked at him, held his gaze.

  “True fact,” I said.

  It was Deputy Staples who drove me back to my truck. Her orders were to pick up Clair and Louis, too, and bring them back to the command center for the same sort of debriefing.

  “Clair will be glad to do it,” I said. “Louis will be gone.”

  “Why?” she said.

  “Because he doesn’t trust authority.”

  “Who does he trust?”

  “His dog,” I said. “And Clair Varney.”

  “Not you?”

  “Sometimes,” I said.

  My truck was parked on the roadside, camouflaged by the darkness. Staples pulled up, threw the gearshift of the cruiser into PARK. I reached for the door handle, but paused, waited.

  “McMorrow,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Between us, I sort of believe you.”

  “Good to know.”

  “But if you’re lying, even lies of omission, and it comes out, you’re seriously screwed.”

  I turned back.

  “If you’d like to say something, but don’t want to talk to Cook or the ATF guys, call me.”

  She handed me a card. I took it, nodded.

  “In case it’s a mano a mano thing,” she said. “Guys backing each other into a corner.”

  I nodded and got out of the car and she pulled away, the taillights fading and leaving me in darkness.

  Except it wasn’t. As my eyes adjusted, the blackness turned pitch blue, with shimmers
of green and black and brown in the wall that was the edge of the woods. I stood for a minute and watched and listened. There was woods noise, a constant crackle and rustle. The trees seemed to be moving, the branches undulating in the breeze. I turned to the truck and took a couple of steps and stopped. Behind me I saw the same shimmering shapes, heard the same scratch and snap.

  And felt surrounded.

  32

  It was 12:45 a.m. The side door of Welt’s house was open.

  “What the hell?” I said, as the knob turned. What if they knew where she was? Just walk in and—

  I caught myself. It was Roxanne’s choice to be here, not mine. But still. Lock the friggin’ door.

  I stepped through and snapped the bolt shut behind me. Turned and listened. Again.

  This time there were house noises. Creaks. Hums. A faucet dripping. A thump.

  I tensed. A black cat came around the corner from the dining room, looked at me, and cried. The cat rubbed against my legs but I sidestepped it and started for the back of the house. There was a nightlight on in the kitchen, its glow showing wineglasses and coffee mugs in the sink, a half-empty bottle on the counter. I walked through, saw a folder on the table, and stopped. I flicked my phone light on and leaned closer.

  On the cover were the words Welt and Roxanne, circled with a flourish underneath. I opened the folder, read the top page. It was a letter to a school district in Maryland, an offer to put on a program for them.

  I flipped to the next page. It was a pitch letter with a handwritten note affixed. Hi, Alan. Thought you might be interested. Hope all is well with you and Nancy. The letter described the peace program and offered to put it on for students in primary-and middle-school grades. Welt and his partner, Roxanne Masterson, MSW, were available for $750 per day, plus expenses.

  The next page was a list of school districts, check marks beside a few of them. Above the check-mark column it said LETTER MAILED.

  Roxanne and Welt were planning to take their show on the road.

  I closed the folder, turned off the light. Felt a pang of jealousy ripple through me, then another. In a flash I saw hours in airports, elbow to elbow on planes, chatting in rental cars, celebrating afterward when a presentation went well.

  Toasts.

  High fives.

  A congratulatory hug.

  A good night at the hotel-room door.

  “Jesus,” I said.

  I shook it off, left the kitchen, and started up the back stairs. The room was the second on the left, and I eased along quietly. I felt like an intruder, the Glock wedged into my waistband. I reached back and adjusted the gun outside the closed bedroom door.

  I stepped in, closed the door carefully behind me. Turned.

  Saw Sophie splayed on the big bed. Alone.

  I looked to the twin bed. It was empty.

  I checked again, moved to cover Sophie with her sheet and blanket, ease her stuffed lamb closer. Looked at the empty bed and backed out of the room.

  Billy in the closet; shots through the window; Welt down the hall.

  Pick your poison.

  I walked slowly toward the front of the house. There was an open door, some sort of study or office. Empty. A closed door across from it. I paused. Listened. Heard nothing.

  Another door just down on the right. I paused there, too. Heard heavy and regular breathing, the sound of sleep. I listened closely, to see if I could differentiate two people sleeping. I couldn’t, and I kept on walking, past an open door to another bedroom, empty, and a third door, with a hand-lettered sign saying PRINCESS SALANDRA’S CASTLE.

  A last door, beyond the central staircase. It was closed, and this time I could hear someone breathing, a half-snore. And then the creak of a bed, someone turning over.

  The snoring didn’t pause. Two people.

  Welt and Roxanne? Welt and one of the interns? The intern and Salandra, come to find someone when she was scared? Or was my imagination running unchecked?

  I stood for a moment, then backtracked to the stairs. The treads were carpeted, some sort of Oriental, and I moved slowly down, then across the silent living room to a set of French doors that led to a screened-in porch and then to a deck.

  The door was unlatched, one side slightly ajar. I felt for the Glock, kept my hand on it as I pulled the door open.

  The night breeze came in, carrying the smell of flowers. I stepped out, looked left and right. There were wicker chairs, a couch. Empty. I crossed to the screen door that led to the deck. Opened it and took a step out.

  The deck was L-shaped, extending into the garden to my right. I squinted into the darkness. There were Adirondack chairs arranged in pairs and I started toward them, heard a sound.

  Movement. Behind me, to my right.

  I swung around, saw the glint of a knife.

  “Jack,” Roxanne said. “It’s you.”

  “I couldn’t sleep. I felt like I was just lying there, waiting for something to happen. So I came down here. There’s a door to the ell right there, and I left it open, the bedroom window, too. I figured I’d hear somebody coming.”

  “You didn’t hear me,” I said.

  “No,” Roxanne said.

  “I put her covers back on,” I said.

  “She was asleep?”

  “Out.”

  Roxanne was huddled under a blanket. The knife, a ten-inch butcher blade from the kitchen, was across her lap. I sat beside her, took the Glock out of my waistband, and put it on the bench beside me.

  “Look at us,” she said, shaking her head. “Is this what we’ve become?”

  “Better than a victim,” I said.

  “I think we’re victims already,” Roxanne said.

  “I know.”

  “It’s worse now. Louis stopped that horrible man, but now there’s another one.”

  “Yes.”

  “And we don’t know who it is. And he could hide out there in the woods and shoot you, anytime. Or me. Or Sophie.”

  “The police will get him,” I said.

  “Don’t patronize me, Jack.”

  “Okay,” I said. “The police may get him. Or Clair and Louis. They’re watching the road.”

  “Aren’t you the optimist,” Roxanne said.

  “One way or the other, he’s done.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “We’re working on that.”

  There was a puff of breeze out of the east and it carried a fragrance from the gardens.

  “What’s that smell?” I said.

  “Mock orange,” Roxanne said. “It blooms late.”

  “Nice.”

  “The gardens are beautiful. It’s like a magazine. Welt has an intern who worked with Martha Stewart. She has this way of pruning that keeps them blossoming.”

  “Is that one of the ones who’s here now?”

  “No,” Roxanne said. “Heather works in the cheeserie. Maria works with the goats. She wants to be a vet. They’re a couple.”

  “Ah.”

  We smelled the mock orange. A bat flitted past over our heads, then back again.

  “So you have no idea?” Roxanne said.

  “Possibles.”

  “Like who?”

  I told her. She said she’d never heard of Beefy Rowe—not by name. “He hasn’t been much of a player. Not since the fight. He went to jail for something. Then he got out.”

  “The one in the woods.”

  “Yeah.”

  “As opposed to all of the other ones,” Roxanne said.

  “I suppose.”

  We sat, hands at our sides. The breeze blew and the fragrance from the bush was lovely.

  “The house is wrecked,” Roxanne said.

  “We can fix it. Some glass. Some plaster. New carpets, some closet doors.”

  “I think it might be ruined for me.”

  “Don’t think that,” I said.

  “Welt said we can stay here as long as we like.”

  “I’m sure.”


  Roxanne didn’t reply, so I said, “Are you going away with him?”

  “What?”

  “I saw the stuff on the table in the kitchen.”

  “You snooped?”

  “It’s what I do.”

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  I didn’t answer.

  Roxanne waited and then said, “It’s all in the planning stages. We don’t know if anyone will want to hire us. Who knows if we can make a go of it.”

  “A go of what?”

  “The consulting thing,” Roxanne said. “Welt figures it might turn into something. If not, you’re not out much. Some postage.”

  I swallowed, hesitated, then said, “I saw that he describes you as his partner.”

  “He means business partner.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “But you don’t,” she said. “Not entirely.”

  “No. I’m worried that we’re going in different directions. I’m worried that we’ll just keep getting further apart and you’ll end up with him.”

  I hoped she’d say I was ridiculous, crazy, overreacting, paranoid.

  “You don’t make it easy to go in the same direction as you,” Roxanne said. “I don’t want to carry a gun. I don’t believe in fighting. More and more, I abhor violence.”

  “But you’ve got a ten-inch butcher knife on your lap,” I said.

  “That’s to protect Sophie.”

  “That’s what I’m doing.”

  “Getting in a fight with these loggers is protecting her? Chasing gang guys around Boston?”

  “We didn’t chase him. He came to us.”

  “Whatever you did with that guy out in the woods. Was he bothering Sophie? Don’t use her as an excuse to wreak some sort of havoc.”

  “I’m making sure that the world she grows up in hasn’t fallen apart. That it’s not okay to abuse a girl and put pictures of it on the Internet. That there are consequences.”

  “There are police to do that,” Roxanne said. “Call 911.”

  We paused. The flower fragrance had become cloying and sticky. Late-season mosquitoes had found us, and one was buzzing around my head. I didn’t move to swat it.

  “I am what I am, Roxanne,” I said.

  “I know,” she said.

  Carrying our weapons, we walked through the house and up to the bedroom. Sophie had kicked off the covers and was asleep on her back, her arms and legs stretched out like that da Vinci drawing. Roxanne leaned down and straightened her, then said, “I’ll sleep here with her. In case she wakes up.”