The Straw Men

by Marshall, Michael

  The lobby was mainly empty, just some couple standing over by the desk. Soft music was playing in the background. Bobby was sitting in state in the middle of a long couch, reading the local paper.

  'Yo,' I mumbled, when I was standing in front of him.

  He looked up. 'You look like shit, my friend.'

  'And you're as annoyingly spruce as ever. What's the deal? You climb into an egg each night and emerge reborn? Or is it an exercise thing? Do tell. I want to be just like you.'

  Outside the sky was cloudless and bright, and it was all I could to do to stop myself from yelping. I limped across the parking lot behind Bobby, shielding my eyes.

  'Your phone's on? And juiced?'

  'Yes,' I said. 'Though frankly I don't see the point. Either Lazy Ed hasn't been home, in which case we're wasting our time heading out there, or he has and doesn't want to talk.'

  'You are beink very negative, Vard,' Bobby observed in a Germanic accent. 'Hand me the keys. I'll drive.'

  'I feel negative,' I said. 'Good thing I've got a happy android for company. But if you use that voice again I'm going to knife you.' I tossed the keys to him.

  'Stop right there.' This was said clearly and firmly, and it wasn't Bobby who was talking. We looked at each other, and then turned.

  Four people were standing behind us. Two were uniformed cops, locals: one was in his late fifties and trim and lean, the other about thirty years old and a good forty inches around the gut. Off to one side stood a man in a long coat. Standing nearest to us, about ten feet away, was a slim woman in a neat suit. Of the group, she looked easily the most intimidating.

  'Put your hands on the top of the car,' she said.

  Bobby smiled ominously, and left his hands exactly where they were. 'This would be a joke of some kind?'

  'Hands on the fucking car,' the younger cop said. He moved his hand closer to his holster, clearly itching to use it. Or at least hold it.

  'Which one of you is Ward Hopkins?' the woman asked.

  'Both of us,' I said. 'Weird cloning thing.'

  The young cop abruptly started walking toward us. I put a hand up at chest height, and he walked straight into it.

  'Take it easy,' the woman said.

  The deputy didn't say anything, but he stopped coming forward, and just glared at me.

  'Okay,' I said, keeping my hand in place but not pushing with it. 'Let's not let this get out of hand. Local PD, I take it?'

  'That's correct,' the woman said, flipping identification. 'They are. And I'm a federal agent. So be cool, and let's see some hands being put on that car.'

  'I don't think so,' said Bobby, still resolutely underwhelmed. 'Guess what? I'm with the Company.'

  The woman blinked. 'You're CIA?' she said.

  'That's right, ma'am,' he said, with ironic courtesy and a hick accent. 'All we need is some boys from the navy and we could have us a parade.'

  There was an awkward moment. The younger cop turned to his older colleague, who in turn raised an eyebrow at the woman. None of them looked as confident as they had a second before. In the background, the man in the coat shook his head.

  I decided to let my arm drop. 'He's CIA. I'm not,' I said, electing, for once, to be helpful. 'Just a member of the general public. Called Ward Hopkins. Why are you looking for me?'

  'Wait a minute,' Bobby said. He nodded at the younger cop. 'Let's see you take a few steps back, hotshot.'

  'Fuck you,' the cop said, equably.

  The woman was still looking at me. 'An Internet search was logged yesterday evening,' she said. 'Somebody looking for 'The Upright Man'. Traced back to your account, and to this hotel. We're looking for someone by that name.'

  'Not for me?'

  'Until last night I had no idea you even existed.'

  'So why are you looking for The Upright Man?'

  'None of your business,' the younger cop said. 'Ma'am, are you going to arrest these assholes or not? I'm really not interested in listening to them otherwise.'

  'Have it your own way,' I said. 'You can try to take us in, or you can take a walk. If the former, then, well, you're welcome to try, but really I can't advise it.'

  The older cop smiled. 'Are you threatening us, son?'

  'No. I'm too gentle for my own good. But Bobby's badly socialized. There's going to be blood all over this parking lot and none of it ours.'

  Coat man spoke for the first time.

  'Great,' he said, wearily. 'Six hundred miles to talk to a pair of shitheads.'

  The woman ignored him. 'The Upright Man has killed at least four young women, maybe more than that. At the moment he has one who may still be alive and we don't have very long to find her.'

  Bobby stared at her, his mouth slightly open.

  'What?' she said. 'Does this mean something to you?'

  'You're about to be scammed, Nina,' coat man said. 'You know what spooks are like.'

  Bobby came back to earth enough to close his mouth, but not enough to start a fight. The woman looked at me.

  'Tell me,' she said.

  'Okay,' I said, 'It could be we need to talk.'

  The older cop cleared his throat. 'Ms Baynam, I'm wondering if you really need me and Clyde any more?'

  •••

  We got a table by the window in the hotel's excuse for a coffee lounge. The room was large enough, and new-looking, but had all the atmosphere of an empty cookie jar. Bobby and I sat close to the table, with the woman the other side. The guy in the coat—who'd finally been introduced, though only as being LAPD—sat a little distance away, making it clear that in an ideal world he'd be in another state entirely. The local law had already zipped off in their cruiser to eat pancakes and swap tales of how they would have beaten us up given the chance.

  I took Bobby's sheaf of paper and laid it in front of the woman.

  'If you want to know why we were searching for The Upright Man,' I said, 'then this is it. Actually we've been looking for something else. But this is what we found.'

  She quickly read through the three sheets of paper. When she got to the end she handed the papers to the other guy.

  'So what were you looking for?' she asked.

  'A group of people called The Straw Men,' I said. 'Bobby traced a Web site that led to this. Searching for 'The Upright Man' was the logical next step. That's all we know.'

  'This is agency business?'

  'No,' I said. 'It's personal.'

  'There was a LINKS button at the bottom of the last sheet,' she said. 'What did that lead to?'

  'What button?' I said.

  'I found it after you crashed out,' Bobby said, looking sheepish. 'Hidden in a chunk of crashed Java code. Should have spotted it earlier.'

  'And where did it go?'

  'Serial killers,' he said, and at that the man in the coat looked up. 'Just fan sites. Pages of stuff about guys who kill, laboriously typed up by dweebs without the ambition to become real dangers to society.'

  'Could you show me the first page again?' the woman asked.

  He shook his head. 'It's gone. I checked back ' when I was done looking at fuzzy pictures of wackos. File no longer on the server, presumably moved somewhere else.'

  'You didn't bookmark the pages it linked to?'

  Bobby shrugged. 'I didn't see any reason to. All I had was guys with paranoid delusions and a hard-on for serial killers.'

  'It's a leak,' the coat guy said, handing the papers back to the woman. 'Fan sites is right. That's all this is. Somehow The Delivery Boy's real name got out, and some psycho wannabe has set this shit up using his name. An interactive experience for people who want to drool over killer stats, complete with spooky moving site address. The net is full of this shit. Cannibal clubs slung up by fucks who can't earn a five-star badge working at McDonald's.'

  I stared at him: 'The Delivery Boy?'

  'That's what the press called the man we're looking for.'

  'Jesus,' I said. 'You're still looking for that guy?'

  'And will be unt
il he's dead. Nina, I'm going for a cigarette. Then I suggest we head back to civilization.'

  He got up and walked out of the room.

  'He means 'apprehended',' the woman said, quietly, after he was gone. 'Apprehended is what he meant.'

  'Yeah, right,' Bobby said. 'You ask me, that's someone who needs keeping on a very tight lead.'

  'What's the deal with these Straw Men?' she said.

  'Tell her, Bobby,' I said, standing up.

  'Take it very easy,' Bobby said, pointing a finger at me. 'And remember what I just said.'

  I left them and walked out into the lobby. I could see the guy in the coat standing a few yards outside the main doors.

  'You got a cigarette?'

  He looked at me for a long moment, then reached into his pocket. When I was lit, we stood in silence for a while.

  'You're that cop, aren't you?' I asked eventually. He didn't reply. 'Right?'

  'I was a cop,' he said. 'Not any more.

  'Maybe so. But I was living in San Diego at the time. I read the news. There was one cop in particular, someone who was supposed to be a serial killer hotshot. Didn't catch him, then dropped out of sight. That would be you, I'm thinking.'

  'Seems like you remember a lot about the case,' he said. 'Sure you don't have a vested interest? Maybe you're looking to see how many fans you got. Checking you're still a celebrity.'

  'You thought I was him, we wouldn't be having this conversation. So don't jerk me around.'

  He took a last drag of his cigarette, and then flicked it across the lot. 'So what are you doing?'

  'I'm looking for the people who killed my parents,' I said.

  He looked at me. 'These The Straw Men you mentioned?'

  'I think so. What I don't know is if they're connected to the man you're looking for.'

  'They're not,' he said, glaring out across the lot. 'This whole thing is bullshit and a waste of time we don't have.'

  'Your friend doesn't seem to think so. Frankly, I don't care. But it seems to me that inside that hotel we've got two people who are connected to law enforcement agencies. Who can get things done. On the other hand, we've got you and me, who are currently connected to dick. We can stand outside and piss into each other's tents, or we can see where this leads and try not to get too much in each other's faces.'

  He thought a moment. 'Good enough.'

  'So what's your name, dude?'

  'John Zandt.'

  'Ward Hopkins,' I said, and we shook on it, and walked back into the hotel.

  At the door to the restaurant my cell phone went off. I waved Zandt on and clucked back into the lobby.

  I paused a second before hitting the connect button, trying to work out the right way to sound to an old guy who was running scared. I couldn't work out how that might be. All I could do was listen to what he had to say. And not shout at him, probably.

  I answered the call and listened, but it wasn't him. I had a brief conversation, and then thanked someone. I put my phone away.

  When I walked into the restaurant they were all sitting round the table, Zandt more in the loop this time. The woman looked up at me, but it was to Bobby that I spoke.

  'Just got a call,' I said.

  'Lazy Ed?'

  'No. Girl from the hospital.'

  'Yeah, and, so?'

  'She spent the afternoon yesterday chasing down records.'

  'You must have really made an impression.' I didn't reply, so he added: 'You going to tell what she found?'

  'She traced both my parents back to their hometowns,' I said. 'Neither of which were the ones I had been given to believe.'

  My voice was a little cracked. Zandt turned round to look at me.

  'I didn't get as far as this bit,' Bobby said. 'But there's a sibling Ward's parents didn't get around to telling him about.'

  'I don't think they really told me much at all. Much that was true, anyhow.' I was aware of the woman's eyes still on me; that, and how Hunter's Rock and everything I had thought I'd known now seemed like a favourite story I had been read, time and time again, but of which I could now remember only the title.

  'What is it?' the woman asked.

  'My mother couldn't have children.'

  'Any more?' Bobby said. 'After you?'

  'No. Any at all.'

  Chapter 25

  They came with us out to the bar. Young Ed wasn't fulsome in his greeting, and said only that he hadn't seen the old guy and still had no idea where he might be. He continued to say this even after Zandt had taken him to one side. I couldn't hear what the ex-cop was saying, but Ed's body language was enough to convince me that Zandt's conversational style was compelling.

  'Your man is very keen to catch this killer,' I observed to Nina.

  She looked away. 'You have no idea.'

  Zandt eventually turned from the barman, who quickly slipped back behind the safety of his counter.

  'We're wasting our time out here,' Zandt said, as we followed him back out into the parking lot. 'No offence to you guys, but I don't see how an old wino is going to help Nina and me in what we're looking for. Maybe it's relevant to you, but it's not getting us any closer to anything and Sarah is getting closer to death with every minute we waste.'

  'So what do you want to do, John?' the woman asked. 'Head back to LA and sit on our butts there instead?'

  'Yeah,' he said. 'Actually that's exactly what I want to do. I wasn't just pulling my wire at your house. I think…' He shook his head.

  She frowned. 'What?'

  'I'll tell you on the plane,' he muttered.

  'Hey,' I said. 'I'll give you a little privacy.'

  I walked away from them to where Bobby was standing, near to our car. 'Think the party's going to break up,' I said.

  'So what's our plan?'

  'Walk the streets, check the bars and diners and library and places where people hang out. Do it professionally. This isn't New York. There's a limit to how many places he can hide.'

  'You knew this guy once. You got no clue where he might go?'

  'I didn't really know him,' I said, turning to look back at the bar. 'I went in there and drank as a teenager. We passed the time of day and he served me alcohol. That's all.'

  I remembered once again the evening my father had come to the bar with me, and the way Ed had given me a beer afterward, and I'd felt a little disloyal. I now realized there could have been some subtext in that night's events, something I'd missed back then. The beer Ed shoved toward me, with rough kindness—it could have just been a generic gesture, but I didn't think so now. Lazy Ed hadn't really been the type. Hadn't he actually been saying, 'Yeah, I know what the guy can be like?' If so, it implied even more strongly that Ed might have been the man running the camera in the first half of the middle section of the video, that he had been the one passed out and used as a candleholder. It also made it even stranger that, confronted with each other over a decade later, they'd given absolutely no indication that they knew each other. Something must have happened in Hunter's Rock, something that broke up a group of friends; but somehow caused three of them to get together again, a thousand miles away, once again pretending to outsiders that there was nothing between them. Nothing old, anyway, nothing in the past.

  Even to me they'd made that pretence, but now it was looking as if that made perfect sense. If my mother couldn't have children, then who the hell was I?

  Behind the bar the sky was opaque, making the trees look jagged and cold. It may have been that, or the smell of the pine on the cold air, that took me back so clearly to that night. Smells can do that, more so even than sights and sounds, as if the oldest parts of our mind, the ones that lock us in time and memory, still navigate through traces of scent.

  'Hang on a minute,' I said, a faint light coming on in the back of my mind. I shut my eyes, chased the thought down. Something Lazy Ed had been talking about in that year, the kind of project that sounded like the fantasy of a man who wasn't well known for even keeping his bar surfaces clea
n.

  Finally I got it. 'There's somewhere else we could try.'

  'Let's do it,' Bobby said.

  I looked over to the other two. I could see that in Zandt's head they were already at the departure gate. The woman looked less certain. I made the decision for them. This was a long shot, and not one I had the time or patience to explain to other people.

  'Good luck,' I called. Then I got in our car and Bobby and I drove away.

  •••

  The Lost Pond isn't lost, of course. It's about a mile walk into the forest that stretches north from Hunter's Rock: national land, not much used except by locals and a few hikers. It was a place you'd be taken on trips from school, out into the wilds to learn about bugs and stuff—a bus out to the fringe of the forest, and then a trek among trees through shuffling leaves, pleased to be out of the classroom. The teachers would try to keep everyone's mind on why they were there, but not too assiduously: you could tell from the looseness in their shoulders that they, too, were happy to be free of the usual boundaries. I remember seeing one of them pick up a small rock once, when he thought none of us was looking, and hurl it some distance at a fallen tree. He hit it, and smiled a private smile. That may have been the first time I realized that—contrary to appearances—teachers must be people, too.

  When you got older you weren't taken out there any more. Lessons became focused on stuff you could memorize, not experience. But occasionally kids would go out there for the hell of it, and this was when the reason for the name would become apparent. Didn't matter how many times you'd been crocodiled out there with thirty yapping peers, if you tried to find it on your own or with a couple of friends, it never seemed to be where you thought it was. You'd walk into the banks of trees, quietly confident, and within a few hundred yards the track would have disappeared. A small creek ran diagonally away into the small hills, and most people would make it that far. You'd follow the creek until you came to the place where it joined a larger one, and from that point every decision you made would be wrong. Didn't matter how well you thought you remembered the route, how much you all agreed it had to be this way; a couple hours later you'd be back in the parking lot, thirsty and dog tired and just glad to be out again while it was still light and without having seen any bears.