by Jo Barney
“All part of building loyalty,” he assures his campers. “All necessary in building our new family.” They look at him. “Understand?” They nod, their wary eyes not quite meeting the sweep of his glance as it moves across them.
One night, after a powerful evening’s fireside chat on fathers that leaves a couple members with wet eyes, Jeff is revved up, full of energy, at odds with the quiet scene he’s created. He needs something more. He looks at the still-teary Scarecrow, a waspish boy in donated clothes that are so big he could have pulled himself into them and disappear, and, despite a warning heartbeat or two, he invites him into his tent. The others send jealous, narrow looks in their direction. Jeff smiles, enjoying an unexpected sense of power this envy gives him. He closes the tent flaps, Scarecrow in hand. However, when Scarecrow understands what is about to happen, he begins to cry, choking back sobs, screeching “no” more than once.
The next morning, lying alone in the tent, Jeff knows he’s made a mistake. Outside he hears the little wimp whispering to someone that he is leaving. He says he can’t do what Jeff wants him to do, no matter what. Jeff gets up, walks out down the trail to think, comes back to the usual slow exodus of kids from camp, knows how he will save his family.
By the end of the day when everyone comes back from town, Scarecrow is not among them, although his blanket roll is still shoved under nearby blackberry canes. Jeff thinks it best not to dwell on the empty spot at the fire, telling the others that Scarecrow has made a choice to leave and now he has to live with it.
Except, according to the Times Starkey picks up a week later, Scarecrow’s bled-out body has been found in a roadside ditch, a knife having pierced his spleen and then for good measure, his heart. The family speculates about rumors they’ve heard on the street but since they don’t read newspapers, they continue to make guesses about their friend’s disappearance. Jeff, to bring closure to the fireside gossip, gives a short eulogy one night before dinner as he announces the boy’s death. He reminds them again that Scarecrow left the safety of the family, and look what happened.
Then he tosses Scarecrow’s blanket roll in the fire pit and, as he smells the acrid burning wool, feels cleansed, as if he’s appeased an angry entity.
Camp life continues quite calmly into the next winter, a few hungry kids wandering in and leaving after a meal, the core family of five or so thirteen and fourteen-year olds remaining. Each night Jeff delivers what he calls his homilies as they sit cross-legged around the fire, a captive audience. The winter has been unusually rainy and cold, and he knows that his charges, young and afraid, don’t have the guts to leave their tarp-and-cardboard homes and go out on their own.
Sometimes Jeff wonders if, as in this forest family, it is fear, not love, that holds most families together. Certainly true for him with his father and grandfather. Maybe Danny, too.
Sunshine, a new girl, remains in camp after her traveling partner moves on to look for her boyfriend in town. Sunshine likes listening to Jeff. She grins when she hears him say something she wants to believe, like when he says that God is inside all of us, not out there somewhere like an all-seeing video camera. Since God is inside us, we can decide what God wants of us, which means, really, that as long as we are loyal to each other, truthful, we can do whatever we need or want to do.
Jeff has begun to think a lot about God, about spiritual ideas, about rules for living a good life. Sometimes he wonders if the thoughts come from somewhere, from someone else, channeled through him to instruct his family, the way the words flow. He enjoys the admiration he sees in Sunshine’s eyes, the respect she offers when she applauds his words.
After a few weeks of such sermons, one night Sunshine crawls through the door of Jeff’s tent, opens her down jacket, and presents her naked self. “This is what God wants for me,” she says, kneeling and reaching for Jeff’s crotch.
An hour or so later, the girl heavy in his arms as he carries her down a trail, Jeff decides that Sunshine’s biggest mistake was not the girlish giggles that erupted as she touched his penis lying limp and small as a dead smelt after she finally got his pants unzipped. Her error was that she believed the voice whispering to her was God. Had she doubted for a short moment that God wanted her to crawl into his tent—a ludicrous idea since God probably knows how Jeff feels about women—she’d still be alive, perhaps screwing the kid with the pimples who stared at her through the flares of the fire.
So, after his early-morning delivery of her tarp-wrapped body to the other side of the park, Jeff takes his time meandering along the tracks and the small paths that will bring him back to the camp. He considers the situation. Children aren’t allowed to laugh at their parents, are they?
Jeff is quite sure he didn’t laugh at his grandfather’s reluctant penis. Even if he did, this is different. The old man had only his ego to worry about. Jeff, however, is certain that Sunshine’s laughter has destroyed everything he’s worked so hard to build in his family, the respect he’s seen in their eyes, the loyalty he’s created, the control he wields over his willful children. He has done the right thing, getting rid of her.
What he needs to do now is re-establish his role as a father. A new kind of discipline. Higher expectations, more difficult chores, perhaps. He needs to be more paternal.
However, when his finger brushes against the still-damp red stain on his jacket sleeve, a whirl of nausea spins in the pit of his stomach. He’s gone too far this time. One of the kids may have seen him leave with her. Probably did. It was still dark, and he didn’t think to be quiet. He leans against an overhanging rock, tries to plan. He must leave before they have a chance to talk to each other. He will hurry back now, call the family together while they are only stirring in their blankets, not awake yet, explain that he’s been called to another city to help others in the way he’s helped them. He will give the camp to them, he’ll say, a place to live as a family like he has taught them. Yes.
He needn’t have worried about the good-bye speech. When he gets back to camp, everyone, everything is gone. All the packs, all the portable food, even the matches to light the fire.
Everyone except dimwitted Alfred, who is on his knees in front of Jeff’s tent, scratching a wobbly Fuck You into the mud. He looks up, says, “Oh, Oh,” the last words Jeff allows him to utter before he uses his knife one more time. He wraps Alfred in the only item his family has left behind, bloody and of no use to anyone. His sleeping bag.
Jeff buries the boy in the latrine trench and heads south. Green River has been unlucky, always. Not that his hometown contains any portion of himself anymore, but its streets are familiar, its buildings less imposing, and its parks more hospitable. He knows a few people in that town, people who owe him from the old days, and he knows the huge county forest. The five traitors in this family, free to talk about what they suspect and have seen, will be two hundred miles away.
For the time being, until he makes sure he isn’t on anyone’s radar, he’ll disappear into the trees of McLaughlin.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Matt
September 2009
In one of those quiet moments that bloom in the midst of conversations, Matt glances at his son and grins back at the smiling face across the table.
“What?” Collin asks, wiping his lips with his napkin. Cloth, because this is a special celebration.
“Nothing. Just feeling good,” Matt answers. Grace and Ben nod in agreement. They are all feeling good. Their boy is home for the summer, is headed for college, is almost grown up. His new car, actually an old VW, is parked in the driveway, waiting for him to take it out for a spin, maybe to his friend John’s house a little later on.
Who would have imagined it, ten years ago? Beyond good, Matt can’t give a name to his feelings at this moment. Sad, relieved, grateful, hopeful, and perhaps a bit lost. What else? Ready? For whatever is next?
However, later that evening, the dishes cleared and leftover pasta saved for tomorrow’s lunch, Matt is not ready for the p
hone call.
“Matt, it’s Marge.”
“Marge.” They haven’t talked since she sent the last check nine months ago. “How are you?”
“Good, mostly. I’d like to talk to you, maybe over coffee? Sometime soon?”
Her voice is calm, her words’ sharp edges wrapped in silk, urgent.
“Something wrong?”
“Not wrong, really. I’d just like to…I want to get to know Collin. I’m not sure how to go about it. I need to know how he feels about me, whether he’d be open to me inviting him over, meeting me on my territory. Now that he’s older…”
Cured, she means. Matt feels his chest do its tightening thing. He breathes a few times.
“You know, able to relate to others better, I thought he might enjoy getting to know his other family. Can you and I meet, talk about how to do this?”
Matt imagines her hand on her BlackBerry, ready to record a reminder of time and date. “No,” he answers. “I’m not participating in your reconciliation with your recovered son. That’s your job. Perhaps it will happen, but without me. Your son talks on the phone. He can drive to a coffee date, if he wishes. It’s pretty much up to you, Marge.”
“You sound angry.”
Good, because he is. “By the way, Marge, you need to know that Collin is not your normal college student yet. He still taps his fingers when he’s anxious. And he gets anxious a lot. He still doesn’t read others’ faces well. He still has problems with intimacy, and when he likes a girl, he embarrasses himself and her with what he says to her. He will be continuing therapy and training into his adulthood.” Matt pauses. He could go on, but he probably doesn’t need to. “Do you really want to introduce him to your new family?”
“You’re an ass, Matt. I’m sorry I even thought to call.”
“Maybe you’re right, but I’m also a father. And I, too, am sorry you called.”
He doesn’t get to sleep after that conversation. Has he robbed Collin of a chance to get to know his mother? Somewhere around midnight, he decides that his first instincts were correct. This is Marge’s problem, not his. About the same time, he hears the VW pull into the driveway and the front door open quietly. He falls asleep.
At his desk the next morning, he revisits his conversation with Mrs. Miller about the orange graffiti, the dead boy. She was holding back something, something that made her sagging chin raise up like a feisty guard dog’s when he mentioned the crossed-out smiley faces. And where is the girl—Sarah, her name is? Not in the kitchen this time.
A fax comes in from forensics. The weapons appear to be the same in all three murders. A rounded wooden bat, a six-inch knife. It seems to be a confirmation. They are looking for a serial killer. Perhaps the crews out scouring the park and the edges of the forest will find something, a hiding place for either the weapons or the lunatic using them. He’ll hear if they uncover anything useful.
Until then, he’ll shuffle the papers spilling out of his IN basket.
Just before noon he hears voices at the office door. Shellie leads a well-dressed couple to his desk.
“Mr. and Mrs. Crandall,” she says. “Sergeant Trommald.”
For a moment, Matt doesn‘t recognize these people. When the man speaks, though, his deep bass voice is familiar. It is the same voice Matt heard when he called Snohomish to tell them of their son’s death. The kid on the play structure.
He shakes their hands. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He gestures to the two chairs across from his desk.
The couple sits, Mrs. Crandall looking at her husband, waiting for him to speak. When he doesn’t, she says, “We have to know how our son died and why. He was only fourteen. Jeremy was a good boy.” She pulls out a crumpled hankie from her pocket. “He ran away because he heard us quarreling, because he couldn’t stand the thought of his family changing anymore than it already has.”
Her husband licks his upper lip, continues their story. “His sister died this year. Leukemia. Her death hit us all hard. Maybe he thought everything was…”
“Falling apart. And now it has.” Mrs. Crandall wraps her arms around herself. Her thin frame presses against the back of her chair.
Her husband reaches for her; she shakes his hand off. “We need to know,” he says, “so we can…”
“Find some peace.” She allows him to touch her shoulder. They both wipe tears away with their free hands.
Matt cannot think of what to say. What words can console these sad people? Perhaps there is no consolation until the pain and guilt dissolve into a ragged scar they will carry for the rest of their days, part of who they are.
“Your son was killed by someone we now believe is a predator, preying on people who seem to be homeless. Jeremy was not homeless. He had a loving father and mother. He would have headed home, I’m sure, once he understood that despite the problems there, it was the place he belonged.”
“He called us once. He said he was okay, staying in a camp of some sort where they called him Sampson, for some reason. He said he was coming back soon.” Mrs. Crandall’s head raises, her voice a little stronger.
“He knew you wanted him home. He wanted to be home, too.” That phone call may have killed the kid. No reason to mention that.
“Who did this?” Mr. Crandall was back in control.
“We don’t know, but we are working very hard to find him. We’ll let you know when we do. In the meantime, can you remember the date and time of your son’s call?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jeff
September 2009
Once he has the new camp laid out—a tent as usual, a fire pit and the beginnings of a latrine—Jeff decides to create a new persona for himself. His name will be Starkey, a name he remembers from a book he read in the third grade about a pirate. The idea of a theme amuses him. He trims his beard into neat dark whiskers. A mustache blooms on his upper lip. A kerchief tied around his head, shades, and a gold earring complete the look.
And, as important, he’s made a new personal rule. No more sex. Sex erodes power. He began to understand this as he traveled from Green River to McLaughlin, following a coastline whose trails led him far away from towns and people possibly looking for him. A difficult trip, but the silent walk through forests and along surging waters offered hours to reflect on his life to date. So many times he’d come close to real power, to meeting whatever goal he’d set for himself. In every case, sex had led to failure. A high-class prostitution business financed by wealthy clients like Fred, the army and college dreams, plans with Danny for expensive homes and travel, even his families of children who offered him control over their lives. Perhaps he regretted those failed families the most. His power over them had been the purest sort, intimate, as if he were connected to them and they to him in every aspect of their lives. Fatherhood suited him perfectly. However, sex had destroyed each family, sent his children flying away like sparks from a dying fire.
By the time he arrived in McLaughlin, found a good spot for a camp, he understood that he was going to try one more time. This time he would not fail.
* * *
Starkey stretches out his legs and settles back into the old canvas chair in front of his tent. He likes his new self, a daily reminder that he has become a different, more self-confident person. The evolution has taken a few years, and a few bad scenes, but now he’s feeling very competent in his role as father to his new McLaughlin family. Not that he intends to be a pirate/father/tent-dweller forever. No, the skills he is honing at this forest camp will lead to a much, much better place.
He has a dream that emerges in the peace of moments like this. He can imagine a life in which he becomes wealthy while protecting, grooming, and profiting from a stable of thirteen-year-olds. Not a stable, of course. A home, filled with antiques and good rugs. Gracious. Comfortable rooms for the men who will pay well to be serviced by clean, healthy young boys. Several of his sons in this new family would probably be eager to be taken care of this way. Despite his new rule about sex,
he still has fond memories of the compliant, even eager, Richard. He’ll multiply that scene by twenty, all participants’ needs met in a safe and pleasant way. All he requires is a backer to get started.
He rubs his rough chin. Time to get out the scissors. Appearance is half of this father job. The other half, of course, is letting the family know who’s in charge.
The first months in McLaughlin, he didn’t need to discipline very often. Perhaps it was the knife, a totem at the fireside or on his hip. An old bat, one of the kids found on a playground, helped, too. Later, when a few family members questioned his authority, the bat became a notched scepter, leaning against the canvas throne at the back of the fire, a fresh slice in its handle each time it was swung against a body part of a recalcitrant son or daughter. A ritual bloomed.
Ritual is an important part of getting this job right, Starkey has discovered.
When a family member sloughs off orders to find firewood, collect food, clean the camp, for whatever reason, Starkey requires that the group, assembled in the evening around the fire, help with the discipline. He often picks the most innocuous kid, maybe the one who still sucks his thumb when he sleeps, to take the bat and swing it against the guilty brother or sister. “Again,” he commands if the halfhearted swing doesn’t result in a body thrown sideways or to the ground. The knife comes out, a groove is carved in the handle of the bat, and Starkey compliments the batter for helping the family. Like a good father does.
