Ravens (15 page)

“Yeah.”

“Believe it
yourself.
Then they’ll believe you.”

Romeo went to the Liberty, and opened the side door. So hot in there you could hardly breathe, and the family was all drenched
in sweat and fear, and were as quiet as churchmice. Tara sat behind the wheel. Mitch in the middle seat, Patsy and the brat
all the way in back.

They had their eyes on the blade he carried.

Romeo said, “Mitch.”

“Sir.”

“What were you thinking up there, Mitch?”

“Sir?”

“You wanted to jump him, was that your plan?”

“No sir.”

“Stop lying.”

Mitch hung his head. “I don’t, I’m not sure
what
I was thinking.”

Said Romeo, “You know why your mother is still alive? Because of Tara. Because of what she told you, up on that stage. What
did she say to you?”

“She told me you were out there.”

“Yes. That’s why your mother’s still alive. But you almost got to see her brains go whomping around the room. How would that
have been?”

A strange wailing started up, disembodied and faraway. At first it sounded like a siren — it took Romeo a moment to realize
it was coming from the kid. The sound just leaking from him.

Said Romeo. “You
have
to shut up.”

But the kid kept wailing. Finally Romeo grabbed him by the collar and lifted him from his seat and held him there, pushing
the broken tip of the saber against his Adam’s apple. That got him quiet.

Romeo said, “You people, you gotta stop fucking around. You need to understand this. You don’t
ever
know where I’ll be. Wherever you think I am, I’m somewhere else. I got a dozen of your people on my list, and when Shaw sends
an alarm, I’ll start killing. Or if I ever call Shaw and he doesn’t answer, I’ll start killing. I really will. I’ll do whatever
needs to be done. My buddy is out of his fucking head, I know. But I’ve got his back. OK? Believe me?”

It might have been more effective had it not been so obvious he was beating back tears. When he said “Believe me,” his voice
cracked a bit. He roughly shoved Jase away from him, and walked off.

Shaw was waiting for him. “How are we?”

Romeo walked past him and got in the Tercel and drove off.

Burris
came home from his shift and heated a can of Progresso chicken minestrone soup, which tasted, he thought, like oiled sawdust.
He turned on some baseball game. UGA vs. LSU. He cared for neither team — nor their mascots nor their cheerleaders nor their
fans in warpaint: he only wanted the noise. The quiet in this house was a rebuke to him. It was an extension of the long silence
of his wife Barbara, which had been a commentary on his faithlessness. Not that he’d ever cheated on her, not
physically
— but she’d known from the beginning about his feelings for Nell Boatwright, and in return she’d given him years of muteness.
And he’d come back at her with his own silence, and for forty years they’d strung out this wordless debate, and now there
were two grown kids and seven grandkids, all scattered, and Barbara was gone but her silence still thundered, and Burris left
the TV on to drown it out.

The UGA pitcher faked a throw to first. Maybe a balk. The crowd felt certain it
had
been a balk. Burris ate his soup. A replay was shown. In the opinion of the color commentator, it had
not
been a balk. Today Nell had said to Burris, I love you, darlin’
.
She had waggled her fingers while sitting in that big Caddy like she was Hollywood royalty, and she’d said, for the world
to hear: I love you, darlin’.

He chewed his toast. He pursed his lips, and unpursed them. He tried to figure things out. He wondered if, in the last forty
years, he had ever gone more than four minutes without thinking of Nell Boatwright.

Could he do it now? Now that it was nails-in-the-coffin hopeless, could he finally let her go?

Balk or no balk, mused the color analyst, you can be sure of one thing: this moment will be talked about for years to come.
This is a key moment — not just a key moment in this particular game, but really a key moment in the history of the UGA-LSU
rivalry…

I love you, darlin’
.

Could that have been true? If only for an instant? You could have a renewal of affection for someone you were once fond of,
couldn’t you? Sudden resurgence of feeling, as though a part of your heart that you’d completely shut down was open for business
again?

Once, back in high school, Nell had told him, “You’re amazin’, Burris.” It was only on account of his prowess at throwing
a wooden ring over the neck of a milk bottle, but she really had meant it. It hadn’t been just flirting or flattery. In that
one moment she really had been falling in love with him.

Or such was his belief, his best guess, after forty years of pondering the thing.

He heard a burst of rough music. It made him jump.

Where had it come from? Not the TV. Not the phone or the microwave. So what the hell had it been?

It sounded again.

Then he realized: the front doorbell. It rang so seldom now, he’d forgotten what it sounded like.

He went through the parlor and opened the door. A girl was standing there. Twenty or so, blonde, slender and shapely but plain-featured.
She said, “Officer Jones? You remember me?”

“Of course,” he lied.

“My name’s Cheryl. Faith Renewal?”

He did remember. The girl from church. “It’s that time again?”

“Sir?”

“The Heart Drive?”

“Oh, no sir.” Her tone was grave. “I just need to talk to you.”

“What about?”

“I called at the station but they said you’d gone home. Am I bothering you?”

“Not at all.”

“I gotta talk to
you
because you’re the only police officer I know.”

He felt awkward about inviting her in. Bring a young girl into your house you’ll get tongues wagging. But then what did he
care if tongues wagged or not? Mercy. He stepped aside and she entered. The living room was straight and clean — since he
never used it — and he offered her the lime-green couch with the matching pillows, while he took one of the frilly armchairs.
The last time he had sat in this armchair was the day of Barbara’s funeral.

“Well, how can I help you, Cheryl?”

“You remember where I work?”

“You used to work at the I-95 Chummy’s. You still there?”

“Yes sir.”

Seemed like she’d been there a really long time. Couldn’t she find anything more worthwhile to do?

Though after all, who was he to judge anyone’s career? Considering the state of his own.

She said, “Well anyway, sir, I think I might know something.”

“Know something?”

She’d been in Barbara’s Bible study class, he remembered that, and he wondered if she was about to spring some kind of religious
thing on him. Like, Sir, I think I know that Jesus was resurrected in the flesh, but how can I be sure I know? If she asked
something like that, he’d be useless.

But then she said, “It’s something about the jackpot.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The jackpot. We sold the winning ticket at our store.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“And the guy who won it? Not the Boatwrights, but the other guy?”

“What other guy?”

“Shaw McBride.”

That name meant nothing to him.

She said, “You didn’t see the announcement? On TV?”

He shook his head. “I was there, but I was working. Security. Out in the parking lot. I didn’t really see anything. There’s
another winner?”

“Uh-huh. The Boatwrights are splitting the jackpot with this guy Shaw McBride. Supposedly he’s a friend of Mr. Boatwright.
Supposedly he gave money to Mr. Boatwright to buy tickets.”

“Oh.”

“But the thing is,” she said, “this guy? He was in our store on Thursday morning. OK? The day
after
the drawing? I remember, ’cause it was when the TV people came to the store. And he asked me, he said, like, what’s this
all about? He didn’t even know there
had been
a jackpot. I had to tell him about it.”

Burris held up a hand. “Wait.”

She sat quietly.

He said, “I’m trying to make sense of this.” He wrinkled his brow. “This guy came in… when?”

“Thursday.”

“
After
the drawing?”

“That’s what I’m telling you. And just now I was watching TV? And I saw him up on stage, that same guy, but now he’s saying
how he’s Mr. Boatwright’s old friend. And like, half the jackpot is his. But I, I mean,
I
think… .” She trailed off.

Burris prompted: “You think he’s lying?”

She nodded.

“But why would Mitch Boatwright go along with that?”

She shrugged.

But the answer was self-evident, and he spoke it: “You think Mitch is scared?”

“I guess, yes sir.”

All over Burris’s brain, lights were flickering on, doors were creaking open. Some of those doors led directly to Nell Boatwright
(of course everything led to her eventually). But there was also a voice inside him that was saying, Whoa.

Don’t just leap into this, Burris.

This is how he had screwed himself every time — leaping too damn fast. Thinking he’d been given some kind of private window
on the truth. In the past, this had led him to big errors. This is why he was just a corporal when he had once been a detective
in the Coastal Area Drug Abuse Task Force, when he could have made captain inside of five years — but no, he was hungry for
instant glory; he was susceptible to con men who led him around by the ring that hung from his snout, and so he wound up with
nothing. And now he was the object of derision and would be for the rest of his ignominious career.

So slow down here. Proceed with caution.

Ask yourself: what might this girl want that isn’t showing? Does she have an ax to grind? Look for the hidden motivation.

He said, “OK. Well now, Cheryl, when this guy was in your store, how did he act?”

“Kind of weird. He was using our tire thing, like for the air pressure? And he comes back and says something about how his
tires had like led him to the store or something. I don’t know, I didn’t know
what
he was saying.”

“Did it get personal?”

“Huh?”

“Did he say anything about you personally?”

A thoughtful tug at the corner of her lips. “No, sir.”

Burris wondered, had she been flirting with the guy? And somehow gotten her feelings hurt? And was she now retaliating? That
happens all the time. There’s an injury; injury festers; false witness is born. Better proceed with light paws. There’s thin
ice here, and if you go stomping along in your usual manner you’ll break through, you fat idiot, and who will come to your
rescue? Nobody.

Shaw
rode in the Liberty, still marinating in his fury. He said nothing though, and soon they were back at the Boatwrights’ street.
That’s when he saw the three satellite TV trucks and all the reporters and rubberneckers.

Tara pulled up the drive to the carport. A baby-faced man was awaiting them beside his motorcycle, which was big as a bison.
He wore dreadlocks and
ikat
trousers. He looked like a hippie assassin.

Shaw got out. The reporters shouted at him from the edge of the lawn. But the baby-faced man said, “Them insects, I told them
they had to stay off the property.”

“You told them?” Shaw asked.

“Yes sir.”

“Who are you?”

“My name’s Trevor Miller, sir. I’d like to serve you, if that would be possible.”

“Serve me? How?”

“Any way you like.”

Shaw kept his hand close to his hip, ready to reach for the .32. Was this a setup? Could this guy possibly be for real?

Said Trevor, “I been up in Hinesville. Fort Stewart, but I got discharged in February. Working Pantry Pride? A butcher? But
I come down here for the beach. I was in a bar and you was up on the TV. I asked ’em who you was, and they sent me over here.
I got a feeling about you. I know you don’t know me from Adam but I bet there’s a way I can serve you.”

Trevor had a searchingness in his gaze, and seemed to be carrying some hurt, some deep wound. Shaw relaxed a little. Thinking,
an apostle? Do I really have
an apostle
now?

“Trevor, you were in the army?”

“Yes sir. 3rd Infantry.”

“Iraq?”

“Yes sir.”

“Did you kill anyone?”

“They carry their dead with them, sir, when they can. But I would surmise that I did.”

Such formality of speech! And the look he was giving was kin to that abyss-black adoration that Shaw had faced at the press
conference. This is what he needed! This was the personnel the cause required. He glanced back at the Boatwrights. They were
standing there meekly: heads bowed, gazes averted, awaiting his pleasure. And the reporters at the end of the driveway were
calling to him, and the crowd waved its fronds and gave praise.

He turned back to Trevor. “Tell me, those that you killed, you think they’re at peace?”

“I don’t know, sir. I thought
you
might know that.”

“I do,” said Shaw. “They are.”

“Well. OK then.”

“You can serve me as long as you like. You hungry, Trevor?”

“A little.”

“Patsy’ll fix you something. Then let’s talk about security.”

Romeo
was on 17, supposedly on his rounds, but this time he didn’t take his usual left turn at Chapel Crossing Road. He just kept
heading up 17. Northward. As if breaking for home, as if returning to Piqua, Ohio. He passed the Humane Society, then an old
rice plantation, and then a sign that said DARIEN 6 MILES. A shut-down garage: Chancy’s Auto Painting and Refinishing. The
missionary girls had said this was where you could get a “body suspension” if you needed one.

Next he passed a cemetery with no headstones, just little brass markers on a vast lawn. The sign had Saturn and the moon and
shooting stars, and the name: HEAVEN’S VIEW.

The shooting stars reminded him of an event a few years back: a summer night, a little party.