Ravens (19 page)

The scotch was placed in his hand. He pulled out his wallet but Skeet said, “No,
I’ll
get this.
You
get my mortgage.”

When Shaw laughed, everyone around him also laughed.

Also he found that wherever he looked, girls would lower their eyes bashfully, pretending they hadn’t been staring at him.

Skeet was a tax preparer three months of the year and a beach bum the rest. He advised Shaw to steer clear of sharps and grifters.
He said, “Success is a peak — soon’s as you get up there you start sliding down. Anyway, that’s what I did.”

Shaw laughed and they high-fived.

Then he worked his way through the crowd to the Boatwrights’ table. There was supposed to be a no-media, no-pictures rule,
but flashes kept going off. Oh, let them, he thought. Are we hiding something? No, we’re as open as church doors on Sunday.
He asked Patsy for a dance. She was already pretty drunk, so to absorb her clumsiness he took something off his own moves.
He twirled and jitterbugged and rock-a-bye-babied her, and made her look almost graceful, and she seemed to enjoy herself,
and locked eyes with him as they spun.

But he saw Mitch glaring at the floor with his bug eyes.

So while the musicians tuned up for another song, Shaw went over to sit by him. Saying into his ear, “I’m not getting it on
with your wife, OK, Mitch? I just want everyone to survive. Remember in a week I’ll be gone and you’ll still be the richest
man you know. You don’t have to love me, but make ’em think you do. OK?”

Then he bought a round for everyone in the bar.

Romeo,
following Shaw’s orders, left the car on Redwood Street, and went on foot from there to the Boatwrights’. A pig-rig was blocking
Oriole Road, which made him nervous. But he walked right past it, and they didn’t try to stop him. They were just there to
keep vehicles out — there were already too many SUVs and RVs and TV trucks.

At the Boatwrights’, he found twenty people, whites, blacks, and Latinos, sitting in a circle under a big oak, singing songs
of praise. Their smiles were unwithholding. One pointed to a cooler full of soft drinks, and Romeo nodded thanks and took
a Stewart’s Root Beer, and listened to the music while he steadied himself. Then he went up to the front door.

Waiting for him was a taut, drawn-looking guy in tie-dye pants.

“You Trevor?” said Romeo.

The guy made a small acknowledgment — a circumscribed tilt of the head. “Romeo? Shaw said you were coming. I’m supposed to
help get you settled.”

They went into the house, to Jase’s room, where Shaw was staying. Trevor pointed to one of the two beds and said, “Take that.
We’ll find somewhere else for the kid.” Then he left Romeo alone.

As soon as his footsteps faded, Romeo slipped across the hall to Tara’s bedroom.

It had the fragrance of a small-town college girl. Humbly sweet and fresh but with a faint pull of sexuality. He wondered
if Shaw had been in here yet. Had he tried to seduce her? Well, he would. This was just the kind of girl he went for: skinny
and feisty and nice-haunches-no-tits and loves her grandmother.

On her bookcase was a Stephen King and an Edgar Allan Poe and
The Uncanny,
by Andrew Klavan. So she liked terror? Though she also had
Wind in the Willows
and
The Borrowers
and
The Bell Jar
, and a glowing Jesus and a cross-eyed rhinoceros. And an Edward Scissorhands bobblehead doll.

From outside came the praise-singing: “Even when the flood starts rising, Even when the storm comes, I am washed by the water.”

He sat before her laptop. Turned it over, opened the mini-PCI slot, installed his keylogger card and transmitter. It took
him two minutes. Then he went to the master bedroom and impregnated Patsy’s laptop the same way. The system was rigged so
that Shaw’s computer would hijack the transmissions and email them directly to Romeo.

Then he went out to the carport and found Trevor. “Hey, listen,” he said. “Thank you, but I just can’t take that kid’s bed.”

“Oh, that’s no problem. He can sleep on the couch.”

“Tell you the truth, I’m kind of freaked out by the singing. But tell Shaw to call me, OK?”

He went down the driveway while the folks were singing “El-Shaddai.” He got to his car and fed Drive Fast & Shut Your Eyes
into the CD player, and drew another slow circle around the city.

He went by Hazel Ramsey’s house. Shaw said that Hazel was Patsy’s friend — that’s why she was on Romeo’s circuit. But her
house was dark. Of course it was. Any friend of Patsy’s would be at the Jackpot Party.

He went by Enoch Emery’s office. Enoch was a ‘Point of Interest’ because his business had been mentioned a few times on Mitch’s
website. But the office was closed, naturally. It was Saturday night. Enoch would be at the Party.

The neon signs along Rt. 341 made Romeo feel lonely as hell. So did the sodium-arc streetlights on MLK Boulevard, and so did
the hoarse songbird when he stopped for a red light at J Street. Then on Rt. 17 he saw a line of claret taillights, waiting
to turn onto the St. Simon’s Island causeway. Saturday night!
Everyone
was going to the island, everyone but Romeo. He got gas at El Cheapo, and drove on. He wanted to scream. He wanted to batter
his fists against the windshield. Driving around and around trying to figure out how he could ever kill these people. How
did anyone ever scrape up that much insanity?

Shaw
danced with old Nell, buckdancing and high-stepping. The two of them brayed out “Rocky Top” like a pair of broken-hearted
hounds, and anyone could see they were madly in love.

Shaw had another Red-and-rocks. Then he danced with Cousin Vanessa.

He didn’t ask Tara to dance. That would have been too loaded — everybody was watching him as it was.

He had another Red-and-rocks.

There was a new girl. Over by the fireplace. Tall, strong-boned, tragic, gazing at him with fierce interest. She wore a strange
ornament: a spiral snake that wound through her cheek, and he knew who she was from her MySpace pics.

He made his way over to her. “Hello, Clio.”

She gave him a sidelong squint. “The guy on TV?”

“Uh-huh. How’d I do with that?”

“Want the truth?”

“Yes.”

“You were kinda cheesy.”

“Aw. You didn’t see the light of Jesus radiating out of me?”

“I saw a cheesy poser-ass on drugs.”

“What kind of drugs?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “What kind you got?”

“What kind do you like?”

“Depends on my mood,” she said. “Amytal? Percs? Dems if I’m
really
depressed. Like today.”

“Why are you depressed today?”

Clio drew a breath and let it out. “My best friend just dumped me.”

“Why’d she do that?”

“She thinks she’s too good for me.”

“No she doesn’t.”

“How would
you
know?”

He smiled. “Cup your hand.”

She did, and he pressed a little round pill into her palm.

“What is it?”

“Just a little old-fashioned dexie. It’ll lighten things for a while.”

He passed her his Red to chase it with. She kept her eyes on him as she drank. Then she had a thought: “Hey, how do you know
my name?”

Tara
saw Clio flirting with Shaw and ceased to breathe.

She thought, everything I did to protect her has only made things worse. Because now she thinks I deserted her. Now she’s
furious with me. She might have fucked Shaw anyway, but now she
surely
will — just to hurt me.

She saw Clio break into a laugh, and though it was drowned out by the bar noise, she knew just how it sounded: cutting but
playful. Tara had one like it in her own arsenal. You put the boy down cleverly and use the laugh to throw him off balance,
then soften it into a giggle at the end. She could see it was working for Clio. She could tell by Shaw’s expression — kind
of confused but beguiled at the same time. He was caught.

Aunt Miriam came up to Tara and started chirping: “Oh, child! That was the best news ever! We’re
so
proud of you. I believe God truly has a purpose for your family. I think when He gives so generously, it’s because He has
a purpose, don’t you? These things don’t just fall out of the sky for no reason. There’s nothing that happens in this world
without a
reason
…” And on and on, but Tara hardly heard, as all her focus was on Clio and Shaw. He was showing her that cocky little smile
of his. She stood on tiptoe to speak into his ear, to share some intimacy, and he reached up and traced the serpent on her
cheek with his fingertip, audaciously zigzagging down the coils.

Tara felt something give way then, in her vitals.

A tiny snap of jealousy.

He’s
my
demon,
my
hell; leave him
alone.

The thought was gone in an instant. But she could feel its poison lingering in her mind, and meanwhile Aunt Miriam kept twittering:
“I mean don’t you think this Shaw boy is just a jewel? He’s truly
devout
, Tara. That part’s very real. I think he’s an absolute gift from God, if you want to know what
I
think …”

Romeo
knew he wasn’t welcome at the trailer. He knew if he stopped there, Wynetta would come after him with a kitchen knife. But
he wasn’t planning to stop — he just wanted to drive past, for a glimpse of Claude.

But when he saw that Wynetta’s truck was gone, he pulled right in. He went up to the door and pushed it open. Claude lay there
with no blanket. His eyes lifted slowly. “I feel.
Great,
” he said. Then turned away with a gypsy-dog look of remorse. There was a sour smell, and the sheet around his ass was stained
a rich walnut.

Romeo asked him, “Where’s Wynetta?”

Claude attempted to shrug.

Romeo went to the linen closet and found sheets, threadbare but clean. At the sink he rinsed out the sponge and filled the
enamel pot with warm water. Then he went to work.

So long as he was taking care of things, he felt lighthearted.

But as soon he was done, the moment he had Claude all cleaned up and resting peacefully in fresh sheets and pillowcases with
a new bag of morphine seeping into his system, Romeo felt the weight of all his troubles again.

He lay down on the bed, next to the old man. The two of them gazed up at the spiderwork cracks on the ceiling. Claude’s lips
were moving, and he seemed to be struggling through some train of thought. But maybe that was wrong. Maybe he wasn’t thinking
at all — maybe he was just suffering.

Romeo said, “Has it kicked in yet?”

Long pull of silence. Then Claude said, “I think. I know what. You’re doing here. You’re supposed. To kill someone. Right?”

Romeo took a breath. “Yes.”

“But you’re not. Ready?”

“I’m not.”

“Well. Then. You should. Practice.”

“What do you mean?”

“Killing,” Claude whispered.

“Practice killing? How would I practice killing?”

“On me.”

“I don’t …”

“Please,” said Claude.

“Oh my God. Claude. Wait for the morphine. It’ll work in a minute.”

“Can’t you give me
all
the morphine? Give me the whole bag.”

“It’s on a pump, Claude. You can’t get it all at once.”

“Help me.”

The look on the old man’s face — all selfishness and weakness — was crushing to Romeo. That this pillar of strength should
be crumbling right before his eyes.

“Claude. I can’t do that for you.”

“Just. For practice.”

“Try to understand, Claude.”

“To get. In shape. For the real thing.”

“I can’t! You don’t get it. I gotta get worked up for this shit!”

“Please,” said the old man. He was begging. How could he be so weak? Romeo wondered. How could he have fallen so low?

“I’ll see.”

“Please,” said Claude.

“I’ll see. Later. But I gotta go now.”

Romeo arose from the bed and walked out. He shut the door behind him. He got into the Tercel and drove. He didn’t know where
he was going. Without thinking he started making a circuit.

No. I don’t want to make a fucking circuit.

This time, when he came to the turn for the St. Simon’s causeway, he took it. He crossed the marshes and came to the island,
which he found to be well-manicured but dull. Retirement condos, offices for osteopaths, phony-looking palm trees. But he
followed a sign to the village, and found an old and kind of sweetly run-down settlement, a last gasp of character and grace.
Murphy’s Bar was easy to spot. So many folks were milling outside the Jackpot Party.

He pulled over on a side street. Under a spreading oak. From this vantage he had a clear view of the bar, the partygoers flowing
in and out.

This misery he was feeling, couldn’t he use it somehow? Work it up into some kind of rage? That was the key, a little rage.

Then he noticed someone coming out of another door, a back door.

It was Shaw. Trying to slip away without being spotted by the crowd. Hovering near the dumpster, waiting for someone. He didn’t
see Romeo parked in the shadows down the street.

Then Clio drove up in her Miata. Shaw got in, and they drove away. Romeo’s heart went slamming around in his chest.

Clio. She’s mine. That was
Clio
.

She’s all I care about in this fucking town. He
knows
that. He must. Doesn’t he give a shit? It doesn’t even matter to him? My best fucking friend!

He followed the Miata. Allowed it a generous lead, and kept his headlights off, and pursued the car down a few back streets
and then a little unpaved lane that led to the ocean.

The Miata stopped. Romeo stopped.

He got out quietly — carefully clicking the door shut — and went back to the Tercel’s trunk, and took the cavalry saber from
its nest. He started toward the Miata. Oak branches were twined above his head. His footfalls were deadened by the sand. My
best friend, he thought, my best fucking friend. He could see that the Miata’s windows were open. He heard passionate breathing.
In the dark, he could just make out the lovers’ silhouettes.