Strawman by David Byron (part 2)

(If you missed part 1, click here) 

The snare proved easy to set, a shallow depression dug into the ground beneath the big peach tree with a leaf-covered slipknot encircling it.  The rope’s long, camouflaged tail ran up and over a stout limb and back to a spring pole bent behind the small tool shed a few yards from the tree.  Grogan brought an old aluminum washtub from the garage and placed it near the pole.

He spent several hours picking ripe and nearly-ripe fruit from the rest of the trees, careful to leave a few choice fruits to entice the boy.  The trap was set.

There had been no sign of the boy, and after lunch, Grogan returned to his yard to turn the rich earth of this year’s winter garden-to-be, retreating from his loneliness within the work.  Sweat ran into his eyes, and he pulled the freshly washed bandana from his pocket to wipe his forehead.  Not all the blood had come out, and as he looked at the dark, indelible stains, his tears ran and mingled with his perspiration.  He shivered in the heat.  There will be justice.  He looked at Wiley’s grave.  “Murderer,” he said aloud.  “Killer.”

When the afternoon breeze came up, Grogan took a stack of seed catalogs and sat in the old porch swing to read.  He sipped from a glass of lemonade and puckered his lips; too sour, not like Mae used to make.  Don’t dwell in the past, Nicky, she whispered in his ear.

Far down the road, he noticed a figure walking along.  He watched it loiter in the fields west of his house, and as it came closer, he recognized Jimmy McCobb.  The teen moved slowly, black hair spiking in the wind, his body tall and scarecrow-thin against the afternoon sun.

Jimmy came parallel with the porch and paused.

“Hi, Mr. Grogan,” he called.  Grogan stared at him, unmoving.  Jimmy’s grin widened and he ran his fingers through his greasy hair, then plunked his thumbs into his jeans’ front pockets.  “Where’s your dog, Mr. Grogan?  Don’t he usually sit with you?  Can’t remember a time I passed by here when you was out and that damn dog wasn’t sleeping on your feet.”

Grogan ignored him.  All in time, he cautioned himself, all in time.

“Hey, Grogan!  I’m talking to you.  You deaf or something?”

Without a word, Grogan stood and went into the house, locking the door behind him.

###

After supper, Grogan put in another call to Ed Laker, who told him that Jimmy McCobb hadn’t been seen.  He assured the sheriff that he’d be in touch, then hung up, his mind working rapidly.  The boy was hiding out, and the other youngsters were so cowed by him that they weren’t about to talk, even if they actually knew where he was.  That was good.  Grogan only hoped that young Mister McCobb would show up soon.

At four in the morning, Grogan came abruptly out of sleep, out of dreams of his own boyhood, knowing that the McCobb boy was outside.  Quickly, leaving the lights off, he dressed, then crept into the kitchen to peer out the window.  Sure enough, there he was, climbing over the fence, all alone.  Grogan’s hands trembled with excitement; tonight, he’d teach the boy a lesson.

Never taking his eyes from the window, the old man opened the utensil drawer and felt for the knife. Grasping it, he watched as the boy, carrying a gunny sack and flashlight, slipped into the orchard and began to work his way around the property, looking for fruit.  Soon, he would move inward and find the laden tree.  Grogan had to move fast now.

“Ouch!” he whispered.  The boning knife clattered to the counter.  His thumb bled freely where the blade had sliced into it, and he pressed the wound to his lips, sucking the salty red fluid away.  After a moment, he reached for his bandana and wrapped it around the throbbing thumb.  Well, he thought, slipping the knife into his jacket pocket, it’s surely sharp enough.

Silently, he watched the boy approach the far end of the orchard, then he let himself out the back door, padding along the side of the house and stepping swiftly across the moon-whitened sidewalk into the shadows of the workshop.  He walked its length, then craned his neck around the building’s corner.  Good.  McCobb was still far from the trap.  The trickiest part would be crossing the twenty feet from the workshop to the tool shed without the boy seeing him.

McCobb was shaking a plum tree. His back was turned, and Grogan hurried across the yard.  Heart working frantically, he reached the shed. With relief, he saw the spring pole and tub were untouched.  All he had to do now was wait.

Soon, he heard footsteps, and could see the boy’s legs moving back and forth beneath the trees.  He was close now, very close.

“Shit, goddamn!” Jimmy cried.  Grogan cringed as McCobb reached into a young plum tree and began snapping off branches.  “Goddamn green fruit!”  He hurled a branch, and it landed near Grogan’s feet.  Plums, half-ripe, clung to the limb, and the old man trembled, barely able to control his fury as he watched the boy dismember the tree.  White with rage, Grogan held still, willing Jimmy McCobb to come loser.

The youth moved away from the mangled tree and, for a moment, Grogan thought he would leave. Come here, boy, he thought, come here and see what I’ve got for you.

The boy turned then and saw the old peach tree.  “All right!” he whispered, coming closer, bringing the nearly empty sack with him.

Grogan melted into the shadows.

“Old fart didn’t pick all the peaches,” the boy chuckled, shaking the tree.  Grogan held the spring pole tightly, worried the trap would be exposed, but the tree was too big to shake, too old and solid.

“Shit, okay!”  Jimmy began picking from the lowest branches.  Finally, he stepped into the depression.

He didn’t even notice.  Grogan grinned as the trap sprung.

Ankles-first, Jimmy McCobb was jerked into the air, yelling and screaming.  Somberly, the old man stepped into the moonlight and walked toward him.  In one hand, he held the knife, in the other, the silver tub.

“You let me go, you old weirdo!” screeched the boy.  “I’m gonna scream so loud all your neighbors are gonna come running!”

Grogan laughed.  “They didn’t come when you shot my dog, did they?”  He paused and watched the youth flail helplessly.  “Guess you were so busy stealing my peaches you didn’t notice the only neighbors I got have been away for a while.”  He set the tub down and reached up, plucking a peach from a low branch.  “Took a vacation.  Grand Canyon, I think they said.”

“Help!” screamed Jimmy McCobb.

“Mighty good peaches, if I say so myself!” Grogan declared.  He flicked the knife, sliced a thick wedge of fruit then slipped it into his mouth.

“You let me down from here!”

“Well, boy, if you hadn’t killed Wiley last night, I just mighta given you a good scare and let you go . . . but murder, that’s something else.”  He popped another wedge of peach into his mouth and chewed slowly.  “You know, the law’s kind of soft these days, and it looks like I’m gonna have to punish you myself.  Why,” he drawled, taking slow steps toward the wiggling youth, “Sheriff Laker actually thinks you ran away after you threatened me with that branch.  But we know better, don’t we?  Guess you swore your little friends to secrecy, huh?”

“They know where I am right now!”

“I don’t believe that, boy.  Sheriff saw to it their parents were told . . . no, I don’t think they’re doing anything but dreaming in their beds.”  Grogan finished the peach and tossed the pit in the tub.  It thumped hollowly.  “I’ll bet you didn’t tell them what you did last night, did you?”

“I’m gonna!  I’m proud of it!”  He spat the words at Grogan.

“You proud of being a murderer?”

“It was only a fucking dog!”

“I’m aware of that.  That’s why I’m saying the law’s too soft to serve you a proper penalty.  Some people have a funny notion that animals aren’t as important as humans.  Me, I disagree.  Sometimes they’re more important.  They’re better creatures.  They don’t kill without a reason.”

The boy’s eyes bulged.  “Just let me down!  I won’t say nothing and I’ll leave your goddamn fruit alone!”

“You think I was born yesterday, boy?  You can fool those young’uns with bull like that, but not me.  You ain’t nothing but evil and evil has to be destroyed.”  Grogan spat and the spittle hit the boy’s dangling hand, where it glistened like a sticky spiderweb in the moonlight.

“It was only an old dog.  Jeeze, I didn’t—”

Grogan kneed the boy squarely in the back.  “Quit whining, McCobb,” he ordered, fingering the knife handle.  “Wiley was my friend.  You murdered my friend.”  Grogan bent slightly and pressed his shoulder into Jimmy’s back, and quickly grabbed his hair, yanking the boy’s head backwards.  Jimmy McCobb wiggled uselessly and the old man brought the knife around with his other hand and held it in front of his exposed throat. 

“What the hell you think you’re doing?” screamed Jimmy.

“Well, boy, I guess I’m seeing that justice is done.”

The youth screamed as Grogan’s blade slid into his neck.  The skin parted like butter beneath the knife, and his cry drowned in hot ruby liquid.

Quickly, the old man slipped the tub beneath the boy and the first drops spattered into it like raindrops, then arteries tore open and blood gushed from the fresh red grin.  Blood poured over the boy’s head, filled the open mouth and nostrils, coated the eyes, dyed the hair, and Grogan looked away, sick.

He turned and walked to the rose garden.  “Wiley, I got rid of him.  I shoulda known the boy was a devil before you ever got hurt.  Wiley, I’m sorry.  Real sorry.”  He sank to his knees and prayed.

Dawn would break soon, he realized, looking up.  He wiped his face.  To the east, the sky was brightening.  He’d have to do something with the body; there was no time to bury it properly now.

He cut the corpse down, even though it wasn’t quite drained.  The tub sloshed full and the rusty tang of blood filled the air.  Carefully, he dragged it to the tool shed and hid it away in the darkness.

He went back to where the body lay.  The mouth was thick with congealing blood and the eyes cried dark red tears.  Grogan turned on the hose and sprayed the head and neck until the gash was rubber pink, the face clean and white.  He ran the water until there was no blood left in the grass or on the body.

Then he brought the wheelbarrow and lifted the corpse into it, then wheeled it into the workshop.  He was nearly finished.

###

Grogan sat on his front porch, sipping lemonade.  He’d added more sugar to the batch and now it was almost as good as Mae’s had been.  He smacked his lips, stood up and stretched and sat down again, feeling younger than he had in years.

A group of four little boys skipped by.  “Hey, kids!” called Grogan.  They stopped and looked at him warily.

“I asked Sheriff Laker to send that big kid over to repair the damage he did to my fence.  Sheriff can’t seem to locate him.”  He paused, grinning.  “Thought maybe you could tell me where he is.”

The boys looked at each other and shook their heads.  “Gee, Mr. Grogan, we don’t know, honest,” ventured the one with dirty blond hair.

“He takes off sometimes,” added another.

“Yeah, well, you see him, you tell him the law’s looking for him,” called Grogan.  “Now, off with you!”  He waved his hand in dismissal and settled back on the swing, satisfied.  He picked up a seed catalog and began to read.

“Look!” The boy’s excited screech carried back to him.  He stood and looked down the dirt path that fronted his property.  The boys had stopped and were peering between the slats of the fence.  “Lookit the scarecrow!”

Slowly, Grogan walked through the yard toward them.

“He fixed it.  So?”

“No, lookit it!  It’s got something red on its neck.  It looks like blood!”

“Jesus, Billy, you’re crazy!  Lemme see!”

“Shit, that thing looks like Jimmy!” yelped another boy.

“Bullshit!  You’re just trying to scare us, Paul.  Jimmy took off for a few days, he told us that hisself.  Besides, that old coot couldn’t do nothing to him!”

“Would’ja look, for chrissake?  Don’t it look like him to you?”

Grogan came even with the boys.  “Don’t you kids think you done enough damage to my scarecrow already?” he asked quietly.  There was silence on the far side of the fence and then, suddenly, in a herd, the boys dashed away.

Grogan turned, uneasy, and looked at the scarecrow.  Straw’s stained, he scolded himself, got to be more careful. He pulled the bandana from his pocket and tied it jauntily around the straw man’s neck.

That’ll do the trick.   Eager for the day to end, he sprayed the body with Black Flag. No use attracting flies.

He drank some water from the garden faucet, wondering if the boys would come back too soon.  Surely, though, no one would believe that a harmless old codger like himself would kill a boy for stealing peaches-and no one knew about Wiley’s murder, so everything was probably all right.  Just another Old Man Grogan legend in the making. He smiled and went to work, hoeing out weeds.

No one came around and Grogan turned out his lights at dusk.  He sat in the darkness, thinking, wondering if he’d done the right thing.  He knew he had.  Look to your heart.  Mae told him that so many times over the years and, always, it calmed him and helped him see what was right and wrong.

Nicholas Grogan looked to his heart and was at peace.

###

At nine o’clock, he finished stitching up the real scarecrow’s head and at ten, under the waning moon, he removed the corpse from the post in the garden.  Back in the workshop, he undressed the body and replaced the shirt and pants on the straw man.  The bandana was stuck to McCobb’s gashed throat, and gingerly, he pulled it off and took it to the sink, where he washed it in Ivory Detergent.  Outside, he hung it on the line, then entered the tool shed.  The smell of blood gagged him as he opened the door and removed the shovel.  Quickly, he closed the door, locked it, and went back to the winter garden.

The soil was rich and well-cultivated, and by two in the morning, the grave was deep enough.  His arms and shoulders aching, he returned to the workshop and wheeled the body to the hole.  “Good riddance,” he muttered, dumping it in unceremoniously, like the garbage it was.  Carefully, he dragged the reeking tub across the yard and balanced it at the edge of the grave, tipping it until the clotted blood slopped poured over the boy.

Filling the hole took only an hour, but it seemed an eternity to the exhausted old man.  Finally, it was finished, the soil smoothed, the shovel put away, and the tub scrubbed clean.

Grogan re-erected the real scarecrow deep in the corn, and in the pale morning light, he stood back to admire his handiwork.  “Something’s missing,” he said aloud, and then he knew what it was.  He took the bandana from the clothesline and tied it around the scarecrow’s neck.  “Just right.”  Pleased with the night’s work, he returned to his house to wash up.

###

As the rest of the world awoke, Nicholas Grogan pushed himself away from the breakfast table.  He was full of eggs and toast and coffee, and despite his aching back and stiff muscles, he felt good.  Nothing like honest labor to work up an appetite. He set his plate on the counter.

Dishes washed, he went out to the shed for his trowel and garlic sets, and spent the next hour planting bulbs at just the right depth, just the right number of inches apart in his new winter garden.  When he was half done, he heard someone at his front gate.  He rose, wiping dirt from his hands, and took a step forward.  His foot sank; he was standing on the grave.  Chilled, he moved on.

Ed Laker waited at the gate.  “Morning, Ed,” Grogan said, fumbling with the lock.

“Morning, Mr. Grogan.”

The older man opened the gate and Laker entered the yard.

“What can I do for you, Sheriff?”  He hoped his voice wasn’t shaking as badly as his hands, which he’d thrust quickly into his pockets.

“Doing some planting, are you?” asked Laker.

“Ah, yes.  Getting garlic and onions in.  First things you plant in a winter garden.”

“Isn’t quite winter yet, Mr. Grogan.”

Grogan laughed.  “No, Sheriff, you plant in late summer, they’re ready in the winter.”

“Oh, I see.  Guess I’m not much of a farmer, am I?”

“What can I do for you?” repeated Grogan.

“Well, I just thought I’d stop by and let you know I haven’t seen a sign of Jimmy McCobb.  I see your fence is still carved up–guess you haven’t seen him either?”

“Not a sign, Sheriff.  Even asked those young boys if they’d seen him, but they said not.”  Grogan relaxed a little.  The sheriff was just checking in with him, that was all.  Across the street, the younger boys were walking by, and they stopped and stared at the police car.  Grogan pretended not to see them, but their presence made him nervous.

“How about a tour of your garden, Mr. Grogan?” asked Laker, his voice friendly.  “Everybody tells me yours is the best in the county.”

“Well, I don’t know about that but, sure, come on back.”

They walked through the orchard, Grogan pointing out this tree and that, naming variety and year planted.  He was careful to bypass the mangled tree, and Laker didn’t seem to notice it, nor did he pay much attention to the new winter plot.  They came to the spring-planted garden, where the scarecrow stood in corn so high that only the chest, head and arms showed above it.

“That’s a mighty fine scarecrow, Mr. Grogan.”

“Thanks,” replied Grogan, pride in his voice, “Made him myself.”

The sheriff walked closer.  “Mighty fine.  You know, from a distance, that ‘kerchief kinda looks like blood.”

Grogan froze.  “It does?”

Laker laughed.  “Kinda funny story.  Pete Burnham’s kid came running into the office last night yammering on about how you’d done in Jimmy McCobb and had him standing guard duty in your garden.  ‘Course, I didn’t believe him, but. . .”

“But you had to see for yourself.”  Grogan grunted.  “Every night, I pray those kids will leave me alone.  `Grogan shoots kids, Grogan, he killed his wife,’ Grogan this and Grogan that.”  He looked directly into the sheriff’s eyes.  “You know, all I want is some peace and quiet.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.”  The sheriff looked sheepish.  “When I was a boy, my parents said you fed poisoned peaches to little kids who’d been bad.”  He smiled.  “We were all scared of you.”

Grogan chuckled.  “You’re not telling me anything new.  I’m the boogeyman, don’tcha know?”

Both men laughed heartily.

They walked back out the front gate.  “You look kinda tired, Mr. Grogan.”

“Well, I haven’t had much sleep.  My dog’s run off and I’ve been worried about him.”

“I wouldn’t worry, if I were you.  He’ll come back.  Pete Burnham’s collie’s in season. He’s probably down there paying a visit.”

“Well, maybe you’re right,” conceded Grogan, with a grin.  “Guess maybe the old boy’s still got a few surprises left in him.”

“Sure he does,” agreed Laker.  He looked at the boys sitting on the other side of the street.  “Guess they’re looking to see if I got me a murderer,” he laughed.

“Ain’t no murderers around here,” said Grogan.

“Well, I’ve got to be going,” the sheriff said.  “And I want to apologize again for not finding McCobb yet. I’m sure he’ll turn up eventually.”

“Well, when he shows, you send him over.  Can’t let him get away with vandalism.  I think I’ll patch the fence myself, though.  It’s an eyesore.  I’ll find him something else to do to atone.  Plenty of chores around here . . . maybe I’ll have him fertilize the winter garden for me.”

“Glad you’re feeling calmer about this.  You were pretty upset the other day.”

“Well, you know what they say about time healing wounds.  Those boys,” Grogan said, pointing at the little group, which was sitting and staring at him, “they haven’t been much trouble since Jimmy took off.”

“Glad to hear it.  One bad one spoils the rest, you know,” said Laker, opening his car door.  “Well, see you later, Mr. Grogan.”

“See you around, Sheriff.”

The police car revved and took off in a cloud of dust.  Grogan, leaning on his fence, watched it until it was out of sight, then turned his gaze on the boys, who were still as statues.  He gave them a Cheshire Cat smile.  “Hey, you kids!”  They looked like scared deer.  “Hey!  You kids want some peaches?”

The boys looked at each other and flew to their feet.  As they disappeared down the road, Grogan laughed and shook his head.  He locked the gate behind himself and returned to his planting, happy.  The boys would cause him no more trouble this year.

And his winter garden would be the very finest in the county.

 END