A Cautionary Tale
Summer Ryan went missing in the night hours of May 26. Her daddy called his boys before the cops ’cause he reckoned they’d move quicker. And also ’cause Joe Ryan had spent the better years of his life keeping far from law enforcement.
The group fanned out and moved slow. Flashlights cut stuttered lines beneath ink sky and moonlight fell blue between longleaf pines that rose tall in the distance.
Most had kids of their own so knew that cold fear that was rolling over Joe and Ava. Having a daughter loose all night, fifteen, smart or not, their part of the world rarely saw mistakes go unpunished, prizes unclaimed.
Tommy Ryan led them, the missing girl’s uncle, and he carried a gun and a bow and was handy enough with both.
They walked the flat fields behind the girl’s house ’cause that’s the way she might’ve gone. There were rumblings she’d packed a bag before she ran, which meant they were probably wasting their time; that she was probably holed up with a friend or a boy or was laying low till whatever caused her to flee worked itself out. Still, the land weren’t safe and hadn’t been for a long time. Not since the first girl was taken.
That nightmare had stretched for over a year then stopped sudden. Five girls: all from Briar County, all young, and all church girls. They reckoned it was over ’cause thinking anything but meant they’d go on holding their breath, and they were tired of that terror that saw them wake at all hours and creep down their hallways to check on their own.
They were ten in number. They’d run with Joe back when he was young and did bad things. They’d straightened out when Joe went down ’cause eight years was sobering. They lived in Grace and the close surround, their wives talked, their kids hung out. Most weekends they drank beer together, ate barbecue, watched football, and joked and laughed.
When the sun rose, those with jobs would break for work of different kinds—a couple in construction, a couple hauled freight, one fixed air-conditioning units—then they’d come right back. They’d listen out for the telephone. They’d get tight on their own kids; tell them to be home before dark, to stick to the streets and not even glance at Hell’s Gate National Forest.
If they caught the guy—newspapers called him the Bird—they’d kill him before calling the cops. It weren’t said but they knew that’s what they’d do.
*
The Grace heat got up early. By eight, the streets baked and kids stood by sprinklers, screaming on each pass.
Noah Wild wore his father’s badge on a length of twine he looped twice over his head. He’d polished it till sunlight bounced from the eagle’s wings.
Stores crept to life; A-frames were hauled to the street by slow-moving keepers, most a decade past retirement but clinging to purpose with iron grips.
He stopped outside the Whiskey Barrel. Purv was hosing the sidewalk, his worn sneakers deep in a puddle as the spray pooled.
Purv saw him and grinned, then reached out and thumbed the badge. “You look mean, like a real cop.”
Noah wanted to return the compliment but Purv wore an apron that fell low, the shirt beneath drowning him. Purv was a funny kinda small given his father stood a tough six three. He flicked his hair up to give him inches but weren’t fooling nobody, especially when the wind blew. He had one eyebrow, thumb thick and running the width of both eyes. They’d once tried to split it, with some duct tape and a whole lot of cussin’.
“I still reckon it’s missin’ somethin’. The badge alone ain’t enough,” Noah said.
Purv studied him careful. “How about a toothpick? Just let it hang, like Cobretti. I’ll pick some up.”
“I’ll need a gun belt too.”
“You reckon you’ll get a gun on your first day?”
“Yeah . . . probably low caliber though, just till I show Black I know how to handle a Koch.”
Purv looked away, bit his lip hard.
Noah sighed. “K-o-c-h.”
“I saw your grandmother pass by just now,” Purv said. “She was wearin’ a housecoat and rollers, talking to herself. I tried calling out but she looked at me like she ain’t never seen me before.”
“Thanks for tryin’.”
Purv nodded then yawned.
“Rough night?” Noah said.
“Someone stole my father’s truck. He weren’t happy, had to walk it back from Merle’s place.”
“Shit,” Noah said, ’cause he knew what that would’ve meant for Purv.
Purv’s father was a bully, not the misunderstood kind that cowered beneath, just the misshapen kind that’d be stone through if you sliced him in half. If Purv knew a beating was due, Noah would crouch at the end of his yard and wait for the signal that he was still living before he headed home. One flip of the lights, on and off.
Noah reached a hand out and gripped Purv’s shoulder tight. “We’re brave.”
“We’re fierce.”
“Catch you later,” Noah said.
“Good luck.”
Purv went back to hosing.
Noah headed for the center of the square, for the stretch of Bermuda grass watered day and night during the hot months.
He found a bench and reached for his sunglasses, a birthday gift from Purv a year back, expertly lifted from the drugstore in Brookdale, along with two packs of Marlboros. Smoking and stealing were just about Purv’s favorite pastimes.
They’d been friends since Noah could remember. They spent summers in the Kinleys’ fields, racing down lines of corn and firing stick guns at the shiny twin-engines that buzzed low, then stopping by the Red to try and glimpse the senior girls in their bathing suits. They spent winters trampling through white woods, trying to follow buck tracks but making so much noise they never caught sight of one.
Noah watched a couple old guys amble into Mae’s Diner and take a seat by the misted glass. Noah liked Grace before it got up. He’d once worked a paper route, rising at dawn and pedaling his rusting bicycle down the pretty streets with the tall houses and the watercolor yards. Each Christmas he walked that same route with Purv, and they stared in warm windows at distant scenes.
He sat back, breathed deep, and thought of summer break rolled out ahead. He was about to enter junior year; his grades were shit but that was all right, he’d worked out long ago that school weren’t for him. Purv was faring worse, but then it weren’t no secret that God took with both hands when he created Purvis Bowdoin.
They didn’t complain ’cause they were brave and they were fierce and they never forgot that.
*
Raine Ryan moved fast. She followed the snaking line of the Red River, shooting a glance at the water, dark and rushing right alongside her. There were breaks farther upstream, calm enough to swim but skimmed with algae and fifty deep if you believed the rumors. There was a tree by Abby Farley’s place that hung right out over the bank, Abby’s brother had slung a rope over it and tied an old tire to the end. Their momma said it weren’t safe, like that’d stop them. Summer wouldn’t ever take a turn, she just sat on the bank reading a book and smiling every time Raine hollered at her to watch.
Raine caught her foot on a cypress root and went sprawling in the dirt. She lay still for a moment, her breath coming short, her head over the edge. She wondered what would happen if she fell in. She could swim good but the Red was quick. She’d be claimed, sucked beneath as the water roared louder than her screams.
She kept tight hold of the note, hauled herself up, and saw a deep cut on her knee. Blood rolled steady down her shin and she leaned down and wiped it with her finger then brought it to her lips. The taste of blood never bothered her all that much.
She set off in the direction of town, the trees clustered tight as she looked down and ran.
When she reached the square she slowed and calmed and wiped sweat from her head. She glanced up at the Grace Police Department. It occupied a grand building at the head of the square, stone and painted a shade of parchment that dulled a month after it was done.
Inside she asked for Chief Black and was swept into his office by Rusty, with his heavy stomach and half limp. He was eating a sandwich, ketchup by his mouth and a spot of grease on his necktie.
He left her and she sat, pressed her hands flat against the table; fingers splayed, nails bit short. They weren’t allowed to wear varnish. Their momma said they were too young, said it like a lick of red on their nails would part their legs for the boys.
She crossed the room and rifled through the desk drawers, saw empty bottles before she found Black’s wallet and slipped a twenty from it. She moved quick back to her chair and sat still.
The door opened and Trix stuck her head in. “You okay, Raine?” Trix worked the front desk, had her hair cropped boy-short and dyed dark.
Raine nodded.
“Is it important? Lot of shit goin’ on this mornin’.”
“Like what?”
“Ray Bowdoin. Someone stole his truck last night and he ain’t happy.”
“I gotta talk to Black. My daddy sent me.”
“I’ll grab him soon as I can.”
For the most part Raine did as she pleased, and what pleased her were acts that saw her in shit, so she weren’t no stranger to Trix, Black, and the others.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled photo of Summer. Twins, similar once, though nature had other plans as they grew. Summer was quiet and smart and all kinda other things Raine weren’t.
She leaned down and checked the cut on her knee, licked a finger and cleaned the blood from it.
Black came into the room and she caught the smell of booze that trailed him.
He sat down and rubbed his eyes before he spoke, maybe to show he was busy or tired, or maybe just tired of her.
“What did you do this time, Raine? If you’ve been messin’ with those Kirkland boys again it’s on you. Ain’t my business to go meddling in family matters, got enough on.”
“It’s Summer,” she said, a trace of heat in her voice. She had her daddy’s temper, her nose turning up in a snarl.
He looked up.
“She’s gone missin’.”
He tried to keep level but she saw the color drain right from him. He made to speak but fumbled his words.
She watched him close, the creased shirt and the dry lips.
“Since when?” he said.
“Last night. She left a note.” Raine slid it across the table.
He picked it up with a shaking hand. “I’m sorry.”
She nodded.
“So she ran,” he said, the color returning.
“Looks that way.”
“What’s she sorry about?”
Raine shrugged.
“Where’s your daddy?”
“Out lookin’. Said he’d walk the flat fields then follow the Red to Hell’s Gate. He wants you to send Rusty and Milk and anyone else you can spare.”
“Milk’s out sorting the mess from last night. Ray Bowdoin’s truck –”
“I know,” she cut in.
“You tell your daddy I’ll put a call out, but I need him to keep a cool head. Reckon you can do that?”
“Why don’t you tell him yourself?” she said, bait in her tone.
“Summer left a note. She probably just needed some space . . . like you do sometimes.”
He stood and made for the door.
“Black.”
He turned.
“It still ain’t safe out there. Y’all didn’t catch him.”
*
The station ran silent as Ray Bowdoin filled out the papers. Noah watched him close, the way he stood and the gold rings jutting from fists so big Purv didn’t ever stand a chance.
When Ray was done he tossed the pen at Trix.
“I ain’t holdin’ much hope you’ll find it,” he said as he drew a cigarette and pressed it to his lips.
“You can’t smoke in here,” Trix said.
Ray lit his cigarette and Rusty stood, a hand on his gun.
Ray walked to the door then turned. “The dog, that fuckin’ mutt my neighbor got. I told Purv to come tell y’all ’cause it won’t shut up.”
“He told us,” Rusty said.
“And?”
“Dogs bark, Ray. That’s what they do. You tried petting it?”
Ray smiled, winked at Trix, then headed out.
“You should’ve shot him,” Trix said.
Rusty nodded ’cause he knew she weren’t kidding.
“When do I get my gun, Trix? I’ll need two . . . crossfire. I ain’t gonna be a house mouse like Rusty,” Noah said.
“Remind me again why he’s here?” Rusty said.
Trix ignored him. She’d arranged for Noah to spend the summer with them, a couple shifts each week, answering the phone and working the file room. Trix had been friends with Noah’s momma since they were small. She’d sat with her through the last days, then held Noah’s hand at the funeral as he stared at the casket but wouldn’t let no tears fall. Tough like his daddy was.
Noah pulled out a chair, spun it round, and straddled it. “Can we talk about my powers?”
“You got the power to answer the phone. Nothin’ more.”
They fell quiet as Raine walked through. Noah felt her look over, their eyes meeting for a moment which stretched till his knees shook and his gaze dropped. There was something wild there, some kinda draw that went beyond the obvious and got the boys dreaming and drooling. He’d pass her by at school, back when she used to show up, but they ran in different circles—Noah’s consisting of Purv alone, and Raine’s just about every senior with access to a car and booze.
Black followed a minute after she left.
“What’s up?” Rusty said.
“Summer took off last night,” Black said.
“Summer?”
Black nodded.
Trix looked up, worry in her eyes. “Summer ran?”
“And?” Rusty said.
“Probably ain’t nothin’. She left a note,” Black said, rubbing his temples. He looked over at Noah, eyes settling on the badge he wore.
The phone rang. Rusty glanced at Noah then pointed to it.
Noah reached across the desk, brought the receiver to his ear, and took a breath. “Detective Noah Wild. Homicide.”
Rusty shook his head. “What is it?”
“Smoke comin’ from Hell’s Gate last night,” Noah said, the phone against his ear.
“Another fire. Fuckin’ holy rollers from White Mountain, hollerin’ at the devil again. I’ll take it,” Rusty said, reaching for the handset.
Black parted the slats and watched Raine cross the square. She passed a couple guys but they kept their eyes low. Even with Joe Ryan outta sight they wouldn’t risk a glance at one of his daughters.
His mind slipped from Summer to the missing girls from Briar County, then to the sketch of the Bird that’d run in the newspapers. Big and feathered and frightening. A cautionary tale about heading lone into the woods at night.