The Silent Scream of the Straw Man Read online

  The Silent Scream of the Straw Man

  © 2018 by Corinne F. Gerwe

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the publisher using the information below.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Any mentioned brand names, places, and trademarks remain the property of their respective owners, bear no association with the author or the publisher, and are used for fictional purposes only.

  ISBN: 978-1-62020-844-1

  eISBN: 978-1-62020-855-7

  Cover Design and Page Layout by Hannah Nichols

  Ebook Conversion by Anna Riebe Raats

  INKSWIFT

  Greenville, SC

  For Stefanie, Guy, Gretchen and Isaac

  “‘All the same,’ said the Scarecrow, ‘I shall ask for brains instead of a heart;

  for a fool would not know what to do with a heart if he had one.’”

  - L. Frank Baum, The Wizard of Oz

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Information

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Acknowledgments

  Contact Information

  CHAPTER ONE

  We must not make a scarecrow of the law,

  Setting it up to fear birds of prey,

  And let it keep one shape till custom make it

  Their perch, and not their terror.

  -William Shakespeare

  IT WAS THE END OF September and the beginning of the autumnal equinox. A full Harvest Moon, the Corn Moon, was on the rise. The tiny town of Serena, nestled in the gap of an Appalachian mountaintop, was quiet as a mouse, and had been peaceful for a good long spell, as the locals would say.

  It was a bountiful time of plenty and prosperity, with over-ripe remains of produce littering the fields of harvested gardens. The abundant crop-yields proudly displayed along Serena’s storefronts were as picturesque as the charming village, presenting a tempting array of rotund pumpkins and multi-colored squash, red and golden apples and plump red tomatoes, big green cabbages and long green beans. There were jugs of apple cider and baskets of cinnamon brooms, pots of sun-yellow mums, and clusters of dried Indian corn. Burgundy-colored leaves from the maple trees planted along the sidewalks fell twirling and swirling to the ground. Everything was as it should be for the beginning of a perfect autumn season.

  Then the Straw Man appeared, and the season turned into a nightmare.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE CORNSTALKS ROSE HIGH, DRYING in long plowed rows, shadowing the adjacent rows of withered twisted tomato vines, left stripped and hanging from hand-cut wooden stakes. In between them, using the cornstalks for cover, the killer dragged the battered corpse with some difficulty. Discarded rotten tomatoes hampered ease of step and at one point the killer almost slipped and fell. The victim’s clothing became smeared with the slimy scattered vegetation lying about and soaked in blood. He had stopped caring about anything hours before while his murderer waited for the midnight crescent moon to rise and dimly light the way to his final destination.

  Once reached, a ghastly scene ensued with only one solitary witness; one who could not speak and could not scream and could only stand as silent as a sentry as the brutalized body was roughly tied below his ragged frame to the post on which he was secured. One who could only hang helpless as his face was then savagely altered to leave a lasting impression upon discovery. The intent was to send shivers down the spines of anyone who looked upon his new expression and see it as an ominous warning of what was to come.

  CHAPTER THREE

  DEVLIN MCMANUS SAT SIPPING THE remains of his morning coffee in the kitchen of the old renovated church on the ridge directly above downtown Serena when Kate entered from the side porch door carrying a small stack of mail and a brown paper sack of deliciously aromatic pastries. Her avian family of tiny Zebra finches greeted her with frenetic chirping as if she’d been gone for ages. Her white dove, Dewey, perched above his cage by the window, cooed loudly with a hint of reproach, announcing her return. She couldn’t help but smile at the pleasing sight of her husband of two years, despite his expression of concern. She’d been gone only an hour.

  “I thought you were taking a quick trot down to the post office and back. I was about to come after you. It’s no fun having coffee without you fussing over me and seeing to my every need.” His deep resonant voice had not lost the Irish trace of his birthplace, despite his years in the states.

  Kate laughed. “You exaggerate, my darling. I could give you a stale donut and warmed coffee leftover from yesterday and you’d think yourself spoiled. That’s why it’s so much fun to fuss over you. But this morning you’ll have to be content with Wildflour Bakery’s blueberry scones instead of my own. Debbie had just taken them out of the oven and I must admit they are better than mine. I also have news from Penelope Cather. I ran into her at the post office. She looks fabulous. Overseeing the building and final construction of the winery must agree with her, although I suspect having a film company on her land has had a stimulating impact as well.

  “Oh Dev, isn’t it exciting to think of a movie being filmed on the outskirts of Serena! Pen said she will be catering the lunches for the film crew at the request of the famous director, Richard Sherwood. She doesn’t seem to be the least intimidated by this and may not be aware of his international reputation. She spoke of it more as a necessity that she extend hospitality and provide services, despite her reservations about allowing the film to be made there.

  “The Raven Falls Winery restaurant kitchen is finished enough to be functional for catering and she hopes to have the wine-t
asting piazza done in time to hold a reception there. She said most of the film company will be housed at the Serena Mountain Lodge near the interstate, where some of them had stayed when they first came to town to hold auditions for extras and shoot preliminary backdrop scenes.”

  “Pen has certainly become a savvy business-woman. Her quiet reserve of many years must have been fermenting her talents like the fine wine she is producing, and with the incomparable Mamma Phoebe behind her giving sage advice, the Hollywood folks won’t stand a chance if they try to take advantage of her,” Dev replied.

  “You’re right, Dev. Pen, and her older sister, are certainly a force to be reckoned with. They’ve already made it clear that access to Raven Brook Falls and the acres of vineyards flourishing beyond the stream are off-limits. Their contract stipulates that most of the filming will be done on the adjacent Purvis McCabe compound, which she now owns, including the ridge on the opposite side of the Raven Brook stream where old Purvis hid his moonshine still. She agreed to the film in order to bring closure to the scandalous events that took place there. Pen wants a new beginning for her son, Raven, when he graduates from the university. Everything she does, Dev, is planned for his future.”

  Kate opened the crumpled brown bag and placed a plump slightly crumbled scone on the plate by his empty cup, which she then refilled. She poured a cup for herself and sat down. The kitchen had become quiet, its inhabitants calm and reassured. Dev began looking through the mail. She wondered how long it would take for the two of them to not worry every time the other was absent, even for a short while. Would the dreaded possibility of danger ever lessen? Would the near-death experience they once shared endlessly continue to instill in them fear of losing one another? It was a shadow they lived with that came and went. It had to be frightened away each time it appeared, and nothing worked better than an interesting diversion. This one was found in the mail.

  Dev looked up from the letter he’d been reading, “It seems you are not the only one with news about the film. My news, however, involves us to some degree, depending on your willingness to have a visitor or possibly a houseguest. You’d better pour yourself another cup of coffee, my dear, while I read this to you.”

  Dev read the letter from his former colleague and friend, Dr. Phillip Bernard. They both fell silent for a moment, after which Dev said, “Kate, Steven Frye is a stranger to us, but not to Phil. They were close friends before Phil referred him into treatment for alcohol dependence. Prior to that, Frye had a reputation as a gifted Hollywood screenwriter until a series of disastrous and highly publicized binge drinking episodes sabotaged his career. He’s been in recovery for about six months now and this film is his first opportunity to be taken seriously again. From what I understand, the challenge of creating a screenplay based on a true story is quite an undertaking, but one Phil assures me, Frye is capable of writing.

  Dev continued, “As you know darling, Phil and I have stayed in touch since he bought out my practice. He has always gone beyond the norm in supporting his patients after discharge from treatment, particularly those he considers friends. When he learned of the film’s location after Frye’s first visit here several weeks ago, he naturally thought of us. Phil understands the needs of those more introverted who tend to rely on work instead of support group attendance. He notes similarities between Frye and me as his reason for making this request.

  “I know this is a great imposition, Katie, but during preliminary shooting, Frye had difficulty concentrating at the Lodge with all the activity going on around him. He is currently checked in there and has started working on location, writing in his room during the evening hours. According to Phil, unlike some directors who storyboard their films ahead of time, the director you mentioned, Richard Sherwood, takes an evolutionary approach to his films and insists on daily script changes. Frye will be under a lot of pressure and Phil is naturally concerned. If we are in agreement to his request, he suggests we initiate contact to extend an invitation. He provided Frye’s cell phone number and assures me that he will be exceedingly grateful for our friendship and hospitality.”

  Kate’s response was cheerful and spontaneous. “I think it is high time we quit being selfish about our time together and open our home to help the friend of a trusted colleague. Our guest room and bath should suit him because it is private and has the separate entrance around back that will allow him to come and go as he pleases. Fortunately, this old church is peaceful now and should provide the quiet he needs. However, I don’t think we should tell him about our ghost, currently at rest, considering the situation. No, Dev, we’ll keep that bit of information to ourselves rather than trigger his writer’s imagination. He will need that to focus on writing a screenplay about moon-shining in the mountains and cold-blooded murder.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  POLICE CHIEF JEFF FARLEY SWIVELED his chair away from the desk and stretched his long legs out to avoid cramps. He’d been going over Deputy Ben Purdy’s lengthy weekly report with amusement.

  Purdy’s pride in his developing investigative skills resulted in reports detailed enough to earn the respect of his hero, Sherlock Holmes. Purdy had recently become a fan of the fictional detective and had adopted the habit of quoting him. Farley thought of giving him a microscope for his next birthday to better view the clay, dirt, tobacco, and leaf samples he collected at every crime scene.

  Fortunately, or unfortunately in Purdy’s view, the majority of crimes of late had been misdemeanors and minor mysteries. Out of frustration, Purdy had turned them into serious investigations. He’d entitled the most recent one in his report “The Case of Clayton Thompson’s Missing Pig,” attaching several small bags of mud, collected from and around its pigpen, to be examined for foreign materials. Barney, the enormously overgrown black potbelly pig, had a tendency to occasionally wander off from the Thompson homestead. Farley couldn’t imagine anyone trying to steal him. He wasn’t fit to eat and weighed at least six hundred pounds.

  Purdy’s report recommended a search party. Farley shook his head and smiled thinking of the reactions Purdy would get trying to organize the search. Barney was known to have an insatiable appetite for acorns. He was probably feasting on them somewhere in the forest among a cornucopia of hickory nuts, pine nuts, walnuts, and buckeyes. He’d return home when satiated, looking like a massive black butterball.

  Farley was very fond of Ben Purdy and understood why he’d become obsessive. Four years previously as a young rookie, he’d been on surveillance patrol during a murder investigation and was taken by surprise and grievously wounded by the perpetrator. His desire to prove himself after recovery and reinstatement had gone unfulfilled until he’d given valuable assistance to Farley during the Raven Falls murder case. The restoration of his self-esteem had sparked a passion for crime-solving that was further fueled by Farley’s decision to send him to Raleigh for an investigative training course. He’d returned eager to apply his new skills, but had to settle for an almost two-year period of crimeless calm.

  Farley laid the report down on his desktop, thinking it might be time to send Purdy to Raleigh again for another round of State-funded criminal justice training. Their advanced program included courses that would complement his initial training and hopefully temper his approach to addressing misdemeanors.

  He was about to make a note of it when a sudden premonition of danger provoked an unsettling feeling that reverberated through him. He shuddered slightly. Farley was not a man to quiver, shudder, or shake. He put down his pen in response to this phenomenon and thought of Mamma Phoebe. Had his friendship with the old woman enhanced his intuitive senses?

  He muttered to himself. “I’d better keep Purdy close by for a while.”

  The shudder was replaced by a start when suddenly the station door flew open and his secretary, Aura Lee, rushed in bursting with news. There were times when he found the sight of her simply astonishing. She was a study in animation and seemed to be in a state of constant motion, even when standing. Visu
ally, she was a blast of contrasting colors, combining several eras of fashion and fad. Her long hair, an odd mix of auburn and brunette, interspersed with orangey-colored strands that she insisted were natural highlights, was bound up in back into a funnel shaped construction she called a French Twist. She wore no make-up because it was frowned upon by the minister of the church she attended twice weekly, but had a preference for pink and purple floral print blouses, dangly earrings, and jewel-framed eyeglasses. She was angular in form and yet soft in complexion, with a wide smile and prominent teeth. Her eyes sparkled like liquid, the color of maple syrup, matching her dark expressive brows. It was hard to take your eyes off her when she was excited, somewhat like watching a tropical bird of paradise perform—strange, yet captivating.

  Farley resigned himself to being held captive for the next twenty minutes, the usual length of time it took for her to inform him of the gossip she’d gathered from her walk down the length of town to the post office and back.

  “Chief, I don’t know how you can sit there looking so relaxed when there is so much going on. The movie folks are about to start filming and guess where they’re going to set up their catered lunches for the actors and film crew?” Without waiting for an answer or staying on track, she continued, “Did you know both actors and actresses are called actors now? My cousin, Loretta, corrected me just the other day. Her getting picked to be an extra has really gone to her head. You’d think she is a movie star the way she’s being so condescending and all, and she’s not the only one! Everybody chosen from the auditions they held here a while back’s been acting a bit conceited if you ask me, like they’re more special than everyone else.

  “Maybe it’s natural. I have to admit, I’d probably be taken with myself, too. Course, if I’d gone to the auditions, I’d have surely been picked. I never told you this, Chief, but I had a part in my high school play and everyone said I stole the show. You should have seen me then, Chief. My red hair hung long, almost to my waist, not put up proper like it is now, and I was as thin as a rail, but curvy, if you know what I mean. I turned quite a few heads back then. Momma wouldn’t let it go to my head though. She said I shouldn’t pay attention to such foolishness.”