“Now turn over,” she whispered in his ear. Her hot breath sent a spark down his spine.
She started at his forehead, then worked her way down his neck and chest, taking her time. She went to his feet where she massaged each toe. He couldn’t remember feeling this relaxed. As she moved up his thigh, arousal replaced relaxation. Mitch arched his back as she massaged his hard-on with the warm oil.
“Slow down, cowboy,” Nic said as she moved on top of him and guided him inside. She gasped. “Ahh, fuck, you feel good, Garner.” She went slow, taking her time. He pressed deep into her. He was close.
She wrapped her warm, oily hands around his neck. “Not yet. Wait for me.”
She rocked, keeping her hands on his neck. She moaned from deep inside. She squeezed his neck so hard the room went dim. He grabbed her wrists as he went rigid followed by a mind-blowing orgasm.
Nic collapsed on top of him while he settled into the balmy afterglow. When she finally moved off him and snuggled into his arms, he ran his hand down her back, cupping her ass. “Ever going to tell me about that eagle?”
“Ever going to tell me why you’re always so sad?” She kissed him on the neck and lightly brushed the hair on his chest. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
She propped herself up on one elbow. “I hooked up with this biker dude when I was eighteen. He talked me into getting that tat. It’s the Harley Davidson Eagle.” She lifted his chin. “Sure you want to know all this?”
“Go on.”
“He was like thirty years old, and I thought he was a god. He was the vice president of the Freedom Riders. Nickname was Bronson. He loved fucking me from behind so he could see that damn eagle while we did it. I think the eagle got him off more than I did.” She paused. “The horny cocksucker never could get enough strange pussy, so I finally bailed. End of story. Now, what’s your story?”
“Just a horny farm boy.”
Nic ran her fingers over the scar on his forehead. “Bar fight?”
“Nothing that exciting.”
“Okay, I’ll stop asking questions, for now.”
Mitch lay next to her for what seemed like hours listening to her light snoring. Unbearable visions of Jamal’s dead body and Jasmine walking the streets as a prostitute made sleep impossible. He dressed and left. He drove home through the dark, empty streets and got the Browning.
Chapter 30
Lying in the tall grass of the open field, fifty yards from the crack house, Mitch’s veins surged with the thrill of the hunt. The dried grass smelled like the ripening wheat fields back home, the autumn air still and crisp; a perfect night for hunting. Through the night scope, he watched the house where they had imprisoned the old woman in that horrific bedroom, bringing back in nauseating detail the cloud of flies, the maggots feeding off her, and that putrid smell. The vision of DeAndre’s partners, one with dreadlocks and the other with spiked hair, was burned into his memory.
He waited. They would come to him eventually. He needed to be patient, like hunting predators on the farm.
Through the night, people came and went, never staying long. DeAndre didn’t show. The sun would be up in an hour. He’d have to come back. Before reaching the road, Mitch heard thumping bass. He ran back in time to see the front door of the dark blue Mercury Cougar open. His breathing quickened. It was like the first time he bagged a buck and struggled with the panic of deer fever. He slid the rifle from under his jacket and peered through the night scope, watching for the gold teeth. This was it. Focusing the scope he saw the spiked hair and scraggly goatee, but no gold teeth. Mitch’s heart raced. He took a deep breath and squeezed off six rounds.
* * *
Back in his flat, the visions of the night played over and over and over. He should have waited until his head cleared. This was a bad mistake.
Knocking. It was almost noon. He’d been tormenting himself for over seven hours. He cracked the door. LaMont was leaning against the wall, his eyes cloudy and bloodshot. “DeAndre’s car got shot up last night. Said he knows I had something to do with it.”
Mitch’s entire body tensed. “Why’d he think that?”
“Made Chirelle tell him about complaining at me when he beat on her. He took me upstairs and there she was crying, side of her face all swoll up. I had a gun I’d a shot DeAndre dead right there. He knew it too. Then he puts a gun to her head and says I best tell him.” LaMont sobbed.
Mitch’s knees went weak. “Did he…”
“I kept telling him, I didn’t do it. Then he says he knows I went to Jamal. Cussed me out good saying, ‘who the fuck else you tell?’ He grab Chirelle by the throat. Has the gun in her mouth. She twisting all over, her eyes all bugged out. Says tell him now or she dead.” LaMont covered his face.
Mitch yanked his hands away. “You tell him?”
“I had to. He’d a killed her.”
“Fuck.”
“Told me to tell you he’s coming for you.” He gawked at the rifle lying on the coffee table with the cleaning oil and rags. “Why you do that?”
“Why didn’t you get your sister the hell out of here?”
LaMont’s cloudy eyes turned to ice. “Dude’s gonna pay.”
* * *
Mitch didn’t pay much attention to the department flag at half-staff the next morning. They were routinely flown at half-staff when a retiree passed away.
Nic met him at the joker stand, wide-eyed. “Mitch. Things are really fucked up.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry I left the other night.”
“Another firefighter was killed last night, LaMont Franklin. All the firehouses are on lockdown.”
He had to sit.
Nic bent over him. “Wasn’t he in your class?”
What the hell did I do?
Nic lifted his chin. “Talk to me. Please. Do you know what the fuck is going on?” He never heard fear in her voice before.
“I gotta go. Can you work my shift today?”
Mitch was out the door before she could answer. He should have dropped the gangbanger when he had the chance. He had him in the sights, but Jamal’s deep voice had shouted, “nooo,” inside Mitch’s head. The high powered bullets tore into DeAndre’s car. The spiked-hair One-Niner had gawked at the shattering glass and fled to the house.
* * *
Mitch was barely inside his flat when three police officers barged into the room through the open door. Two uniform officers spread out while the suit stepped forward. “You Mitch Garner?”
“What you doing here?”
The officer glanced at the rifle on his coffee table. “Planning something?”
“Just cleaning my rifle.”
The suit picked it up and examined it. “Smells like it’s been fired. Get anything?”
Mitch didn’t answer.
“Let’s cut the shit. You knew both victims.” The corners of the officer’s mouth turned up. “Shoot up that crack house; you’ll end up dead or behind bars.”
“If you know it’s the One-Niners, why aren’t they behind bars?”
“We got nothing. But I think you do. Give us anything. We’ll get them off the streets.”
The officer was right. If he killed DeAndre, he’d be their prime suspect. So far all he’d done was make things worse. He told them everything.
The suit finished scribbling notes. “That should be enough to put DeAndre away while we build a case.”
“And the rest?”
“Can’t arrest any of them from what you said.”
“Great. So I’m their next target?”
“They’re not stupid enough to do that.”
“What? Kill a white firefighter?”
“Got nothing to do with it. We’ll be so far up their asses, they won’t be able to shit without us knowing.”
“Get that murdering bastard off the street or I will.”
“I didn’t hear that. Stay low until we make an arrest.”
* * *
Mitch plodded downstairs. He
found Miss Bernie rocking in her easy chair, staring at the television, gripping a purple hanky. “They sayin’ another fireman kilt.”
He gritted his teeth.
“That why the police here?”
What could he tell her? That he shot up DeAndre’s car and DeAndre killed LaMont.
“Mitch, honey. I can see you hurtin’.”
“It was LaMont,” he blurted.
“Oh, dear Lord. Not my LaMont. I love that boy.” Guttural sobs racked her body.
Mitch stared at the wall, throbbing with rage.
Her sobbing slowed. “Mitch, get on back to that farm before the devil take you too.”
“Not until DeAndre’s gone.”
“That who they think killed LaMont?”
“He did. And Jamal too.”
“DeeDee?” Her face sagged as the words sunk in. “Him and Jamal, they good friends when they kids. How could he…?”
“They’re arresting him today for both murders.”
Her chin collapsed onto her chest. “Should a known. His momma in and out of prison.” Mitch could barely hear her. “Hard for kids growing up with no daddy around here and near impossible to grow up without a momma. Children need a momma’s love. DeeDee never had that.” She sighed. “Opens the way for the devil to get in their heads. That Devil use DeeDee to kill my boy. I won’t hate DeeDee. I won’t. That’s what the devil feast on is hate. I won’t give him that.”
I’ll hate him enough for both of us.
* * *
Miss Bernie had asked Mitch to join her for dinner. She didn’t want to be alone. The aroma of meatloaf and buttered potatoes greeted him in the stairwell on the way down. He thought about the first time he was invited to dinner with her and Jamal and how they made him feel like family and the laughter they shared. Her kitchen was a place of comfort.
“Miss Bernie, what we—”
“Let’s say grace.” She bowed her head. “Lord, thank you for providing this bounty. And thank you for bringing this young man into my life. I know you got a plan for us but we’re at our end. Please give us a sign and lead us to your glory. Amen.”
They ate in silence, both picking at their food.
Miss Bernie laid her fork next to her plate and folded her hands. “Mitch, we need to share our pain. No good keeping it to ourselves. Only festers. All our time together you never talk about your momma or daddy. I never push you. It’s time.”
He couldn’t admit what he left behind in Milroy. Not yet.
She rested her chin on her folded hands and waited.
Mitch stopped shifting food around and gazed through the window searching for words. “I should go. Supper was great.” He rose.
Her eyes ordered him to sit.
“I can’t, Miss Bernie.”
“All right then. You set and listen to my pain. I told you how people need their mommas. Mine died birthing me. I knew it was my fault she died. Now ain’t that some foolish thinking, that it was a child’s fault her momma died?”
Mitch’s jaw tightened.
She went on. “I carried that guilt most of my life. The good Lord finally convince me to let it go. You go around carrying all that guilt and hating yourself, another way for the devil to get a hold.”
“How did you stop it, the guilt and all?”
“Started doing for others instead of pitying myself. I used to take in all manner of foster children. Even took DeeDee in for a while. Doing for those children brought me joy until my back got to grippin’ me bad. It was hard, ’specially with the babies. I had to stop taking ’em in. Oh, I surely miss that.” She lowered her head. “I still fret over running my Lettie off. Hard to let that go. And I been hurtin’ real bad about Jamal. And now LaMont. But I can’t let that devil put hatred in my heart. Gotta forgive. Only way to find peace.”
She paused. He thought about what she said but telling her about his mom and dad after fighting so long to keep it buried terrified him.
“Mitch, you want that devil out your head, need to forgive yourself.”
“How?”
“Start by telling me.” She waited, her face grave.
After an uncomfortable silence, he gritted his teeth, took a deep breath, and told her about not being able to save Maggie and almost burning the farm down.
When he finished, she said, “And your folks?”
The question paralyzed him.
Miss Bernie pulled her chair around so they were facing each other. “Just let it out.”
Mitch hesitated but couldn’t turn away. “My mom died when I was ten. After she died, me and my dad didn’t get along. I tried hard to please him, but after a while, I gave up. I guess we just didn’t like each other much.”
“And your momma? What was she like?”
“We’d read together and talk. I loved being with her when she wasn’t feeling sad.”
“I can tell by that look on your face, you must have loved her plenty. How’d she die?”
Mitch’s temples throbbed.
“This where your pain come from, ain’t it?”
He nodded.
Miss Bernie leaned in. “Let it out.”
Mitch exhaled slowly. “She killed herself.”
Miss Bernie’s eyes widened. “And you blame yourself. Just like I blamed myself for my momma dying. Now, ain’t we a pair?”
He bit his lower lip.
“Honey, that ain’t no more your fault than me causing my momma’s passing.”
“How could she do that?”
Miss Bernie wiped her watering eyes with her purple hanky. “She must have struggled with some awful misery. Guess you’d have to know that kind of pain to understand.”
Mitch did know.
Miss Bernie straightened in her chair. “Don’t let the devil get you hating yourself. You a good man. It’s time you accept that and stop frettin’ over things you can’t change. Use your pain to change what you can. Like those children you teaching.”
They rose together and hugged. She was right. It did feel good to share this. Nobody else could have dragged it out of him.
* * *
Back upstairs, the night wore on. The police hadn’t called to tell him they arrested DeAndre. Mitch jumped at every car going by, every shout, and every banging door in the neighborhood. He imagined sounds, racing from window to window with his rifle. He had locked Miss Bernie’s door but left the downstairs door to his flat open, praying DeAndre would come for him.
A volatile mixture of adrenaline and fear kept him awake through the night. That and hatred. He understood what Miss Bernie said. It all made sense, but he wasn’t ready to forgive.
The Core grew still as morning approached. Sitting by the back window he fought off sleep, jerking awake every time his chin dropped to his chest. Footsteps on the back stairway rocked his jangled nerves. He tried to shake the cobwebs loose.
Mitch jumped out onto the landing, leveling the rifle at the figure coming up the dark stairway.
“Jesus!—Police—Put the gun down.” The words were a jumble of confusion.
The figure dove around the wall of the stairwell. A handgun appeared, pointed at Mitch. “I said, put it down. Now.”
Mitch stared down the gun barrel, trying to comprehend what was happening. His finger went to the trigger of his rifle.
From below, Miss Bernie shouted, “Mitch, what in the world going on?”
Mitch was shocked to see the rifle in his hands. He immediately laid it down and sat on the landing with his hands in the air, horrified by what almost happened.
Two officers vaulted up the stairs with guns drawn. The first officer, a young white man, grabbed the rifle. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
A gray-haired black officer was right behind him. “Let’s all take it easy.” He pushed by the white officer and leaned over Mitch. “Greet all your guests like that?”
“I’m. I’m. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
The white officer holstered his gun. “Lucky I didn’t shoot
your ass.”
The gray-haired officer waved at the other one while watching Mitch. “The boss wanted us to let you know DeAndre’s on the run.”
Miss Bernie clomped up the stairs. “Leave that boy be.”
The gray-haired officer turned to her. “Just a minor misunderstanding, Ma’am. Everything’s fine. Right, Mr. Garner?”
Mitch’s brain cleared. “Yeah, everything’s perfect.” He called down to Miss Bernie, “DeAndre got away.”
The white officer said, “We’ll need to confiscate the gun.”
“What gun?” the gray-haired officer said. Then to Mitch, he said, “Took a lot of guts to come forward. Anyway, the boss wanted to assure you DeAndre won’t be showing his face around here any time soon. We’ll keep combing the streets until we get him.”
Mitch stared at the rifle on the floor and trembled.
Chapter 31
Mitch’s blind hatred nearly cost a police officer his life. He had to get a grip on his emotions; take Miss Bernie’s advice and let the hatred go. Keep the devil out of his head.
Through the rest of September and October, he battled bouts of guilt and hatred, always coming back to Miss Bernie’s words, “Use your pain to change what you can.”
Team Driver grew to over a dozen children by the end of October. Jasmine and Mitch made a great team. Jasmine’s quick wit and humor kept him on his toes. Twice a week he’d let her lead the group, and the kids loved it. Helping the kids and working with Jasmine took the edge off his dark thoughts. Miss Bernie had been right again.
* * *
Mitch waited at the front of the firehouse for the kids to arrive, enjoying the crisp November breeze. This had always been his favorite time of year on the farm. The crops were in and deer hunting season underway.
Thanksgiving was only two days away. Mitch thought back to three months ago when Jasmine was in his face, raging at him with ghetto profanities. Now she spoke with correct grammar, most of the time. She explained how “talking white” was not that hard. After all, television shows were mostly white people. Even the Huxtables talked white. It wasn’t that most kids in the hood couldn’t talk that way; they talked ghetto to survive.
Beneath the Flames Page 17