Trial by Fire

by Terri Blackstock

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Cruz drove the black van to the edge of Aggie Gaston’s property. They had circled the block until her bedroom lights had gone off, and now they felt safe pulling up to the ridge circling her property. There were two of them—Redmon and Graham—besides himself and Jennifer, four guerillas brave enough to risk their lives to support the cause. They would make their mark. They would scatter that congregation and knock down their high-and-mighty preacher, and make a name for themselves even better than their grandfather’s.

  And if all his fame was postmortem, he supposed that was preferable to going to jail. He had always known he would lay down his life. He pictured himself walking through the pearly gates, rifle in hand, and seeing only the faces of Caucasians who cheered him like one of the heroes of his faith. God himself would greet him like a messianic prince and crown him with a jeweled crown, and take him to his new point of power, where he would rule the underclass with an iron scepter.

  And Nick Foster would learn not to mess with him.

  They got out and headed to their respective posts around the perimeter of Aunt Aggie’s property. It was just a drill, a practice session to make sure everyone knew where they were supposed to be. They had to do it under cover of night to make sure no one saw them.

  He chuckled lightly as he headed for the tree that he would stand behind on Wednesday evening before the sun set, and as this mixed congregation sat and prayed together, probably about rebuilding the church that had no business linking itself to God, they would rain hell and brimstone down upon them.

  That is, if Jake didn’t ruin everything for them. He thought of the kid again, somewhere out there waiting to make trouble. That was why he’d kept Issie alive. He hoped that one of the team he’d sent looking for him would find him, and Issie’s life would be enough incentive to keep him from talking.

  His only disappointment was that he hadn’t been able to talk more members into following him in this mission. Jennifer was with him, because she had grown up as he had, and knew what it was like to experience the thrill of a mission well-planned and executed. But he’d had to be careful with the others. He’d kept his plans exclusive to his inner circle, and asked for volunteers who had the courage to finish this church off once and for all. Until they did, their plans for the compound would be on hold, and they would have to wait for critical new recruits with money who could finance their plans. Vengeance was the Lord’s, he told them, and until he wreaked that vengeance, God’s blessing would be withheld. He’d had a vision, he told them, and had received the clearest of orders.

  So far, only Redmon and Graham had agreed to be a part of this. He knew they didn’t quite understand why he was doing it—after all, Nick Foster had insulted and implicated him and Jennifer, not the others—but they had such a fascination with the other shootings across the country that he suspected they just wanted the notoriety. Both of them were detached from their families and outcasts among their peers, and had little to lose. Their commitment to him and their holy war was exemplary.

  He saw that Jennifer, Harris, and Graham stood in their positions at the other corners of Aggie’s property, with perfect shots down to the bottom of the bowl that was her land, where the chairs had been set up Sunday morning. He shone the flashlight on his face again and gave the signal for which they were all watching. He heard a series of pops produced by their mouths, as if they were kids pretending to shoot guns. But Wednesday night there would be no pretense. Wednesday night before the sun set, the bullet fire would be real.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Issie’s throat was dry, and the gashes on her face, arm, and leg ached. Her muscles had gotten stiff, and she could hardly move. Her head throbbed with all the force with which she’d been slammed into the trunk.

  Her eyes had adjusted to the dark, but she still couldn’t make out everything in it. At least her bleeding had stopped and the carpet beneath her face had dried crisp.

  She tried to squirm free so she could turn and see what was behind her in the trunk or what was at her feet, but it was too tight and she couldn’t move. The air was getting stale, thin, and she was having trouble breathing. She was drenched with sweat.

  It had been a cool October for Louisiana, but tonight it seemed sweltering. She wasn’t going to make it. She would die of thirst if not hunger, or her wounds would get infected.

  She reached up and tried to feel the junction between the trunk lid and its bottom, and felt the rubber strip that kept it sealed. If she could just peel back that rubber strip she’d be able to get some air. Maybe she would be able to see out in case anyone came. If she had warning, maybe she could scream and yell, or surprise Cruz with a counterattack.

  She picked at it and pulled until part of it tore, and then she began to chip it away where the heat and age had made it flake. After a while she had a little slit where air was coming through. She saw that the car was in some kind of shed. It was still dark outside, and she wasn’t able to see much of anything, but the cool air on her face was welcome.

  She started to think of her mother, the woman who had died just two years ago. Issie had grieved even though their relationship was lacking.

  Sara Mattreaux had once had a dream of being a singer, but according to her, she’d never had a break. She hadn’t finished high school, for she’d quit early to follow a boy in a rock band that she thought was going to make her a star. Instead, she had wound up singing from band to band in the seventies, never lighting long enough to get a real job.

  It was during that time that Issie’s brother had been conceived. Sarah had never told the name of his father, and he had taken her maiden name. Issie wondered if she even knew who the father was. Years later she’d had Issie with an alcoholic who felt no familial responsibility at all.

  She started to cry and wished she could call out for her, the mama who had so rarely been around to bandage her wounds and nurture her spirit. Her mother had always worked nights for tips. She and her brother had practically raised themselves. She wondered if her mother had died with regrets.

  She wasn’t bitter, she thought, trying to keep her mind occupied as she sought out the good memories she had of her mother. They had attended a Saints game together when Issie was thirteen, she recalled. She had thought it was something that her mother had chosen to do with her, but halfway through the game she’d realized that her mother was there because she’d met one of the Saints players who happened to be married at the time, and had gotten free tickets in exchange for her agreement to meet him after the game.

  Fortunately, they had lost and the married football player hadn’t been in the mood to spend time with the barmaid, who wasn’t as pretty in the light of day as she’d been in the dim lights of the bar. Issie wondered what she would have done if the man had been interested. Would she have left Issie in the hall outside the locker room or locked her in the car?

  She searched her mind for other good memories. Christmases, Thanksgivings…But she only remembered a lot of drunkenness, strange men in and out of the house, cursing and anger and blame. But she wasn’t bitter, she thought. She had turned out all right. She didn’t need a nurturing mother, any more than she needed a father.

  She thought of Nick’s sermon yesterday, of the way he’d referred to God as a loving father. That wasn’t a concept that Issie had ever known. She couldn’t quite grasp it. To her, the word father meant abandonment and neglect. It meant turning one’s back, forgetting you ever existed. It meant pain and heartache and absence. No, she couldn’t imagine any good coming from her thinking of God as a father.

  She heard a car engine and wheels on the gravel, and peered through the slit trying to get a glimpse. It was impossible to see in the dark shed.

  She waited until she heard the shed door open, then she began to bang and kick on the hood of the trunk, praying it wasn’t Cruz.

  “Help me!” she screamed. “Help me! Somebody, please come help me! I’m in the trunk.”

  She heard a
key in the lock on the trunk, heard it turn, and the trunk sprang open.

  Cruz stood over her as she raised up.

  Double doors opened to the night, and a van idled there with its headlights shining in, blinding her.

  “So you ain’t dead yet?” Cruz asked.

  She thought of trying to run for it but knew her legs wouldn’t cooperate if she tried to leap from the trunk. She would wait until he had her out, until she was standing on her feet. He cocked his pistol and held it to her head.

  “I’ve been tryin’ to decide whether to finish you off or to wait till we find Jake. I’m thinkin’ he might do everything we say if he knows your life is in my hands. Besides, Wednesday ain’t that far off.”

  The significance of Wednesday shot through her brain with the velocity of a bullet. “You’re planning to kill all those people, aren’t you?” she managed to croak out.

  He smiled. “Oh, that’s right. You’re Nick Foster’s latest project, aren’t you? I heard about him draggin’ you outta the bar the other night. Like to drink, do you? Bet you’re thirsty now.”

  “Please…,” she whispered.

  “Sorry,” he said, snapping his fingers. “I plumb forgot to bring you anything. So how’s your sleeping quarters? Are you comfortable here?”

  She took the opportunity to look around her in the trunk, now that there was light. She saw a two-liter bottle lying sideways in the wheel well where her feet had been. Next to it was an oily rag. There was nothing else there of consequence, but at least she knew that water might keep her alive until someone came. If he locked her back in, she would have to make sure that her head was near the bottle.

  “Let me out, Cruz,” she said. “Please. I won’t tell anybody. I won’t get in your way again. You don’t want to kill me. I haven’t done anything to you.”

  “We practiced tonight,” he said. “We waited till Aggie Gaston was in bed, watched her turn her light off, then we went to the trees surroundin’ where the church will be set up Wednesday night. And we practiced. Do you know what our signal is?” he asked.

  Closing her eyes, she shook her head.

  “Soon as I pull the trigger and kill the preacher, the others are gonna start firing.”

  She closed her eyes. “He hasn’t done anything to you. Why him?”

  “Because he thought he was better’n me, comin’ to New Orleans and snatching away my army. Tellin’ them that God loves everybody, that he died for the gays and the blacks and the Jews and the Indians…He’s dangerous,” he said, “full of lies and blasphemies, and I’m just makin’ myself a vessel to be used of God for his own vengeance.”

  “You’re insane,” she whispered.

  He grabbed her by the hair and ground his teeth. “I don’t like it when people call me insane.” He put his face up close to hers. She could smell his breath. She had the image of rotten meat hanging between his teeth.

  “These gashes look pretty bad,” he said, stroking his thumb along her torn cheek. “You’re going to have a nasty scar there. That pretty face’ll never be the same.”

  She slapped him away, but it only made him angry, and he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her up out of the trunk. Her chin hit the metal and she almost fell headfirst, but she managed to get her legs out and catch herself.

  She took a deep breath and decided the moment she could get upright she was going to bolt. It was as if he was testing her, toying with her, wanting to see what she would do. She felt like a rat in a science experiment.

  He pulled her straight, turned her around until she was face-to-face with him. She felt faint, felt the waves of dizziness and blackness washing over her as if she would drop right here on the concrete. If so, what would he do with her?

  She couldn’t faint. He could kill her. Or worse. No, she told herself. She would have to get away.

  She tried to summon all her strength, as if by sheer will she could muster the energy to run…

  But he wasn’t going to give her the chance.

  He pushed her to the ground, then kicked her in the chin with his knee. She thought for a moment that he had broken her jaw and possibly knocked out some of her teeth. She fell back.

  He pulled her back to her feet, turned her away from him, and pushed her as if giving her his blessings to run, but she was too dizzy, still reeling from the agony. She took a step and stumbled, caught herself with her hands, skinning the pads of her hands.

  “Go ahead, Issie. Run,” he said. “Let’s see how far you can get.”

  She scrambled to her feet and tried to take a step, but he knocked her down again.

  “Tag. You’re it,” he said. He pulled her back up by her hair, put one arm around her waist, and dragged her back to the trunk.

  “Please don’t put me back in there,” she managed to cry, but he picked her up and slammed her down inside. Her head was at the wrong end. She wouldn’t be able to reach the bottle, so she got up on her knees and tried to fight him before he could close the trunk. Though she knew she could never win, she managed to get her body situated where her head would be on the other side, and finally she gave up and sank back in.

  The trunk slammed shut. She wept until she heard the doors to the building closing, and the car leaving again. He was gone, and she was still here.

  It felt as if the wound on her leg had reopened, and she knew there were bloody places on her knees and hands. But at least she had water.

  She reached for the two-liter bottle and saw that she could stand it upright in the small compartment. Why had Cruz had it here? she wondered. Was it in case his engine ran hot? Or was it even water?

  She unscrewed the top and brought the lid to her mouth. A little of it spilled onto her face and down her neck and chest, and quickly she stood it upright again, making sure that no more was wasted. Yes, it was water, she thought. Real water. She screwed the top on. It might have to last her for days. She would have to be careful with it.

  She let the water stay in her mouth, wetting all of her taste buds, and after a while she swallowed and felt the sweet sensation of it going down her throat. Then she lay there weak and in pain, and cried out, “Where are you, God? Can’t you see that I’m locked away in this box and nobody’s ever going to find me?”

  She had a sense that God was listening, that he heard, that he saw her trapped in this little compartment that no one else could locate. What if there was a God, a Father watching over her, looking down on her, waiting for her to call on him? Nick was convinced that God loved even her, that Jesus’ death on the cross had been as much for Issie Mattreaux as it had been for Nick Foster.

  Issie had doubted that was true. Why would a pure and blameless God give his life for someone as miserable and dirty as she? But just as that thought came into her heart, another one followed.

  “While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” Nick had read that in his sermon yesterday.

  And on its heels came the words he’d said to her the other day about slanderers and swindlers and adulterers and idolaters…and the sexually immoral. She couldn’t remember all the sins he had listed, nor the order in which they had come, but she did remember one thing: “That is what some of you were.”

  It hadn’t sunk in when he’d said it before, even though he’d explained it like she was a little child. He’d wanted her to understand that that verse alone showed that even people with filthy sins in their lives could be cleaned up and changed.

  Was it possible that that could happen to her too? She closed her eyes. She might never find out. She might never get out of this trunk alive and prove to God that she could be different.

  But yesterday, Nick had said there was precedent for that too. There was a thief on a cross hanging next to a crucified Savior. “Today you will be with me in paradise,” Jesus had said. He hadn’t expected the thief to get down from that cross and go clean up his life. He had known there would be no chance of turning around. He just knew his heart.

  Maybe God could know Issie’s heart as
well. Maybe that was why he had allowed her to be locked in a cramped trunk where no one could find her. Maybe it took that to get her to the point where her heart was ready to call out to him.

  “Save me, Jesus,” she cried. “You don’t have to get me out of here. But whatever happens, I want to know that you’re my Father, that you haven’t left me, and that I can call on you. Even if I die here, that maybe today I’ll see you in paradise.”

  A peace like she’d never felt before fell over her, and she filled up with an emotion so deep that it brought tears to her eyes, tears unlike the ones she’d been weeping since she’d been locked in here. Tears that seemed to come from the very bottom of her heart, cleansing tears that seemed to wash away the sins that had eaten at her for years, sins that had become a curse on her family for generations, habitual sins that had a hunger of their own.

  Could it be that God could see her as a clean person now? Could it be that all the cycles of sin in her family could be broken in her through Christ?

  The trunk didn’t miraculously open the moment she prayed the prayer. Her wounds did not miraculously heal. She didn’t hear a siren coming up the dirt road to her rescue.

  Her situation was not different. But her heart was. And as she lay in the cramped dark trunk, she felt less fear than she had felt before. Her Father was watching over her, unwilling to abandon or forsake her.

  She closed her eyes, and sweet sleep fell over her.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  By ten o’clock Jake had run out of places to look for Issie, and Nick was growing frantic with the search. At one point he had called the police station to see if there were any updates, and Sid told him that she hadn’t been located yet. Benton had been found where Jake told them he would be, however, and he was, indeed, dead.

  Nick had broken the news to Jake, and watched him cover his face and begin to weep. Somehow, the kid had been holding out hope that his friend had made it.