Holding Smoke

by Steph Post

  At the very edge of the headlight’s scope she could see the shattered window, now just a gaping breach in the side of the house, and, framed within it, Felton, bracing himself as he peered out. Ramey turned to Judah, her mouth open with shock. His eyes were as wide as hers. Judah looked away, looked back to her, and finally said the words she needed to hear.

  “Drive.”

  20

  Shelia huffed and kicked one of the half-crushed tallboys littering the gravel lot back inside the garage. The can skittered across the cement and landed at the feet of Alvin, who barely looked up from scowling down at his cellphone. Gary, sitting on top of the poker table with his legs swinging idly, was craning his neck, trying to read the phone’s screen over Alvin’s shoulder. He waved at Shelia, completely ignoring her crossed arms and cocked hip, and swatted at Alvin’s beefy arm.

  “Hey, let’s ask her. So, Shelia, let’s say a guy accidentally screws up and does something he didn’t mean—”

  Shelia cut him off.

  “You already pick up the take from The Ace this morning?”

  Alvin nodded, still not looking up from his phone. His brows were knit together in concentration.

  “Yep.”

  “Well, then get on down to Ponies. I doubt last night’s fight brought in much, but you still got to pick it up.”

  Gary rolled his eyes dramatically.

  “But, Shelia, it’s Sunday.”

  “Good for you. You’ve finally learned the days of the week.”

  “But, Shelia…”

  Her eyebrow jumped.

  “All right, all right. Come on, Alvin.”

  Gary swung down from the table and punched Alvin in the shoulder. The two started arguing, but at least they were leaving as they traded insults to each other’s mothers. Shelia shook her head as she watched them climb into Alvin’s jacked-up Jeep and drive away with a grate of tires in a cloud of dust. With an appreciative smirk on his face, Benji closed a tool cabinet on the other side of the garage and limped over. Shelia noticed that he was walking without his cane for the first time, but didn’t say anything. She did, though, have to turn away to hide her smile.

  “Hard-ass today, huh?”

  Benji braced himself against the edge of the poker table and Shelia joined him, leaning back, but keeping her arms crossed.

  “Somebody’s got to keep this place from going to the dogs. You know Elrod’s coming by in the next hour or so to pick up those catalytic converters, right? He’s got a buyer lined up over in Alachua. It sticks in my craw to say this, but I think you had a good idea, bringing him on.”

  Benji started to grin—she could see an “I told you so” coming—and Shelia pointedly looked around him to the gold Pontiac up on the lift.

  “So, you got that last one cut out yet? Ready to go?”

  Benji shook his head, but didn’t drop the smile.

  “Jesus, woman.”

  “Well, if you want shit done right.”

  Benji put his arm around her waist.

  “And here I thought Ramey’s harping could get on my nerves. She could’ve learned a thing or two from you ’bout running this place.”

  Shelia’s face fell.

  “You hear anything from them yet?”

  Benji drew his arm away from her.

  “I told you, I talked to Judah a few weeks ago when he called to tell me the wire transfer went through. All he said was that they was still heading west. But, hey, least wherever they are now, they got their share of Calypso. Thanks to you.”

  Shelia shrugged. After the shock of Levi’s death and Dinah’s betrayal had worn off, Shelia had driven down to Marion County while the boys were out burying their brother. At the scene of the shootout, she’d found Calypso, hungry, thirsty and furious, but still very much alive and still worth a fortune.

  “Thanks to Katerina. I can’t believe she went soft and paid us to get the horse back.”

  “You ever find out why?”

  “Sounded like she changed her mind about whatever-his-name-was. Still wanted to marry him. Her wedding dress had probably cost as much as a small island and maybe she realized it was nonrefundable. I don’t know. She was going on about wanting to use Calypso to get her man back. Act all like she’d found him, rescued him, or something. And after all that we gone through.”

  Benji sighed.

  “Rich people.”

  “Must be nice, right?”

  Shelia smiled, but the worry about Judah and Ramey was still nagging at her. It hadn’t been that long, and she hadn’t expected to hear anything yet, but still, they were always on her mind.

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure we’ll know where they end up. Judah said something ’bout sending a postcard when they settled down for a spell.”

  “Sure…”

  Benji leaned against her and she swayed back, resting her head on his shoulder as they looked out the open bay doors.

  “Leave ’em be, Shelia. Just leave ’em be.”

  *

  Judah yanked the ski hat off his head, ruffled his shaggy hair, and stamped the snow from his boots, letting the Stage Coach’s door slam behind him, the bell jingling. Snow. What the hell had he been thinking? He should’ve listened to Ramey. They should’ve headed straight for Mexico.

  He could see her laughing at him now from across the nearly deserted bar. He shoved the hat into the side pocket of his leather bomber jacket, stomped his boots on the slippery concrete once more, and edged his way through the gauntlet of vacant pool tables, the felt tops littered with cigarette butts, still reeking of last night’s spilled beer. He was trying to scowl at Ramey, perched on a high aluminum barstool, legs crossed, the sleeves of her cowl neck sweater pulled down low over her wrists, her long dark hair framing her face and glowing brassy beneath the string of Christmas lights looping above her head. By the time he reached her, her laugh had tamed itself into a smile, but her eyes were still twinkling as she kicked one knee-high boot against the bottom rung of the stool in feigned impatience.

  “I was fixing to start drinking without you. Or with Earl here. Though he don’t seem too interested.”

  The bartender, standing by the sink with a towel in one hand, ceramic beer mug in the other, didn’t look away from the TV mounted beneath a broken wagon wheel at the mention of his name. He was staring with his mouth open and slack, polishing absently, engrossed in some sort of log chopping competition. Judah unzipped his jacket and swung himself up on the barstool next to Ramey. He leaned in to kiss her, pressing his frozen fingers against the back of her neck.

  “Jesus!”

  Judah grinned at her.

  “Yeah, it’s cold out there.”

  “You didn’t have to bring it in with you.”

  Ramey brushed a layer of flakes off his shoulder.

  “It was your idea to head north, remember? You wanted to see snow.”

  “And I’ve seen in it.”

  Judah propped his elbows on the edge of the bar and leaned forward, trying to get Earl’s attention. Earl saw him, grunted, but made no move to head their way. Judah knew he’d come over when he was ready. Like every surly daytime bartender in every smoky dive from home to here, all the way across the Rockies. And Judah liked that. That the bars would always be dark, the air always stale, the service questionable, the woman at his side his own. Ramey turned to him and ran her fingers through her hair, tugging at a snarl.

  “You settle up for the room?”

  “It’s taken care of.”

  Judah shook his head.

  “I keep forgetting about the IDs, though. The motel manager thanked me and called me Clarence as I walking out of the lobby. I didn’t even turn around, didn’t even realize he’d been talking to me until I was halfway across the parking lot.”

  “Well, next time Hiram has to create new identities for us, don’t let him pick the names.”

  “I don’t plan on there being a next time.”

>   Earl was plodding their way, dragging his eyes slowly from the television.

  “And how’d you get off so easy? Iris is beautiful. I might just start calling you that from now on. But Clarence? Hiram told me he’d once had a coonhound named Clarence. His favorite one.”

  “Well, there you go. You should be flattered.”

  Judah shrugged.

  “I guess. So, buy you a beer?”

  Earl was standing in front of them with his hairless arms crossed, brows down low, not asking, just waiting. Ramey cocked an eyebrow. A challenge.

  “How about a shot first?”

  Judah turned to Earl.

  “Two shots of Jack.”

  Earl grunted and shuffled away, bottles clinking as he banged around in the well. Ramey rested her chin in her palm and looked at Judah seriously for a moment.

  “You miss The Ace? Silas? Our home?”

  He watched Earl, sliding two shot glasses in front of them, spilling the liquor as he poured, sloshing it over the edges. Judah waited until Earl had returned to the TV, leaving the bottle behind, to respond.

  “Not enough to go back.”

  Judah pulled one of the shot glasses toward him.

  “Maybe one day.”

  He pushed Ramey’s glass in front of her and picked up his own.

  “But not anytime soon. We still got a long ways to go. But, hell, we did it. We made it out of Bradford County alive. And we still got the rest of our lives to see what’s in store for us. To see where it all ends up.”

  Ramey smiled at him, her amber eyes flashing, and lifted her shot. She held it out to him.

  “To the rest of our lives, then.”

  Their glasses clinked.

  “The rest of our lives.”

  *

  Brother Felton wiped the sweat from his forehead with his balled-up handkerchief and swept his eyes over the spent congregation. They were staring up at him, some with awe on their weary faces, some with adoration. All with trust. It was nearing noon and the Holy Spirit had already come and gone, leaving not raw throats or red eyes or swelling bruises, but a slow, warm flush of joy that lingered still among them. Without Sister Tulah to expel them, no demons had arrived to claw at their faces, no devils to strangle, no abominations that needed to be cast out by force. They had sung and they had danced, but they had not wailed. Without Tulah, they had not bled.

  The Last Steps of Deliverance Church of God had mourned Sister Tulah in the way that the ancients had once mourned the death of a terrible god. When the news of Tulah’s death had reached her followers, first there had been anguish, the rending of clothes, tearing of hair. Then came trepidation, followed shortly by numbing despair. And then, finally, as they looked to Brother Felton, a collective exhale of relief in their deliverance. Only a few church members had initially questioned the bizarre circumstances of Sister Tulah’s death, doing so in hushed whispers, though Felton knew what was being said. Without witnesses, or any signs of breaking and entering, the police had merely the bodies, a 911 call from Tulah’s landline—no voice, no report, the phone left off the hook—and their speculation to go on. They had pieced together a scenario in which the drifter, identified as Dinah Morehead, estranged niece of the esteemed preacher, recognized by Brother Felton and others of the congregation as the strange woman who had attended only a single church service before the incident, confronted Sister Tulah in her home. An argument had most likely ensued, taken a violent turn, and resulted in Dinah pushing Tulah to her death. It was then presumed that in a fit of deranged guilt, consistent with the woman’s documented history of mental instability, Dinah had dialed 911 and subsequently committed suicide.

  At first, there had been some quiet speculation that perhaps it was the other way around—Sister Tulah had tricked her niece into drinking the poison and, caught up in the throes of remorse, had thrown herself out the window—but few believed it were possible. Away from the pulpit, Sister Tulah wasn’t known for hysterics and most of the town, indeed the entire county when the news spread, found it inconceivable that their most prominent preacher would have such disregard for her own life. Tulah was simply too proud to even imagine a world in which she did not exist. Brother Felton, found asleep in his camper when the police knocked on his door in the middle of the night, had been grieved, indeed horrified, but unable to offer any information to support either narrative. The Elders, now standing in a line at the back of the church, two on either side of the door, had also been unable to offer clarity. No one had seen anything. No had suspected anything. No one had been at Sister Tulah’s house the night of her death. Not Felton, not the Elders, not Judah Cannon. The case had been closed.

  Brother Felton stuffed the damp handkerchief into his back pocket and rippled his thumb along the pages of his worn Bible. Felton had gotten rid of the ostentatious pulpit and with it the oil, the strychnine, and the bucket. He preferred to preach unhindered, with nothing to hide behind or separate him from his flock below.

  “With that in mind, please remember. Next Saturday, we will be breaking ground on the Deer Park Youth Ranch. Brother August and Brother Matthew are spearheading the ceremony and celebration. If you haven’t spoken with one of them yet about your contribution, please do so ere you leave today.”

  Felton nodded to August and his grandson, looking up at him from the front row.

  “Go home, my saints, to your families. To your friends. Find fellowship among them and rejoice in the glory we have received today.”

  Felton spread his arms wide and embraced his church.

  “I want to leave you now with a verse that has often been on my mind as of late.”

  Hovering just above the congregation, the white Snake rustled its coils.

  “With the tragedy we have so recently endured.”

  The Snake slowly brought its head around.

  “The loss that we have suffered.”

  Flickered its long, forked tongue.

  “The healing that we must still strive for. I want you to remember when our Lord says this.”

  Turned its fathomless black eyes on Brother Felton, as he bowed his tilted head beneath it.

  “I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and the last.”

  And blinked.

  Acknowledgments

  In many ways, I have come into my own as an author while writing this series. From the night of Lightwood’s conception—at a bar in St. Pete, scribbling away on the back of a roll of receipt paper—to this moment of Holding Smoke’s closing, I’ve been overwhelmed with support from incredible folks who never stopped fighting for me.

  All my love to Ryan Holt and Janet Sokolay, my champions from the very beginning. Thank you both for pushing me and having such faith in me. This series is just the start, but it wouldn’t exist without you.

  Thank you so much to Jason Pinter, Josh Getzler and Jeff Ourvan for believing in the potential of my Florida crime saga and to the following brilliant authors who have graciously lent their words to my books over the years: Ace Atkins, Taylor Brown, David Joy, David Swinson, Natalie S. Harnett, Chris Holm, Brian Panowich, Kent Wascom and Michael Connelly. Thanks to Georgia Morrissey and Mimi Bark for the beautiful book covers.

  Many cheers to the following people who reached a hand down, propped me up, wrote kind words, lent an ear or had my back throughout this crazy journey including: Phillip Sokolay, Lauren Dostal, Leonard Chang, Aaron Mahnke, Eric Beetner, Erica Wright, Colette Bancroft, Patrick Millikin, Joshua Kendall, Beth Gilstrap, Jared Sexton, Jeff Zentner, Alex Segura, Jeffery Hess, Anthony Breznican, Rob Hart, Harry Marks, Craig Pittman, Dan and Kate Malmon, Leah Angstman, Ben Tanzer, David Gutowski, Matt Coleman, Erin Bass, Stefani Beddingfield, Michael Noll, Jim Davis, Barbara Walker and my Blake family, my Holt family, and the Lisks.

  Finally, I’m raising a glass to Vito. Who knew me ‘when’ and will always have my heart.

  And to you, readers. It’s always for you.

>   About the Author

  Steph Post is the author of four acclaimed novels: A Tree Born Crooked, a semi-finalist for the Big Moose Prize, two additional Judah Cannon novels, Lightwood and Walk in the Fire, and Miraculum, which was a 2019 Okra Selection. She graduated from Davidson College as a recipient of the Patricia Cornwell Scholarship for creative writing and a winner of the Vereen Bell writing award for fiction. She holds a Master’s degree in Graduate Liberal Studies from the University of North Carolina Wilmington. Her work has most recently appeared in Garden & Gun, Nonbinary Review, Saw Palm, and the anthology Stephen King’s Contemporary Classics. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, a Rhysling Award and is a regular contributor to Litreactor and CrimeReads. She lives in Florida. Visit her at www.StephPostFiction.com and follow her at @StephPostAuthor.