by Steph Post
“Jesus Christ, Judah.”
Judah remained standing in the doorway, lit faintly from behind by the hall light above the stairs. Ramey let go of the bottle and fell back in her chair. She braced herself against the table, forcing herself to breath evenly.
“You have got to stop doing that to me. One of these days it’s not gonna end well.”
Judah didn’t say anything. His hands were deep in his pockets and his head was tilted down. His face was shadowed in the umbral light, but Ramey could tell that something was wrong. The way his shoulders were hunched. The tendons in his neck. Something had happened.
“Sit down. I’ll get you a beer.”
Ramey started to stand up, but Judah took a step forward and held out his hand to stop her. He shook his head slightly. Now that Ramey could see his face, she was stunned. The usual ghostly shadows of the last few months were still there, but his eyes were now also swollen and bloodshot. Judah had been crying. Ramey lowered herself back in the seat. The last time Ramey had seen Judah cry, he had been sixteen and spitting nails with angst and hatred toward his father. Ramey spoke carefully.
“What is it? What happened?”
Judah’s gaze roamed around the kitchen, alighting on anything but her. He turned to look over his shoulder into the darkened living room. Ramey knew he was trying to compose himself, that he would want to speak without his voice cracking. She could tell from the way he kept blinking and widening his eyes that he had decided to be done with crying.
“Where’s Benji?”
Judah’s voice came out steady but sharp. He still wouldn’t look at her. Ramey nodded toward the downstairs bedroom.
“Asleep.”
Judah seemed to think about this a moment. Ramey watched his eyes, shifting back and forth. She wanted to go to him, but knew this way was better. He needed her to wait. Finally, Judah exhaled, long and loud, and raised his eyes. They were haunted.
“Lesser got shot.”
“What?”
Ramey stood up and clapped her hands over her mouth. Judah didn’t seem to register her reaction at all.
“He didn’t make it.”
“Oh my God.”
Ramey dropped her hands and leaned against the edge of the table, staring down at the scratched woodgrain. Her vision went blurry for a moment. Lesser, who was just a kid. Who had spent the last month and a half trailing behind her at the salvage yard, being extra polite, earnest and smitten in his teenage way. Lesser, who had sat at this very kitchen table just the morning before, eating biscuits with molasses, telling her and Judah about this girl he had his eye on. She was chunky, but cute. He was taking her to a concert down in Gainesville next Saturday night. Ramey had swatted at him and told him he’d better behave.
“Judah, what happened?”
He looked away from her, intent now on studying the bubbling linoleum at his feet. Judah’s voice was hollow.
“The guy we were meeting. Nash. He was aiming for me. He went to shoot me. I got out of the way, but Lesser didn’t.”
Ramey started to come around the table toward him.
“Oh, Judah…”
He held out his hand again.
“Don’t.”
Ramey stopped herself. She stood awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen and wrapped her arms around her ribcage. There was something harrowing behind Judah’s eyes. Something that had been shredded. Shattered. Ramey knew Judah needed this distance. She knew, too, that later, in the early morning, with the mockingbirds whistling outside the open window and the ceiling fan clicking and swaying above them, she would turn to him in the dark and they would hollow out a space for one another. The rumbling fault lines cutting between them would be stilled.
But for now, Judah only looked at her with eyes smoldering and teeth grinding back and forth as he worked at something she wasn’t yet a part of. He dipped his head slightly, almost in apology, and turned his back to her.
Special Agent Clive Grant snapped his sunglasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose. He started to lean back against the side of his midnight blue Charger, but caught himself. Clive turned and ran a finger over the outside of the back window. He had driven it through a Soap-N-Splash on the way down, but already the car was coated in a thick, sticky layer of pollen, road dust and lovebug guts. Clive had been in Kentsville less than an hour and already he hated it. He hated the suffocating heat and the slow-ass traffic, crawling through the speed traps lining Highway 301. He hated the good old boys, chewing on beef jerky and spitting Skoal outside the gas station, staring at him like they’d never seen a black man in an Armani suit before. It was 2011, for Christ’s sake. Had they never turned on the news and seen who the president of the United States of America was? Clive plucked at his collar, damp with sweat, and glanced down at the open notebook in his hand. More than the weather, the roads or the locals, Clive hated the case he had been assigned.
The sooner he could wrap up his report, though, the sooner he could return to civilized Atlanta, and hopefully on to something with potential. Clive slipped the notebook back inside his gray, pinstriped jacket and buttoned it awkwardly; he was still getting used to carrying the Glock again. He hadn’t even fired it since basic training back at Glynco. Clive flapped the front of the jacket and ran his fingers up and down the length of his silk tie to regain his composure. He put the past year out of his mind and forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand.
The address he had punched into the car’s GPS had taken him to a strip mall on the south side of town. A coin laundromat and a Payless shoe store bracketed the ends of it and the middle was taken up by a vacant store front, a nail salon and a used furniture store. That’s all the white lettered sign above the unit proclaimed: Used Furniture. No name, no brand. His car was the only one parked in front of it. The number was correct though, 3800, and Clive strode up to the glass front door. A wrinkled Hispanic woman sitting in a plastic patio chair outside the laundromat gave Clive a vacant stare. The wilted Chihuahua at her feet didn’t even bother to raise its head, let alone yap. He tried the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Clive rapped his knuckles hard on the door and cupped his hands around his face to peer inside. He couldn’t see much more than vague shapes and shadows through the dusty glass. Clive stepped back and pounded on the door again.
“This is Special Agent Grant. I need you to open up.”
The Chihuahua flopped over on its side, panting in the heat. Clive banged a few more times and then put his face up against the glass again. He could see movement inside; a slender figure was slowly coming toward him. When the door swung out a few inches, Clive had his badge ready. He snapped it open and shoved it forward.
“ATF. My name is Special Agent Grant. I need to speak with Tulah Atwell. Is she here?”
The door opened wider and an old man shuffled forward. He was skeletal, with a few shreds of limp, colorless hair combed over his age-spotted skull. His cheeks were deeply sunken in and, oddly enough, considering the dimly lit interior of the store, he wore large, dark, wraparound sunglasses. Clive thought maybe he was blind. The man didn’t respond to his introduction and only stood there, blocking the entrance. Maybe he was deaf, too. Clive raised his voice.
“ATF. That’s a federal organization, in case you hadn’t heard of it. Now let me in.”
The old man didn’t move. Clive put his badge away and braced his hand against the doorframe.
“This is the business address for Tulah Atwell, correct? So, whether you like it or not, I’m coming in to check the premise. That okay with you?”
The old man retreated back into the shadows of the store and Clive decided to take that for a yes. He wrenched the door open all the way and stepped inside to follow the man through the maze of clutter. When they reached the middle of the store, the old man turned abruptly to him and pointed to a beige leather armchair surrounded by spindly floor lamps. Clive eyed the chair.
“All right. But you’d better be getting Mrs. Atwell for me. I don’t have time
for games. Especially not in a place like this.”
He thought the old man nodded slightly before disappearing, but it was hard to tell. Clive gingerly lowered himself into the armchair, trying not to think about what sort of bugs were probably scuttling around in its crevasses. There wasn’t really anywhere to stand, though, without bumping into or tripping over something. Now that he had a chance to look around, Clive realized that the store wasn’t cluttered, so much as stuffed to the gills. Kitchen tables were stacked on top of dining room tables and loveseats were balanced on top of couches. Everywhere he looked there were chairs, bookcases, lamps and desks crammed one on top of the other. There was only one narrow, crooked path leading from the front of the store to the back.
As Clive peered through the gloom, he became aware that it wasn’t just every inch of the floor that had been taken up. He couldn’t see any of the paint on the walls, either. Clocks, paintings, photographed portraits and framed velvet string art covered every available space. There appeared to be no rhyme or reason to anything, as hotel beach scenes were crammed right up against maps of the Soviet Union and life size cardboard cutouts of old movie stars. Clive dared to lift his head and then wished he hadn’t. Suspended from the ceiling were rows and rows of seashell wind chimes, potted plant hangers and macramé fruit baskets. Clive, whose own apartment back on Peachtree Street was minimalist to say the least, shut his eyes and tried not to notice his skin crawling beneath his suit.
Clive was still being punished and he knew it. He had only been with the ATF two years, but he was already at the top of his supervisor’s shit list. Last summer, with just about a year under his belt, Clive had been assigned an undercover bit in a sting operation to bring down a gun ring running out of Bankhead. All Clive had to do was go along with two other undercover agents who had been working the case for the past nine months. All he had been required to do, Lopez had bellowed at him over and over, was to walk into The Honey Club with the other agents, sit in a booth with them and look like a thug. That was all. Just be muscle. Eye candy. But ten minutes into the meeting with Papa Smurf and Shakey G, Clive had blown it. He still wasn’t exactly sure how it happened. Clive had been antsy from the get-go and he was positive that he saw one of Smurf’s guys pull something out of his pocket. Something that could have been a gun. Next thing he knew, he was yelling “Special Agent Grant!” and trying to tackle a teenager with a pack of Twix in his hand. His cover, and the case, was blown and Clive had been relegated to desk duty ever since. If it wasn’t for his father up in D.C., Lopez reminded him about once a week, he would have been terminated. Apparently, he should be grateful that he’d finally been let out of the basement records room and given assignments again. Like this one. Whoop-de-do.
When Clive opened his eyes, he realized that the old man was standing at the back of the store, staring at him. Or in his direction; it was hard to tell with the glasses. Clive stood up and picked his way over and around the ottomans and coffee tables. He got tangled up with a tricycle just as he reached the old man.
“Goddamn it! This place is a funhouse.”
The old man seemed to inhale sharply at this, as the shrunken, puckered hole that was his mouth became even smaller. He extended his arm and pointed down a short hallway to a door marked No Admittance. Another man, almost identical in appearance to the first, was standing next to it with his hands clasped and his head bowed. Clive rolled his eyes as he stomped down the hallway. He ignored the second old man altogether and drummed his knuckles on the door. Clive was surprised to immediately hear a muffled voice telling him to enter. He figured that with all the rigmarole he’d already been through, he’d be standing out in the dank little hallway for another twenty minutes. Clive opened the door and finally came face to face with Sister Tulah.
“Good afternoon, Special Agent Grant.”
Clive stood awkwardly in the doorway, not sure if he should enter the cramped, claustrophobic office or not. He had seen photographs of Sister Tulah, of course, and he’d viewed the two television clips of her responding to the church arson, but he still wasn’t quite prepared for meeting her in person.
“You look a little scared standing there like that in the doorway, special agent. Why don’t you sit down?”
Clive swallowed and lowered himself into the chair across from Sister Tulah. In the images he’d seen, taken soon after the fire, Tulah’s missing eye had still been bandaged. Since then, the wound had healed into an ugly, sagging gouge on the left side of her face. He wished she would cover it up. Her other eye was no less disconcerting, however. It was large and colorless, but seemed to pierce right through him. Even taking her eyes out of the question, Clive found the preacher unnerving. Her gray hair was pinned back severely and her thin, pale lips were tightly pursed. She was a large woman, yes, but seemed to take up even more space than she should, almost as if the immaculately pressed blue and pink flowered dress with the white lace collar couldn’t contain all of her presence. Tulah narrowed her eye at him and clasped her bloated hands on top of the messy spread of papers littered across the desk. She was waiting for him. Clive cleared his throat.
“Ma’am, my name is Special Agent Clive Grant.”
Clive couldn’t look away from her drooping eye socket. Sister Tulah nodded curtly.
“Yes, I think we’ve established that.”
“Right. I’m with ATF, up in Atlanta. The department of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.”
“Yes. I am aware of what ATF stands for.”
Clive swallowed again. Sister Tulah tilted her head slightly.
“Does my eye, or lack thereof, bother you, Mr. Grant?”
Clive immediately shook his head, but was relieved when Sister Tulah slid open a desk drawer and pulled out a black eyepatch. She fit it over her head and adjusted the elastic band carefully. Tulah slammed the drawer shut and gave him a repelling smile.
“Better?”
Clive adjusted himself in the uncomfortable metal folding chair. It was better, but he ignored her comment.
“Ma’am, I’d like to get right down to business.”
“Oh goodie.”
Clive opened his jacket and slid the thin, spiral notebook out of his pocket. He flipped it open to the scrawl of notes he had hurriedly made about the case.
“This shouldn’t take too long. I was sent down here from the Atlanta Field Division to help wrap up a few things about the incident at your church this past May.”
“All right.”
Clive glanced down at the scribbled notes he had taken. It was hard for him to read his own handwriting. Sister Tulah opened another desk drawer and took out a carton of snack cakes. She slid out a Ding-Dong and ripped open the cellophane. She didn’t offer him one.
“I know that local law enforcement is handling the case, but due to the nature of the incident and the parties involved, I need to make a few inquiries for a report. I’m just here to determine whether or not the arson in question was a hate crime and can therefore be prosecuted at the federal level. I’ve only got a couple of questions.”
Sister Tulah broke the Ding-Dong in half and stuffed one of the pieces in her mouth. She didn’t say anything, so Clive squinted down at his notes again.
“According to statements from both you and your son, Felton—”
“Nephew.”
“Pardon?”
Tulah spoke through a mouthful of cream, but her tone was dangerously adamant.
“Brother Felton is my nephew.”
“Okay, nephew. Anyway, according to statements you both gave, you had no prior relationship with either Sherwood Cannon or the outlaw motorcycle club known as the Scorpions.”
“I have no relationship with them now, either. Nor will I ever, I suspect. You do know who I am, don’t you, Mr. Grant?”
Clive fidgeted with the peeling edge of the notebook. He could hear Sister Tulah smacking as she chewed and he kept his eyes on his notes.
“So you had no previous contact with Mr. Cannon or the Sco
rpions before the incident at your church on May tenth?”
Sister Tulah crumpled the cellophane in her hand and dropped it in the wastebasket next to the desk. She spread her hands out across the papers in front of her.
“That’s correct. I believe I’ve said that now more times than I can count. Why anyone would believe that the upstanding preacher of The Last Steps of Deliverance Church of God, and a noted and respected spiritual and community leader, would be consorting with denizens and motorcycle hellions is beyond me. I have been asked this question quite enough and, to be honest, I’m insulted than an outsider like yourself would have the gall to raise it to me again.”
Clive dipped his chin and smoothed down his lilac tie.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. It’s just the standard line of questioning. I’m just confirming information.”
Sister Tulah drummed her thick fingers on the desk.
“Well, confirm away, Mr. Grant, but hurry up about it. In case you were not aware, today is Sunday. This establishment is closed. And I have only a few hours to spare between the morning and evening services. I don’t know what folks up in Atlanta do on Sundays, but down here, we respect the Lord’s time.”
Clive looked away from her narrowed eye and rushed through his next question.
“So, you don’t have any ideas as to why the shootout between Sherwood Cannon and the Scorpions took place inside and around your church?”
“No.”
“And you don’t have any information to offer as to why the confrontation occurred in the first place?”
“No, I do not.”
“And the reason for the Scorpions igniting the building as they fled the scene?”
Tulah huffed.
“Are you asking me to do your job for you?”
Clive swallowed hard and rested the notebook on his knee.
“Why don’t you just tell me what happened?”
Sister Tulah banged her palms down on the desk, startling Clive. She leaned toward him ominously. Her voice was low and gave Clive strange, sick flickers in his stomach. Her pale eye seemed to be boring into him.