Walk In the Fire

by Steph Post

  Weaver cocked his head as he regarded Judah.

  “When Travis told me that a man called Judah Cannon was looking for me, I became interested. It’s not a name I’ve come across before. So, you should be telling me. What are you doing here?”

  Weaver leaned forward.

  “What are you really doing here?”

  Without the Nash card to play, Judah didn’t have much more left than the truth. He hoped it would count for something.

  “Your boy Nash was running his mouth about you. Saying how you wanted to go in with the Cannons. You wanted to use our bars to push your product. Use our people, our connections.”

  Weaver blinked lazily.

  “Was he now?”

  Judah nodded.

  “I’m just here to find out if it’s true.”

  Weaver picked up the shot glass again, but this time he didn’t drink from it. He held it up to his right eye and looked through the rum at Judah.

  “I’m going to presume you are the son of Sherwood Cannon.”

  Weaver downed the last of the shot and then thrust the glass away from him. It spun to the center of the table.

  “Who, yes, I’ve heard of.”

  Judah nodded slowly.

  “I am.”

  “And Sherwood sent you here to talk to me?”

  “Sherwood’s dead.”

  Weaver narrowed his eyes.

  “And you’ve assumed his place?”

  To admit it, right then, in that bar, at that moment, would anchor Judah firmly on the path he had been fighting ever since he had taken his first steps out of prison. He knew that saying it would change him. It would change everything. There would be no more wavering. There would be no turning back. Judah’s eyes flashed.

  “Yes.”

  “And you want to work with me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  Judah leaned forward.

  “I don’t know a thing about you. The way I see it, you’re doing just fine over here. And I’m doing just fine over where I come from. Maybe we ought to just leave it at that.”

  Weaver closed his eyes for a moment.

  “Maybe.”

  When he opened them, Judah didn’t like what he saw.

  “Or maybe not.”

  Judah knew it was time. If he was going to walk out the door tonight, he needed to do it then. He slid out of the booth and stood up.

  “I think we’re done here.”

  Weaver slowly turned his head and looked up at Judah.

  “And I think I might need to keep my eye on you, Judah Cannon.”

  “You do that.”

  Judah turned his back on Weaver and headed toward the front door. Alvin’s and Gary’s eyes were wide as they watched him. He hoped they would have enough time to warn him if Weaver decided to shoot him in the back. But it was a word, not a bullet, that Weaver sent in his direction.

  “Judah.”

  He stopped. He counted his breaths. One. Two. Three. Judah waited.

  “Tell me. What would stop me from just coming in and taking everything the Cannons have?”

  Judah took a step forward.

  “Me.”

  Weaver spread his hands out on the table and looked down at his gnarled knuckles and scarred fingers. They might not be pretty, but they could still pull a trigger for a dead-eye aim. Weaver listened as Judah Cannon walked out the front door of The Salty Dog, followed by the two clowns, tagging along behind him. Weaver could have eaten them for breakfast. But never mind. He waited until he heard the door slam, then bang open again. Weaver looked up from his hands. The Mexican who had brought the Cannon boy to him was standing patiently in the middle of the room. Weaver’s own three men, casually lounging against the bar, eyed the man up and down. He could see one sneering in disgust as he whispered something to the man next to him. Weaver turned to the Mexican, who jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

  “You want me to do something? Before he leaves?”

  Weaver shook his head.

  “No. I need him to go back to whatever hole he crawled out of.”

  The Mexican shrugged and turned to go, but Weaver narrowed his eyes and beckoned to him. The man came over to the table, but stood a respectful few feet away. Weaver liked this. He clasped his hands in front of him and rubbed the pads of his thumbs together.

  “You’re one of Travis’s guys, aren’t you?”

  The man shrugged again.

  “Yes.”

  “And your name is?”

  “Miguel.”

  Weaver cocked his head. Miguel kept steady eye contact with him and Weaver liked this also. He leaned forward.

  “Well, Miguel. You’re my guy now. Understand? You report to me and me alone. You can let Judah Cannon go for now, but I want everything on him.”

  “Everything?”

  Weaver raised his finger to Miguel and beckoned him even closer.

  “Everything. Who he screws, who he loves, who his enemies are. Where he eats, where he sleeps. Where he can be found at any moment of any day. And who he considers family.”

  “Family?”

  Weaver nodded.

  “Who he would die for and who he would live for. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And look into the whereabouts of Nash Conner. He’s my dope man out in Palatka. I need to know how much of a liar this Judah Cannon is. Do this and I will make it worth your while.”

  Weaver flung his hand out toward Miguel.

  “Now go.”

  JUDAH STOMPED down the back steps of the house and crossed the yard to stand next to Benji in the moonlight. They watched silently as Alvin backed out of the shed, carrying the front part of Nash’s body, now swaddled tightly in an old patchwork quilt, and Gary followed with the rest. Judah shook his head, but couldn’t look at his brother. He watched as the quilt, blotchy with blood in some places, was jostled between them as they carried it toward Gary’s van. Benji shifted on his crutches and his voice came out without a trace of emotion.

  “I had to.”

  Judah grit his teeth.

  “No. You didn’t.”

  Benji stumped forward a bit, trying to get Judah to look at him.

  “And what? You were just gonna let Nash go after you realized you couldn’t use him anymore with Weaver? Tell him you’re sorry and send him on his merry way?”

  The quilt disappeared inside the van. Alvin slid the panel door shut and nodded briefly at Judah before climbing up into the passenger’s seat. He and Gary weren’t exactly thrilled about having to find a way to dispose of a body in the middle of the night. Like Judah, they were exhausted, but probably not as shaken. The weight of giving, as opposed to following, orders was beginning to settle upon Judah. He ran his hand through his hair as the van backed up and drove off, Nash’s dead body bumping around in the back. Judah sighed and turned to Benji. He didn’t want to fight anymore.

  “I don’t know.”

  Apparently, Benji didn’t feel the same way. His mouth twisted in a sneer.

  “Of course you don’t. But you brought Nash here. You brought him into our home. Into her home.”

  Judah’s eyes flashed.

  “Leave Ramey out of it.”

  Benji hopped on his crutches until he was facing Judah fully. The play of shadows across Benji’s face made his scars seem more visible, the damage even more pronounced. The word “monster” flitted across Judah’s mind, but he quickly pushed it away. He needed to face Benji’s scars. He was responsible for them. Judah forced himself to look his brother in the eye as Benji snorted a rough laugh.

  “Why? You think Ramey’d have let Nash go? With the chance of him coming back at any time? You think she wants to live with that kinda fear every day? As if she don’t have enough of it hanging over her already.”

  Judah spoke through clenched teeth.

  “You didn’t have to be the one to do it, though.”

  Benji suddenly flung his crutches to
the ground, startling Judah. Benji stood before him, wobbling slightly, but standing nonetheless. He jabbed his finger down at his cast.

  “Now, you listen to me. This leg, it’s gonna heal. And the little kid brother you keep seeing when you look at me, well, he ain’t coming back. He didn’t get up off that asphalt. He’s still lying out there in a ditch somewhere. The sooner you realize that, the better for both of us.”

  Judah bent over and picked up the crutches laying in the dirt. He held them out to Benji.

  “I just didn’t want to drag you into all this mess. This life.”

  Benji accepted the crutches, but shook his head as he jammed them under his armpits. His look suggested that he was pitying Judah, instead of the other way around.

  “You didn’t. The Scorpions did. And so here we are.”

  Judah knew Benji was right. The man standing before him, still healing from brutal skin grafts, smashed bones and a hundred and forty-seven stiches, was no longer the goofy towheaded kid who used to beg Judah to play Matchbox cars with him. Nor was he the easygoing charmer, buying everyone a beer, concerned only with having a good time. He was a Cannon now. A real one. And it broke Judah’s heart.

  “Yes.”

  Judah had to look away.

  “Here we are.”

  He stood for a moment longer with his brother, listening to the night, and then he nodded once and turned away. He was almost to the back steps when Benji called out after him.

  “She’s still got hope, you know.”

  Judah was brought up short. He slowly turned around.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Benji didn’t move closer and Judah couldn’t see his eyes as he spoke. But there was something cruel in his voice.

  “Ramey. She still thinks you’re a different kinda man. She’s still holding out for a different kinda life with you. She still thinks there’s a chance.”

  Judah’s voice dropped and he dipped his head slightly. He tried to control himself.

  “Quit talking about shit you don’t know.”

  Benji laughed.

  “And quit kidding yourself. You can see it in her eyes. She hasn’t fallen like the rest of us. Not yet.”

  Judah clenched his fists at his sides.

  “Benji. Stay out of it.”

  Benji raised his hands defensively.

  “Fine. Ramey’s your woman. Do what you like. Keep stringing her along. It’s none of my business.”

  Judah turned his back to his brother and started up the stairs.

  “You’re damn right about that.”

  CLIVE POKED his fork at the remaining lump of meatloaf in front of him and then tossed his wadded up paper napkin onto the plate and pushed it away. He had his head in his hands when the waitress came by his booth.

  “That bad, huh?”

  Clive glanced up wearily at the nightshift waitress who couldn’t have been more than twenty. There was a dark stain dribbling down the front of her light blue uniform shirt and he tried not to focus on it as he looked up at her. Her limp brown hair was pulled back with a plastic banana clip, and her face could use some makeup, but she had a welcoming smile. She was also one of the first people in Bradford County to be genuinely nice to him. He glanced at her left hand as she picked up his plate. Married. Of course. Clive smiled back at her.

  “The potatoes were all right. Gravy was good.”

  “I told you there was a reason it was the dollar ninety-nine special. Next time you come in this late, just order some eggs.”

  Her gaze flickered across the restaurant and Clive’s followed. Aside from a long-haul trucker, hunched over in a denim jacket up at the counter, the Pancake Hut was deserted. It was one o’clock in the morning, but as it was the only all-night place in town, Clive had figured that it would draw more of a crowd. He winked at the waitress.

  “Will do.”

  “More coffee?”

  She refilled his cup before waiting for a response. Ordinarily, he would have jumped to stop her. This meant more sugar, more cream, getting the ratio right, but instead he just watched her pour. Her wrists were so slender, it was a wonder they didn’t snap against the weight of the coffee pot. He could smell the reek of grease coming off her.

  “Anything else?”

  “Just keep the coffee coming.”

  “You got it.”

  Clive watched her walk away, her oversized uniform shirt bunching up in the back. She disappeared around the corner into the kitchen and Clive turned his attention to his cellphone, sitting next to the steaming cup of coffee. He couldn’t put it off any longer. Clive picked up the phone and dialed, reaching for the sugar shaker while it rang.

  “Lopez.”

  She had been asleep. Clive couldn’t decide if this boded well for him or not. Maybe she’d be too disoriented to really understand what he was saying and she’d just agree. Or maybe she’d be pissed that he’d just woken her up in the middle of the night.

  “It’s Grant. I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

  “For God’s sake, Grant. Don’t those hillbillies down there sleep?”

  She was pissed. He’d have to be careful not to accidentally call her Vickie. Clive peeled open a creamer and dumped it into his coffee.

  “More so than up there, let me tell you. There’s probably only ten people awake here within a ten-mile radius.”

  Clive could hear muffled sounds, blankets and sheets being kicked around. He wondered if she was alone.

  “Grant. What the hell do you want?”

  He stirred his coffee.

  “I need to talk to you about something.”

  “Are you serious?”

  She sounded much more awake now. Angry, incredulous and awake. Not a good combination for her.

  “Krenshaw was expecting that CAPA report this morning, but it never came in. What’re you doing down there? What’s going on?”

  Clive blew on his coffee, but didn’t sip it. He set the cup down and braced one hand against the edge of the table.

  “There’s something here.”

  “Something?”

  He looked over his shoulder and then around the Pancake Hut again. It was still empty except for the trucker. Clive could hear snores coming from the man’s direction. The waitress was nowhere in sight. He tried to keep his voice down anyway.

  “Something I think needs looking into. I just need a few more days.”

  “Looking into? Are you telling me you still can’t figure out how to write up the report? Really?”

  “Of course I know how to write the damn report!”

  Clive immediately looked around him, but there was no one to notice his outburst. The trucker was still snoring.

  “I just need you to trust me on this, Lopez, and give me a few more days.”

  “No. Not until you tell me why. Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

  Clive sighed. He’d have to give her what he had and hope she saw where he was going with it. Otherwise, she’d think he was off his rocker and order him back up to Atlanta where he’d probably spend the next year or so moldering away with the rest of the forgotten files. He gulped his coffee, scorching the back of his throat, and then began.

  “All right, but you’ve got to just listen for a second, okay? Let me try to explain.”

  Lopez didn’t respond, so he kept going, stumbling along.

  “There’s something just not right about this church case. I know Krenshaw thinks it’s just open and shut, and the evidence on file probably points to that, but it’s different down here on the ground.”

  “Different?”

  “The preacher who ran the church, who still runs it, her name is Sister Tulah Atwell. And as far as I can tell, this whole town is hers.”

  He knew Lopez was shaking her head. She probably had that look on her face, the one she gave him that could make him feel like he was another species. Like she couldn’t figure out how on earth he had managed to crawl his way back up the stairs from the records room. Th
at look.

  “I don’t even know what that means.”

  Clive took another sip of coffee.

  “It means that no one will talk about her. Everyone either praises her to high heaven or is scared to even admit that she exists. A real quick way to get ignored around here is to say her name with a question mark at the end.”

  Now Lopez would be rolling her eyes. Hard.

  “So, folks don’t want to be questioned about their preacher. This might surprise you, Grant, but that’s actually pretty common.”

  He shook his head.

  “No, this is different. And then there’s the Cannons.”

  “The Cannons?”

  “The man found dead in the church was Sherwood Cannon. If you go to the next town over, Silas, and mention the Cannons, people clam up just as fast as if you’d asked about Tulah here.”

  “So?”

  She wasn’t getting it. Clive groaned in frustration.

  “It’s like that Brad Pitt movie. The fight one.”

  “Fight Club?”

  “Yeah. No one talks about the Cannons. No one talks about Tulah. Like it’s an unspoken rule. It’s strange, Lopez. I mean, it’s almost creepy.”

  There was a long pause. Clive tapped the edge of his cup with his fingernail, waiting.

  “Grant. Get your ass back up here. So the locals don’t want to talk to a federal agent. So what? You’ve been off the street for way too long if you don’t think that’s normal. I don’t know what you’re getting at, but drop it. Creepy feelings don’t move cases off the list.”

  He rushed before she could hang up.

  “There’s something else.”

  “Better be more than a feeling.”

  “It is.”

  It was the one real lead he’d managed to find; he’d spent all afternoon and most of the night on it. Clive hoped it would be enough to persuade her.

  “I realized that I was getting nowhere with questions and interviews, so I started looking up public records.”

  She snorted a laugh.

  “Public records? So you really do want your old job back, huh?”

  “Wait, just listen. I was searching around, just trying to see what this preacher was all about. At first, I couldn’t find a thing. Tulah’s like a ghost. She wasn’t on paper anywhere. But then I started noticing something strange. For a county this small, and this rural, there was an awful lot of land exchanging hands between 2006 and 2009.”