Walk In the Fire

by Steph Post

  “Okay.”

  Clive paced up and down the short length of the cramped motel room as he tried to make her understand.

  “No, just listen. She acquired that land by coercion. Manipulation. Blackmail and God knows what else. She runs this town, I’m telling you. People signed that land over to her because they’re terrified of her.”

  “Terrified of a preacher? Didn’t you say she was old?”

  Clive flicked the edge of one of the many photocopied newspaper clippings he had pinned to the peeling wallpaper by the door. If Lopez could only see Tulah, could see her pallid eye and the way her lips turned down at the corners. If she could her hear the menace lurking behind Tulah’s every word, she would understand.

  “The mine wasn’t just coming here on its own accord. She orchestrated the entire thing. She forced people to sell her their land. Donate it, gift it, whatever. She forced the county commissioners to approve the project. To vote on tax breaks for the PRB mining company to come to Bradford County in the first place.”

  Clive took a long swig of beer. He knew it sounded crazy.

  “She’s like a spider, sitting in her church, but pulling all the strings….”

  “Forced?”

  Clive stopped pacing.

  “Huh?”

  “You said she forced people to sell their land? To vote a certain way?”

  Clive set his beer down on top of the TV set and picked up one of the many piles of paper laid out across the top of the bureau. He began to shuffle through it.

  “Yes. Forced. Threatened. There were kidnappings. Assaults. Businesses burnt to the ground. Who knows what else.”

  He dropped the stack of papers on the floor and began to rifle through others spread out on the stiff, paisley bedspread. Clive had spent the past two days amassing and organizing the documents. He’d bought the library a printer cartridge himself and had given the prune-faced librarian a hundred dollar bill in exchange for unlimited copies. The toner in the copy machine had just begun to run out when he’d finally left the library, his arms cradling two shopping bags stuffed with pages of tax records, board meeting agendas, transcripts and newspaper articles.

  “This goes back years. Years. Tulah’s been working on this phosphate deal since before I joined the ATF.”

  “Which wasn’t that long ago.”

  Clive whacked a stack of papers against the corner of the TV.

  “And before that, I’m serious, she was running the town even before that. I’ve got records here going back fifteen years. She had zoning ordinances changed to run this other church out of town in the early nineties. She had the tax code…”

  Lopez drew him up short.

  “You have proof?”

  Clive dropped the papers in his hand and took a deep breath. He had known this was coming.

  “I have connections. I have a pattern. Come on, I’ve been on this case for less than a week. I’m working out of the public library, for Christ’s sake. The only one in the county. But there’s something here. I know there is.”

  “You’ve said that.”

  “I’m telling you, she has this town by the balls.”

  Lopez exhaled loudly into the phone. He could feel her eyes rolling all the way across the state line.

  “Grant.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know what the letters in ATF stand for?”

  “Lopez, you’re not hearing what I’m saying. If you could see all these papers. If you could see the…”

  Her voice was slow and patient.

  “They stand for Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. Right? So, is this preacher lady smuggling cigarettes? Jacking semis full of liquor bottles? Is she selling guns to drug lords? Bombs to terrorists?”

  Clive walked over to the mirror and stood before it. His beer clinked against the counter as he set it down.

  “No. But these other things…”

  “Are none of our concern, Agent Grant. And none of what you’re saying falls under federal jurisdiction. It all sounds local to me. So if your morals are bothering you, drop a line to the sheriff and then get your ass back to Atlanta.”

  Clive was grinding his teeth so hard he thought his jaw would pop.

  “She owns the sheriff. She owns everyone.”

  Lopez huffed.

  “Well, she doesn’t own you. Quit playing detective. You’re a special agent, not a secret agent. And after this, you might want to reevaluate what the word ‘special’ stands for in your case. You are not undercover. You’re not Jay Dobyns, for God’s sake. You’re not cool, Grant. You’re a pencil pusher with a badge who got sent to do a job that no one else could be bothered with.”

  Clive stopped flipping through a file full of land deeds and inhaled sharply. He dropped the folder on the edge of the sink counter, stung.

  “Lopez, that’s not what, I mean, that’s not how…”

  She cut him off.

  “Save it. And if this is all you’ve got on this preacher, then you’ve got nothing. I expect you back at your desk by tomorrow morning. Or I’m charging you with insubordination. Do you understand?”

  Clive bit back everything he wanted to say. His eyes lingered on the four names at the top of the mirror; he hadn’t wanted to bring them up yet. They were his very last cards. But at this point, he didn’t have a damn thing else to lose.

  “What if I said that Tulah controlled more than the town of Kentsville?”

  “Grant, I don’t care if she controls the goddamn western hemisphere! Shut it down. Get back to your desk.”

  Clive squeezed his eyes shut.

  “What if I said that Sister Tulah had state senators in her pocket? What if I said that she bribed them to vote to approve a permit for the phosphate mine to operate here?”

  Lopez was quiet for a moment. When she finally spoke, Clive could hear the tremor in her voice. The spark of curiosity. Of interest.

  “Is that what you’re saying?”

  Clive gripped his sweating beer bottle and looked up at the notecards.

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  There was now a tinge of excitement in her voice.

  “And you can prove it? Because if you have some actual proof, we could go in on a joint RICO case with the FBI. Forget about just taking down some preacher. We could use this Sister Tulah against the senators. Talk about a case. It would be big. Huge.”

  Clive nodded along.

  “I know. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  Clive could imagine the gleam in her eye. He knew she had been looking for a landmark case for years. She didn’t advertise it, but Clive knew she wanted to make a name for herself almost as much as he did. Her voice began to crescendo.

  “Who knows where it could all lead? What we could find? How big a corruption scandal? And if ATF establishes it, the FBI will have to settle for a joint case. Holy shit, Grant. This could be…”

  “Career making. I know.”

  “But you have proof, right? Something solid to go on? Getting the go-ahead to pursue a case like this is going to be tricky enough as it is. I need something to give Krenshaw so he can take it all the way up to the special agent in charge.”

  Clive hesitated. If he said no, the moment would be gone. Lopez would never go for it again and he would miss his chance.

  “Yes. Of course. I have an informant on Tulah. Two, actually.”

  Clive knew her eyebrows were raised, so he stumbled forward.

  “Judah Cannon. The son of the man who was killed in the church fire. He’s the leader of a small-time crime family in the town just south of here.”

  “And he’ll talk?”

  He was just heaping one lie up on top of another, but he had to build it up. He had to convince Lopez to give him more time.

  “I’m pretty sure. But in addition to him, I’ve got an even better insider. One that’s a sure thing.”

  “Who?”

  Lopez sounded wary, so Clive tried to come off as confident as possibl
e.

  “The preacher’s nephew. He’s a total pushover. Scared of his own shadow. But he’s been at Tulah’s side like a sick puppy since he was a kid. He’s our golden ticket.”

  “And he agreed to talk? He’ll inform on his own aunt? You’re sure he will?”

  For once, Clive was glad he was talking to Lopez on the phone. If she had been able to see his face, she would have known he was lying through his teeth.

  “Yes. He will. I’m certain of it.”

  “Oh, hell yeah, then.”

  Lopez sounded almost giddy.

  “Oh man, this is it. This is really it, then. All right, I’ll need a signed statement from this nephew to take to Krenshaw. We don’t need an informant agreement or anything like that yet, but get me a signed affidavit from him with some info on Sister Tulah, okay? Just scan it and email me tomorrow. Or fax it, if they’re still in the dark ages down there.”

  Lopez laughed glibly, but Clive was sweating.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  Clive looked up at the mirror. He turned around to survey the motel room, strewn with papers. It was all just ideas. Conjectures. It meant nothing, really. It could all be blown away with one single breath from Atlanta. This was his big break. His chance to finally be a rock star agent and suddenly he had just been thrown in the deep end. Clive couldn’t swim. He swallowed and closed his eyes.

  “No, no problem.”

  “All right. This is going to be something, Grant. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think you might have done okay here.”

  Lopez hung up, but it took Clive a moment to slowly take the phone away from his ear. He looked down at it in his hand and then let it drop to the carpet. He raised his head and stared up at the water-stained ceiling, his mind racing around in circles. Clive needed a miracle to make it all work, and if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that he didn’t believe in God.

  RAMEY KNEW what she was walking into. She stood in the late afternoon sun, its low brilliance infinitely refracted in the burnished surfaces of the surrounding graveyard of cars, and steeled herself for a moment. Long enough to collect her thoughts, to think rationally, but not long enough to lose her nerve. Part of her wanted to just run into the garage, fling herself against Judah, listen to him as he held her and be reassured that it was all going to be okay. Feel his hand tangled in her hair, feel the strength he could envelope her with, find that quiet moment between them when it didn’t matter that they always seemed to be taking on the entire world. When all that mattered was the sound of their breath as one.

  But she was burying that part of her. It would stay buried until she could look into Judah’s eyes and see the truth. Until she could trust him. Unconditionally. Ramey crossed her arms and dug her nails into her shoulders. Then she gathered herself, tossed her hair back and came around the corner of the garage.

  Judah and Benji were sitting in the back, lounging beside the poker table in the fold-out metal chairs. They were smiling. Benji was in the middle of some joke and Judah glanced down at the worn green felt, his shoulders raised in a silent laugh, as Benji brought his palm down on the table, bringing the point of the story home. The sight sent a flare of anger through Ramey’s chest. They were acting as if everything was all right. As if a homicidal maniac hadn’t just etched their names on a bullet. As if nothing had changed and they were still only teenagers, sitting around the bonfire pit down at the boat landing. Benji cutting up, Judah just taking it all in, his head bent down slightly with that secret smile at the corner of his lips as he jabbed at the fire, sending a spray of sparks up into the night sky, rising along with the smoke to the stars. Many times when she had come down to the landing, seventeen, anxious, furious, mellow, half drunk, a little stoned, a girl on the edge of a knife, almost a woman who would never look back, she had stood just like this. Arms crossed. Lips parted. Stung. Waiting underneath the sweeping live oak branches for the boys to notice her.

  She was Ramey Barrow, the girl who pulled the fire alarm during sophomore year just so she could get out on the football field and beat up the girl who had been bullying her sister. She was the girl who could walk into any classroom late with her head held high. Who outright accused her algebra teacher of trying to look down her shirt. Who could drink half the party under the table. Who walked alone at night, the handle of a switchblade gripped tightly in her fist. And yet, when she saw that look on Judah’s face, that crinkle of the eye, that smile, disappearing behind the sparks and smoke, she had waited. Uncertain in the shadows. Knowing, but still not trusting, that the moment he raised his head and his eyes alighted on hers he would wave her over, make room for her on the overturned strawberry crate. They would sit so close, their shoulders and hips and thighs and knees touching in the darkness, but it would never be close enough.

  Ramey uncrossed her arms as she stalked across the garage. Benji glanced down at her empty hands and shook his head in disgust.

  “I thought you were picking up beer.”

  Ramey ducked underneath the lift.

  “I didn’t make it to the store.”

  “What? Seriously?”

  Benji looked over at Judah in irritation, but Judah was staring intently at Ramey’s face. His eyes followed her carefully as she pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. She reached for the pack of cigarettes in front of Judah and he held out his lighter to her.

  “Ramey, what happened? What’s wrong?”

  She let Judah light her cigarette as she tried to figure out how to come out and say it. She’d been rehearsing the lines in her head ever since she’d left the Quincy’s parking lot. Ramey lowered her eyes to the table and picked at a rip in the felt with her thumbnail.

  “Weaver.”

  She looked up as Judah groaned and fell back in his chair.

  “Ramey, we’ve been over this I don’t know how many times in the past few days. Stop it, already. It’s not a big deal.”

  He glanced over at Benji and shook his head slightly. Benji gave an irritated huff. Both of them were on the verge of rolling their eyes and Ramey suddenly had the impulse to turn the table over on them. She wanted to bang her fists, to scream. She wanted to burn it all down. The two of them could burn along with it.

  Instead, she took a long drag on her cigarette to steady herself and then, ignoring Judah’s skepticism and talking over Benji’s indignation, Ramey related her encounter with Shelia. When she was finally finished, Ramey sat back and crossed her arms, waiting for their response. It was about what she had expected.

  “You know that all sounds crazy, right?”

  Judah whistled and shook his head as he looked away from her. Ramey watched his eyes narrow and his jaw clench. He seemed to be trying to process it all, trying to figure out what to say next. Benji, however, didn’t hold back. He hadn’t gotten past the fact that Ramey had spoken to Shelia in the first place. Benji smashed his fist down onto the table.

  “Sounds crazy? I’m wondering if you’re crazy, Ramey. You let that whore talk to you? She’d just as soon as bite you as tell you an ounce of truth. If she said the Earth was round, I’d argue otherwise. I can’t believe you even listened to her. Did you forget that she tried to kill me? Did you forget all this?”

  Benji smacked his ruined cheek a few times and Ramey turned away from him.

  “Judah, I think…”

  “No.”

  Judah shook his head again.

  “Benji’s right. Even if Shelia was there, at this bar in Daytona, and I’m not saying that she was, but let’s say if. And if Weaver said those things, about wanting to kill me, why the hell would she come here to tell me?”

  Ramey started to speak again, but Judah held up his hand to stop her. She could have smacked it away.

  “Think about it, Ramey. Shelia is a liar. She’s a liar and a manipulator. She set up that whole shootout at the church. She had to have been the one to tell the Scorpions that Sherwood was going to be there. She was with one o
f the Scorpions, for Christ’s sake. Did you forget that? This is probably just another plan to get back at us. To still get that money from us somehow. Her old man probably put her up to the whole thing and…”

  Ramey couldn’t take it anymore. She mashed her cigarette out and interrupted him.

  “He’s dead.”

  This didn’t seem to faze Judah.

  “So, she’s on to something new. She heard me and Weaver talking and she’s figured out a way…”

  “He’s dead because Weaver killed him. Last night. He killed the Scorpion guy and he killed the guy who brought him the information about you and he killed the owner of the bar. He tried to kill Shelia. He’s going to kill Shelia.”

  “Says her.”

  Ramey turned back to Benji. His knuckles had gone white where he was still gripping the edge of the table. Ramey spoke carefully.

  “I think maybe Shelia’s telling the truth here.”

  “Well, then, good. Weaver can kill her. Save me the trouble.”

  Benji was dead serious. The look on his face was chilling. Ramey turned back to Judah, but Benji wasn’t finished.

  “And you know what, Ramey. He can have you, too. Listening to that woman. After what she did to me. I can’t believe you, Ramey. I just can’t believe you.”

  Benji’s voice was cracking now. Ramey looked at him, her mouth turned down, and Benji must have seen the pity on her face. He stood up awkwardly and banged his fist on the table.

  “Fine. Screw you, Ramey. If this is the way it’s gonna be.”

  Benji swayed for a moment and Ramey had to look away. She glanced up at Judah, taking in the scene before him. His eyes met hers, but she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Judah turned back to Benji and there was a strange, gentle note in his voice.

  “Benji. Will you give us a minute here?”

  Benji edged away from the table and jammed a crutch up under his arm. Ramey noticed that he was now using only the single crutch to get around. He looked at her as if he wanted to spit venom on her.

  “Gladly. Maybe you can talk some sense into her.”

  Ramey almost called after him as he stumped away, but Judah touched her lightly on the arm.