by Steph Post
Weaver, however, was led by the wasteland inside him and his pure disregard for human life. Ramey was a fighter. Weaver was a killer. She was able to get in a few deep scratches to his face, but then her back was against the wide refrigerator door and his elbow and forearm were pressed against her throat. She kicked, she clawed, she spit, she tried to bite, but he was too heavy, there was too much of him against her, and in his free hand she saw the wide blade of a chef’s knife flashing. She tried to twist away, but there was nowhere to go.
And then he was screaming. The knife fell to the ground and Weaver followed it, sliding down against Ramey’s body. He seemed stunned for a moment and then Ramey saw the long prongs of a carving fork sticking into his lower back and behind him, Shelia, her mouth bloody, eyes wide.
“Ramey, come on, let’s go!”
Weaver had already begun to flail around on the ground, grasping for her legs. Shelia jumped over him and grabbed Ramey by the shoulder, dragging her toward the back door. Ramey tried to resist.
“No, Shelia. He’s not dead. He’ll still come after—”
“We have to go, now!”
Shelia kept pulling on her and finally Ramey heard the sirens. She heard their wailing echo and the screams from the front of the diner and, finally, her own ragged, wheezing breath. Ramey stopped struggling and turned to follow at Shelia’s heels as they ducked out of the back of the diner. It was over. For now.
No one at The Ace in the Hole would drink with him. Judah had spent the last two hours alternating between trying to engage someone, anyone, in conversation and brooding silently over his Budweiser. Maybe it was this capricious behavior, or the fact that he had blown in through the door on a clear mission to get drunk, slamming his wallet and keys on the bar, scraping his stool back as loudly as he could, shouting at the new bartender, Linda, to start pouring and erase his memory forever. Maybe it was Ramey. He hadn’t spoken to anyone about her leaving, but from the look of pity Linda gave him as she poured his beer, she had to know. Everyone had to know. This was Silas. There had probably been whispers of Ramey’s departure in the night before the sun had risen the next day.
Judah cleared his throat and pushed his sticky, half-full beer glass away from him. Linda put down her Sudoku puzzle and came over to him, resting her meaty palms on the edge of the bar and giving him a sour look.
“What now?”
Or maybe the look hanging on Linda’s fleshy jowls wasn’t pity, it was worry. Linda owed the Cannons money. She was Gary’s stepmother’s sister, or cousin maybe, Judah wasn’t exactly sure, and could set up bets like nobody’s business. She also had a baffling scratch-off habit and went through reams of the cards, scraping away with her lucky quarter while sitting in her Pinto outside the 7-Eleven.
“Jack.”
Linda shrugged and reached for the bottle and a glass while Judah turned to the man sitting at the other end of the bar. Whitey Jones owed the Cannons money. Linda slid the glass over to him and held up a metal scoop.
“Ice?”
Judah turned back to her sharply and put his hand over his glass protectively.
“Jesus, no. And you’d better not offer water, neither.”
Linda dropped the ice scoop into the bin below with an unnecessary clang. She picked up her Sudoku book and stalked away from him. Judah tasted the whiskey, it was better, but like everything else, still tasted like ash in his mouth. He swiveled around on his barstool. Percy and Kyle Sutter, sitting together at one of the bar tables, both wearing jeans caked with dried cement, both staring vacantly at the Miller Lite bottles in their hands, owed him money. Judah let his gaze wander the room. Tom Hawkins owed him money. Tom’s girlfriend, Margie, owed him money. Or her brother did, anyway. Chris Collins didn’t owe him money. But he wasn’t in the Cannons’ good graces either. Judah sipped the whiskey and squinted toward the hunched man, sitting sullenly by the door. Judah couldn’t remember what Collins had done to put him on the shit list. Ramey would have remembered. If she were sitting next to him right now, she would have whispered it in his ear. Judah shook his head and gulped the whiskey. Ramey wasn’t there. She wasn’t whispering to him. He turned back around and stared absently at the row of liquor bottles beneath the bar mirror.
So maybe that was it. Folks didn’t want to drink with him because they were afraid of him, not because they pitied him. Judah spun his glass around on the bar, trying to make sense of this new revelation, and wondered if that was why Sherwood had steered clear of The Ace and of Limey’s, the bar on the other side of town. The VFW had been Sherwood’s haunt, a place where unspoken rules kept business on the other side of the door.
Judah drained the glass and held it upside down for Linda to see. She grumbled, stuck a cardboard coaster in her book to mark the puzzle she was working on and poured more whiskey.
“Should I just leave the bottle here?”
Judah shook his head. He had woken up that morning, shirtless, his jeans covered in mud and, strangely, cat hair, on the steps of his front porch. He had found his shirt underneath an azalea bush, balled up and coated with vomit that smelled like licorice jellybeans. He had been at Alvin’s trailer, drinking Jager with the boys and some girl named Kristy who he felt he should have known, but he couldn’t remember much more of the night. Judah wanted a bartender with her hand on the bottle. Someone who would cut him off before his lights went out. He watched Linda walk away and then smiled bitterly to himself as he raised the glass to his lips. Who was he kidding? He was Judah Cannon. The entire bar owed him something. Nobody was cutting him off against his will.
He had just started in on his third whiskey when a woman sat down at the bar only one stool over from him. Judah glanced up as she reached for a stack of cocktail napkins and began dabbing at her wet arms. She smiled when she saw Judah watching her.
“Just started raining.”
Judah didn’t say anything and the woman quickly looked away. He watched her order a Coors Lite from Linda and then dig around in the oversized purse she had set up on the bar next to her beer. The woman was a brunette, her hair cut short at the neck, her eyebrows plucked a little too thin, and Judah couldn’t figure out if he knew her or not. Between the whiskey and the dim, neon lights surrounding them, it was hard for Judah to tell. When she found what she was looking for in her purse, a pack of menthols, Judah offered her a light. She smiled and leaned toward him, holding her cigarette out to his Bic.
“Thanks.”
“Sure.”
The woman dramatically blew out a plume of smoke. She was looking straight at him now and Judah could tell that she was young, maybe only twenty-two, twenty-three. Her lips were painted a dark shade and she smiled coyly at him.
“I’m Ginger.”
“Really?”
Ginger raised a sharply arched eyebrow.
“Yes, really. Why?”
Even as he spoke, Judah regretted it.
“Nothing. It’s just, is that your real name?”
She frowned and clicked her darkly painted nails together around her cigarette.
“Yes. My real name. Let me guess, though. You think I’m one of those types of girls.”
Where was someone to kick him in the shins when he needed it? Oh. Yeah. She had left. She was gone. Judah shook his head and forced Ramey from his mind.
“No, no. I’m sorry. That was a stupid thing to say. Sometimes, I just open my mouth and I don’t even know what comes out.”
Ginger smiled impishly at him.
“It’s fine, don’t worry about it. You wouldn’t be the first. Or the hundredth, for that matter. It’s the curse of having a daddy who was obsessed with Gilligan’s Island.”
“No, it’s not fine. At least let me buy you a drink.”
She pointed with her cigarette at the full beer bottle in front of her.
“I have a drink.”
Judah picked up his whiskey and slid over to the barstool next to her.
“Well, let me buy you the next one.”
He held out his hand.
“I’m Judah…”
“Cannon.”
She took his hand and squeezed it.
“I know who you are.”
Judah let go of her hand and turned back to his drink.
“Oh. I was thinking that maybe there was one person around here who didn’t.”
Ginger laughed. Judah glanced down and saw that she had turned slightly and her bare knee was brushing against his jeans.
“Of course I know who you are. I work over at the Clip ‘N’ Curl next to Winn-Dixie. I do Cleo’s hair. You know, Alvin’s sister.”
Judah already wanted the girl to stop talking. He didn’t know Ginger, but she was determined to prove a connection to him.
“And then my cousin, well, he’s not really my cousin, but close enough, Danny, he’s done a few things for you, I think. I don’t know what all exactly, but he said you were real nice. For a Cannon.”
Judah looked closer at Ginger. Maybe only twenty-one. There was something both sweet and calculating behind her spidery lashes that unnerved Judah. He couldn’t tell if she was talking to him because she genuinely liked him or because he was a Cannon and she liked the idea of him. He sat with her through another round and the less he spoke, the more Ginger must have felt the need to fill in the awkward pauses with conversation. By the time he finished his fourth whiskey, the room was spinning, he knew the names of every one of Ginger’s pet rabbits, most of the names of her favorite songs, her detailed astrological chart, his chart, Benji’s chart and for some reason her hand was resting high up on his thigh. Judah stood up.
“I gotta go.”
He pushed his empty glass toward the sticky bar mat. Linda glanced up, but Judah quickly shook his head at her. Ginger blinked at him, confused. Her lipstick was thinning out.
“What’re you talking about? I thought you wanted to come back to my place. Meet my bunnies. I said I’d show you my crystal collection.”
Judah stuffed his wallet and phone down into his pocket and snatched up his keys. Had he indicated that he’d wanted to go back to Ginger’s place? Possibly. His side of the conversation had been mostly grunts and nods, while his mind had been a million miles away. He turned to Ginger and saw the sting in her eyes, the way her bottom lip was turned down at one side. Damnit. Judah put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it.
“Listen, Ginger. You’re great. Really.”
He let go of her and took a step back.
“But someone else owns my heart. Always will.”
Ginger nodded slowly.
“Ramey.”
Judah nodded back. Of course the girl knew about Ramey. He gave Ginger a last smile and turned his back on her. He pushed through the bar’s front door and stumbled out into the rain. Ramey. Who owned his heart. And had taken it with her when she left. He started walking.
WHEN THE car behind him flashed on its high beams, slicing through the darkness, Clive knew it was all wrong. It had been wrong since the moment he had set eyes on Sister Tulah, since he had arrived in Kentsville, since he had crossed the Florida-Georgia line a little more than a week ago. And it had most definitely been wrong since night had fallen and it had become apparent to Clive that Felton wasn’t going to show up. He had waited in the back booth of the Hardee’s for two hours, and then spent another in the parking lot, still in the hopes that maybe Felton had only been delayed. Or was wavering. But finally, the realization had sunk in. Brother Felton was not coming. There would be no informant. He had been played.
Clive slowed, trying to see who was following him so closely, but between the glare of the bright lights and the blur of the pouring rain, he couldn’t tell who was behind the wheel of the SUV on his tail. Clive gripped the wheel and turned his attention back to the dark road ahead of him. There were no houses, no street lights, only the slippery wet asphalt unrolling before him in the swath of his headlights. Clive had no idea where he was. Or where he was going.
In one last ditch attempt to find and speak to Felton, Clive had driven down to the Last Steps Church. He had slowly cruised past the church twice, but there had been no lights and no cars. The building had appeared empty and there was no sign of Brother Felton. Clive had turned around and headed back into Kentsville, his mind on his cellphone, beeping again in his pocket, yet another text message from Lopez, he was sure, wondering what the hell was going on. He had been thinking about her, and about Krenshaw, about the special agent in charge, and if he would ever see the light of day again after they sent him back down to the records room, and not concentrating on the road ahead of him. When he came upon the orange construction barrels and the detour sign now blocking the main road back into town, he had simply turned and followed the arrows onto a road that veered off to the left.
The vehicle behind him nudged his bumper and Clive sped up. The SUV matched his speed and kept close to him. Clive tried to swallow his panic and pressed down harder on the gas. It could be teenagers, playing a prank. It could be a drunk asshole. It could be anyone. Clive knew it wasn’t just anyone. He kept increasing his speed, trying to keep the Charger steady on the slick pavement, but then, out of nowhere, he was blinded by dazzling lights. Another SUV was barreling toward him, and in the few remaining seconds, Clive understood what was about to happen. The SUV behind him swerved to his left and boxed him in, and the vehicle in front of him kept coming. Even if he slammed on his brakes right then, he’d be smashed head on. Clive couldn’t tell what was to the right of him, but he didn’t have time to think. It could have been a tree, or a telephone pole, but it didn’t matter. He wrenched the wheel over, hard to the right, and skidded off the road just as the oncoming SUV went roaring past him.
He flipped only once and was surprised to open his eyes and see the hood of his car submerged in a drainage pond. The headlights were still on, glowing eerily beneath the water. Clive unbuckled his seatbelt, but couldn’t shove the door open, so he crawled through the window and landed face-first in two feet of water. The sludge beneath him sucked at his knees and elbows, but he pushed himself up and stumbled out of the weeds and muck. His mouth was full of blood, and he hacked and spit. The coughing made the sharp pain in his head worse and he shook it, trying to clear away the disorientation. He began to clamber up the steep bank toward the road, his feet sliding back with every step, but when the bright lights of crisscrossing headlights flashed on above him, Clive stopped. He tried to find his balance as he looked up at the silhouettes of the four men above him.
Clive couldn’t see their faces, couldn’t see anything but their shadows against the headlights, but he knew who they had to be. Clive immediately reached for his holster, but it was empty and slick with grime. The Glock had probably fallen into the muddy water, but he had no time to turn back and try to find it. At first, Clive thought one of the men was coming down the bank to him and he glanced around frantically for a stick or a rock, anything to defend himself with, but the figure didn’t move past the shoulder of the road. He only stared down at Clive and then tilted his head and spoke.
“And though they hide themselves, I will search and take them out thence; and though they be hid from my sight at the bottom of the sea, thence will I command the serpent, and he shall bite them: thence will I command the sword, and it shall slay them.”
Clive looked up at the man and did not understand exactly what the words meant, but he knew enough. He heaved a strangling sigh of relief as the four men disappeared into the rain. It was not his time to die. Not this night. Not this moment.
JUDAH DROPPED his cigarette into the black water swirling beneath him. The rain had finally ebbed to a drizzle, but Judah was soaked through. It was two miles along the back roads from The Ace to the Wake Creek Bridge and Judah had gone the whole way with his head down, tramping through the snarling weeds and brush or, once he cut over to Bligh Road, simply walking down the center line of the crumbling pavement. No one used Bligh Road anymore; it began and ended with nothing and nowhere. Occasionally, fisher
men threw lines off the bridge hoping to reel in a redbreast or stumpknocker, and every now and then teenagers would still rendezvous down on the banks to smoke and drink, fall in love and battle it out, but even those trysts were becoming a thing of the past. Judah hadn’t seen a single car on the road and he was damn sure he was the only man standing on the bridge under the faint glow of the orange streetlight, arms crossed on the narrow metal railing, staring down into the abyss. He didn’t want to jump; he wanted the creek to rise up and swallow him whole.
“Judah!”
He jerked his head up and spun around. For a fleeting second he thought of his .45, under the seat of his truck, still parked at The Ace, but he knew that voice. He couldn’t see her, but he could hear her, and the ringing sound caught in his throat and pierced him somewhere back behind his lungs. His hands were shaking as he watched her step out of the mist at the end of the bridge.
“Ramey.”
It wasn’t a question; it wasn’t an assertion. It was a feverish calling of hope. Judah couldn’t move. Ramey’s skin and clothes were wet and her hair was down, impossibly tangled over her shoulders. There was a hitch in her step and as she came closer, Judah could see that there was something wrapped around her right wrist. She kept walking steadily toward him, not running, not smiling, with a strange look of determination and desperation on her face. When she had almost reached him, Judah realized that what he had thought was just a dark shadow under her eye was actually a smear of blood. She walked straight into him and pressed the length of her body against his. Only then did he raise his arms to hold her.
Ramey leaned into him and Judah gasped as he tried to crush her closer. He didn’t know why she had returned, but he was terrified to let her go. He remembered the blood, though, and gently pushed her away. He gripped her by the elbows and looked down into her upturned face.