Drag Strip

by Nancy Bartholomew

Roy Dell turned around and reached for the blanket I’d saved after I’d been jumped in the parking lot. “Hey, this looks a lot like one of my blankets,” he said. “Yeah, this is just like the one I keep in the back of my car.”

  My heart began to pound and my mouth went dry. “Of course, that isn’t your blanket, is it?” I asked. I waited for the denial.

  “Hey,” he said slowly, “this is my blanket! Lookit right here!” He was back in my face, the blanket clutched in his fist. “See that burn mark? That little one?”

  He showed me a hole that looked like a cigarette burn. “That’s from the first time me and Lulu … Well, you know.” He broke off and sank back into the seat, lost in his memory. “She liked to smoke afterward. You know…”

  The image of a naked Lulu and Roy Dell rolling around on the blanket, one sweaty clump of too-white flesh, made me shudder.

  “How’d you get my blanket, Sierra?”

  “Where’d you lose it, Roy Dell?” Cat and mouse.

  He was silent for a few minutes, thinking. “Well, it’s always in the trunk of my Vega, out to the track. It’s good luck. I checked on it before ever’ race. I don’t think it was lost.”

  This was pointless. Roy Dell didn’t have the brain cells to lie about a blanket, let alone a murder.

  “Roy Dell, we’re coming up on Wewa. Where does Wannamaker Lewis live?”

  “Huh?” Roy Dell sat up again and moved in between my two bucket seats. “I reckon he lives the same place he’s always lived.”

  “That ain’t exactly helpful, Roy Dell!”

  “Oh, right.” He scratched his beard and peered out the windshield. “Up yonder,” he called out. “See that little road running off to the side there? Take that. You’ll see it down there on the right.” Roy Dell suddenly vanished behind the seat.

  “Where are you going? There isn’t a soul around!” The road wound through what must’ve once been the center of town and was now a collection of almost disintegrated Victorians.

  “You never know,” Roy Dell said. “Folks around these parts worship me! I am, after all, the King of Dirt.”

  “Sheeze!” I sighed and slowed the Camaro to a crawl. I’d found Wannamaker Lewis’s house all by myself. It was dead ahead, painted up worse than his in-town shack. Every inch of the house was covered with brightly painted figures and crooked black letters. The mailbox was painted red with the word BEWARE crudely lettered on its side. Scrubby pines and tall, aging magnolias shadowed the backyard, hiding the house from its neighbors. Big azaleas and boxwoods crowded the tiny front yard, nearly hiding a short wrought-iron fence.

  I pulled up in the driveway and cut the engine.

  “Would you look at this,” I breathed.

  “Ain’t it some shit!” Roy Dell said from the safety of my backseat. “Neighbors just flat out hate it, but they cain’t do a thing about it. Ol’ Wannamaker’s the richest man in town and ever’ one of them knows it. Cain’t nobody risk getting on his bad side.”

  “Why not?” I was looking out the windshield. The house looked vacant and deserted.

  “On account of he’s nuts, and they’re all working him to get his money. He ain’t got no family.” Not that you know about, I thought. “They’re all just hoping he don’t leave it all to his cat or nothing. So they kiss up to him and act all nice, all the while hoping he’ll die.” Roy Dell laughed to himself. “You ask me, that coot’ll live to be a hundred. His kind always do! And another thing, he’s on to ’em all. That old boy may be crazy, but he’s sharper than the preacher’s tongue on Sunday!”

  I was losing interest in Roy Dell. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I said, and left him to his musings.

  I stood by the side of the car for a second, just trying to figure the best way into Wannamaker Lewis’s house. Huge magnolia trees flanked the gate in the front yard and the azaleas crawled around and under their spreading tree limbs. It was going to be like walking through a wall of green fire, trusting you’d come out alive on the other side.

  “Hell, the paperboy must do it every day,” I muttered, assuming, of course, that Lewis took the paper.

  I inhaled deeply and pushed off toward the house, darting through the open gate and plowing through the bushes and branches that grabbed at my clothes and hair. It was a battle, and I looked like I’d been in a catfight by the time I arrived on the porch, but at least I’d made it.

  The front porch was littered with parts and pieces of Wannamaker Lewis’s artwork. Little cans of paint sat around, some empty, some closed back up and lining the porch rail. But it was the front door that frightened me. Glaring out, painted to take up the entire doorway, was an avenging angel. Us Catholics didn’t have nothing on Wannamaker’s vision of God’s wrath.

  She was a beauty, all right, snakes for hair, a sword in one hand and a column of fire balanced in the other. Her eyebrows could’ve stood serious plucking, and her nose was long and hooked, but her lips were bloodred and smiled a terrible smile. You could almost hear her saying “Vengeance is mine!” The tip of her sword was painted over the doorbell. RING HERE IF YOUR CONSCIENCE IS CLEAR, said the crudely lettered sign.

  I reached one tentative finger out and touched the button, half expecting it to be booby-trapped. It rang just like any other doorbell, screaming through the interior of the huge darkened house.

  I peered into one of the windows, but they were too dirty to see through.

  “With all the money you made on art, you’d think you’d take care of the place,” I said aloud. “So I guess you’re not home, huh? It must not be nap time.” I turned around to leave. “I’ll just mosey down to your studio and see if I can catch you there.” It helped to speak aloud. Made the house a little less creepy.

  “Too late!” a voice said suddenly. “Too late!”

  I whirled around and stared back at the front door. The angel’s eyes blinked, red and rheumy with age. He was watching me.

  “Mr. Lewis,” I said, “my name is Sierra. We met at Ruby’s mother’s house after the funeral. I’d like to talk to you.”

  “For Wannamaker so loved the world that he lost his only daughter,” the old man said, his voice coming softly through the door.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Lewis. She was my friend.”

  I stood there, staring at the angel’s eyes. They blinked once again, then disappeared only to be replaced by their painted version. Pretty awesome peephole. There was the sound of metal on metal as the lock was turned and the door slowly swung open to reveal the little wizened farmer from the funeral, tears rolling down his cheeks.

  “You can come in,” he said. “I don’t bite.” He stood back and beckoned me inside. “See,” he said, as I stepped over the threshold, “the eternal fires do not burn here!” He turned and led me into a parlor.

  The room was filled with antiques—settees with rump sprung seat cushions, tables, and lamps—all dripping with dust and cobwebs. I gingerly sat on the very edge of the chair he indicated, barely waiting for him to settle before I began talking. This was not a place where I wanted to tarry.

  “Mr. Lewis, I want to find out who killed your daughter.”

  “Satan,” he answered calmly.

  Two could play this tango, I thought. “Satan’s agent,” I corrected. I silently thanked the Sisters for my theological background. “I want to meet this agent of Satan,” I said. “I want to see him returned to hell.”

  Wannamaker’s eyes caught fire, and he leaned toward me. “I have many enemies,” he said. “Rich prophets make enemies.”

  I was starting to think I should’ve brought Raydean along as an interpreter. “So you’re saying someone knew Ruby was your daughter and killed her to get to you?”

  “In my house are many mansions,” he said softly.

  “Mr. Lewis, did you ever talk to Ruby? Tell her you were her father?”

  Tears flowed down the little man’s cheeks. “No,” he whispered, “but I would have one day. I wanted to take care of her, but I didn’t want to hurt her.” H
e was openly crying now. “Iris gave her away!” he moaned. “I didn’t know. I never knew her, only him.”

  He jumped up, the tiny chair he’d perched on fell over onto its side. “I should’ve gone first!” he yelled. “My Son of Satan wanted to take me first! But no, He had to take her! Had to be sure I was all His! My kingdom shall be yours, I said, but He wants it all, everything. I must pay! I must be broken! I must die!”

  Wannamaker’s eyes were wild and, as he jumped and screamed, he moved closer. He reached out suddenly and grabbed me by the shoulders, shaking me in a grip that was powerfully strong. His hands were like iron.

  “Let go!”

  He didn’t. Instead, he was in my face, spewing spittle and screaming. “Vengeance is not for Him!”

  “Wannamaker, let me go!” I yelled, but he couldn’t hear me.

  “Come on,” he said, suddenly releasing me, abruptly calm. “I’ll show you where it is.”

  “Where what is?” I stood, towering over the little maniac. My instincts said leave. The man was obviously a fruitcake, and the dusty, smoky smell of his house was starting to make me sneeze.

  “The will,” he said simply. “In my house are many mansions, all for her and He knows it, too. All for the angel.” He turned and darted out of the room leaving me to follow as best I could.

  I heard him clattering up the stairs and I followed the sound, out into the broad front hallway, up the sweeping staircase, my hand reaching out now and then for the dusty banister.

  “Mr. Lewis?” I called.

  “Up here,” he answered, his voice muffled and far away. “Come on … it’s … in a safe,” I thought he said, but I couldn’t be certain.

  I was becoming aware of something. The dusty, smoky smell was stronger. I stopped for a second to get my bearings and to listen. As I did, I looked toward the end of the second-floor hallway. Smoke had started to billow out of a doorway. The house was on fire!

  “Fire!” I screamed. “Mr. Lewis, where are you? The house is on fire!” I heard a scrabbling sound, like the footsteps of someone running. I started opening doors, looking into dust-covered rooms, screaming for Wannamaker Lewis, but he didn’t answer me.

  I reached the doorway to the attic and pulled it open. Behind me, thick, gray smoke rolled down the hallway. I made my way up the steep stairs, calling for Wannamaker and getting no answer.

  The attic was empty except for pieces of furniture and dusty boxes. I went on anyway, looking behind them, hoping to find Lewis hiding. What I found instead were drugs. Hidden behind a stack of boxes, piled high in a four-by-four square, was brick after brick of what appeared to be cocaine, compressed and tightly wrapped with plastic.

  There was no time to look further. In the distance I heard the crackling of fire. I had to get out of the house. I had to find Lewis and get us both out. I ran down the stairs to the second floor. The sound of a gunshot stopped me cold. Was someone shooting? Or was it the sound of something exploding with the heat?

  Someone screamed, maybe Wannamaker? The smoke was thick now, and I was choking. “Get down, Sierra. Remember, crawl along the floor!” My dad’s voice spoke in my head. I dropped to my hands and knees, trying to recall where the staircase was, feeling my way along the hallway. Somewhere downstairs, I heard another explosion that sounded like a gunshot. How long before the whole place exploded?

  I was shaking and choking and crawling backward down the steps. I reached the bottom. I was only a few feet from the front door, I remembered that, but could I reach it? I could hear the flames now. I stood up as I reached the bottom step, ready to run. The hallway was filled with smoke and I felt lightheaded. Where was I? Where was that door? I sank down slowly, feeling for the bottom step. Maybe if I just rested for a moment, I could remember. Maybe if I closed my eyes just for a second …

  Twenty-six

  It was nice where I was, because he held me. Sweet cool air filled my lungs and warm arms held me.

  “Sierra,” he whispered, “wake the hell up!”

  What was wrong with him? Didn’t he know Harrison Ford shouldn’t speak like that to his beloved?

  “Harrison!” I heard my voice whine. “That’s not nice!”

  “Open your eyes, Sierra!” Nailor’s voice commanded. “This isn’t Hollywood!”

  I opened my eyes and found myself with John Nailor under the sheltering shade of a low-hanging magnolia tree. Outside, beyond our hiding spot, the sounds of men’s voices and machines could be heard.

  “What’s going on?” I said, coughing and pushing myself up.

  Nailor grabbed my arm and pulled me back against the tree trunk. “Don’t get too close,” he warned. “I don’t want us to be seen. We’re in Lewis’s backyard. The firemen are putting out what’s left of the fire. The place is crawling with police and firemen. I don’t want anyone to see me.”

  I peered out again. From where I sat, it was hard to see. Pine trees and huge, ancient azaleas covered the backyard as they did the front.

  “How’d I get here?” I asked, turning to look at Nailor for the first time. He was covered with black sooty streaks, but beneath that his skin was gray. The lines around his eyes were deep and etched with fatigue.

  “Wait!” I called out. “Wannamaker’s in there! We have to go back and get him.” I started to pull away, but he held on to me.

  “Sierra, Wannamaker Lewis is dead. Someone shot him. His body was three feet from the steps where I found you. Didn’t you see him?”

  I slumped back against Nailor. Dead? Shot? It was as if my mind simply could not accept his words.

  “I was coming to watch the house,” Nailor continued, “what I could see of it. When I got here, I saw your car parked a ways down the street and figured you must’ve been inside Lewis’s house. When I realized it was on fire, I came looking for you.” He said it simply, as if he’d said, “I saw you were out of eggs, so I stopped at the store.” I came looking for you.

  “Hey,” I said, gazing back out at the flashes of color and motion surrounding Wannamaker Lewis’s house, “you said my car was down the street? That’s not where I left it. And what about Roy Dell?”

  Nailor straightened a little and winced. “What about Roy Dell?”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “What about Roy Dell?” He ignored my question like I’d ignored his.

  I was still staring outside and motioned Nailor to keep still. Three men, two firemen and a man in plainclothes, were walking deeper into the backyard, staring at the ground and then back toward us. As I watched, the plainclothesman stooped down and touched something on the ground.

  “Looks like they’re headed this way,” I whispered. “They’re following something.” Nailor said nothing. I turned around to see if he’d heard me. He was gone. In the place where he’d leaned against the tree trunk, there was a wide splotch of blood.

  I couldn’t let them find the bloodstain, or they’d know I hadn’t been alone. If John didn’t want to be seen, then there was a reason. Maybe the gunshots I’d heard had been directed at him and not Lewis. I had to protect John. But I couldn’t let him stay out there alone, without me.

  I reached out and touched the blood, letting some run onto my finger. Then I rubbed my bloody finger around one nostril. “It’s a good thing I went to Catholic school,” I said softly, on the off chance that somewhere nearby Nailor was listening. “’Cause stories like the one I’m about to tell ain’t easy to come by.” Then I pushed the branches aside and wandered up to the men.

  “Where am I?” I cried softly. “What happened? Where’s Mr. Lewis?”

  I figured it to play out exactly as it did. These three guys, intent on figuring where the blood drips were leading to, thinking they were hot on the trail of an arsonist, come up on me, Sierra Freakin’ Lavotini, the Queen of the Blond Amazons. A maiden in distress with a bloody nose. Good thing it wasn’t the Panama City P.D. on the job. With them, my reputation precedes me, and I would’ve been out of luck.

  To further compli
cate their lives, I swooned, requiring their immediate attention. They didn’t need to know that I worked men over like this for a living. No, for the next thirty minutes, they were heroes. Plying me with oxygen and water, listening to my story of stopping at the house to buy a Jesus whirligig, then the fire breaking out and Mr. Lewis vanishing. It was masterful, but I had to silently promise to do an Act of Contrition as soon as possible. The Sisters would’ve been pleased. After all, it was for a good cause.

  I gave them my name, but not the real one. And my address, also bogus. And implied maybe I’d like to hear all about being big strong firemen sometime. Then I wandered off down the street, making for my Camaro, hoping I wasn’t too late to double back and find Nailor. There was too much blood under that tree for it to have been a surface wound. I was pretty sure he was hurt, and hurt bad.

  Nailor was right about the car having been moved. It sat a half a block away, the keys still in the ignition. Maybe Roy Dell had moved it when the fire started, but where was he?

  I cranked the car and pulled slowly out into the street. Behind me, the firetrucks blocked the road. As I looked in my rearview mirror, an ambulance pulled up and EMTs went running for the house. They’d found Wannamaker Lewis.

  I crawled down the street, edging around the block, trying to figure out where Wannamaker’s lot edged up onto his back neighbor’s. Nailor couldn’t have gotten far without help. I parked when I judged I was near enough to approach Wannamaker’s house from the rear. A ramshackle Victorian cottage stood on a lot that mirrored Lewis’s yard. At least I wouldn’t need to contend with neighbors or dogs. Only snakes and rodents lived on this estate.

  I got out of the car and stomped off through the tall grass and bushes, hoping I was warning all wildlife to get out of my way.

  “John?” I called, pitching my voice low. No answer, then in the distance, a moan.

  I ran in the direction of the sound, listening and alternately calling his name. I found him lying on his back, twenty feet from the tree where we’d sat hiding.

  “Hey, it’s me, Sierra. Open up them big brown eyes.” I knelt by his side. He didn’t answer me. “John?” I reached out to touch him, trying to support him into sitting upright, but instead finding his back soaked with blood.