Lady in Flames

by Ian Lewis

  “So you’re saying I should turn myself in?” The boy inserts a defensive edge into his voice.

  “Setting things right starts with your desire to come clean with God and your fellow man.”

  “I don’t know if I can do that.” The boy looks away again.

  I fear I’m losing him, but I can’t sugar-coat my words. “What then? Will you keep running? You keep running and I promise you whatever you’re running from will continue to chase you.”

  The boy shakes his head in confusion. “I never wanted to hurt anybody, I mean, not for real, anyway.”

  I want to believe him. I want to believe I can help him turn around while he still can. Like the man said, I might be the only part of hope this town sees. Remember who you are. “Most people don’t set out to hurt anyone, but the burden of consequence far outweighs your intentions—even if they’re good.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Again with the defensiveness.

  I turn and lean back; exhaustion seeping into my limbs. Speaking with my head rested on the back of the pew, I admit that I don’t know. “Sometimes it’s not about feeling better. Sometimes it’s just about doing the right thing.”

  We sit in silence for several minutes. An occasional warble of winter air shakes the old structure. Then without a word, the boy shuffles out of the pew and moves down the dusty aisle.

  I listen to his plodding feet, hear the thud of the door, and fall into quiet prayer. I hope that I’ve planted a seed of promise. I may not be the one to water it and see it come to fruition, but someone else might. He may bear lasting fruits someday.

  And I am eternally grateful that the Lord doesn’t give up on old dogs like me.

  Plowed

  February 27th, 2002 8:11 PM

  Johnny Rollins walking into downtown

  The ache in my feet throbs with each step, and there’s nothing I can do to shake the wet sting of the wind. The only thing I’m sicker of is the sound of my excuses. I’m a liar.

  It’s one of those black nights where the moon doesn’t even shine through. I move from street light to street light, passing from glare to shadow. The light appears and disappears like my thoughts. I can’t decide what I should do.

  The church shrinks behind me. I ditched Mom’s car near the diner in the middle of town, set out on foot, and hoped to hide somewhere no one would think to look for me—a place of worship.

  I got more than I asked for. Talking with that preacher was about the craziest thing I could’ve done. I didn’t know he was going to be in there; I should’ve turned and run. There’s no sense in what I did.

  Course there’s no sense in a lot of what I did today, and I finally admit that. Riding high on some carefree wave only lasts so long before you look back to see how messed up things get.

  I thought I was in the right. Even though I had a gut-check a couple times, I thought I was justified in burning down the Lady. Burning the old folks’ home after that was easier because of it, but I still went back and forth about it during the ride there.

  Maybe that was the small voice the preacher was talking about—his way of saying I should have known better. Whatever it was, it cemented itself in my mind after I leaned through a broken window and tossed the last Molotov cocktail into a supply room.

  I had already doused the floor with gasoline, so it went quick. Turning, I darted along the back of the building and that’s when I saw her.

  Some old woman was standing at her window, all wide-eyed and mouth hanging open, curlers tangled in silver hair. I think I startled her, and her old bones sure startled me. She didn’t expect to see some kid racing past, high-stepping through the snow.

  I could tell she knew something was wrong; I could see it in her sagging eyes. She was afraid. And that’s when it hit me. There were real people in there. It sounds stupid, but I never thought about other people before.

  My own fear shot through me. There was a good chance someone would die, and it would be my fault. I was so focused on Buck’s old man that I didn’t consider any of the other residents. I guess I assumed they’d get out somehow, but when I saw that woman, I knew that was a lie. She was probably somebody’s grandma…

  I kept running, fists pumping as fast as my legs. Scrambled for the car like I was being chased by the cops. I sped away from there and never looked back like it would somehow disappear if I didn’t see it—like I wasn’t the one responsible if I wasn’t there to see it burn.

  Firefighters might’ve caught the fire before it became a blaze. Or the flames might’ve raged out of control and turned the place to ash. I’m too scared to drive by and find out.

  Frozen, exhausted, and guilty, I haven’t been home in hours, and I haven’t eaten. Mom’s probably up by now, cursing my ass because I never brought the car back. She’ll just have to deal with it.

  I never thought I’d take advice from a preacher, but I think he’s right about not being able to outrun whatever it is I’m running from. It won’t bring Doppler back, and it won’t undo what I’ve done.

  I’m still pissed, though, and I still hate this town. I don’t know if that will ever change, but hanging on to it wears me out. Halgraeve is never going to hate me back.

  The town square lies ahead; the only signs of life are the winking glow of the bars and the taillights of a beater floating off down the road. It’s just like any other cold, lonely night where no one cares about anything other than tying one on.

  My soggy boots squish their way onto the slushy walk. I hug the brick and round the corner into the square. Mom’s sorry, piss-ant car’s like I left it, now frozen shut. A payphone on a pole stands just beyond it. I should probably call her. It’s a start, anyway.

  I fish in my pocket for a quarter as I step up to the mini-booth when I hear the chirp of tires from the right. I turn into blinding headlights and the wheeze of a strangled motor.

  Racing toward me from the other side of the square is a dark van, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to stop.

  Turning to run, I slip, lose my footing, and go down. The meaty parts of my palms slam onto icy concrete along with my knees. Scrambling, I trip over myself as the van draws a bead. I can’t get to my feet!

  Limbs flailing, I dive and duck as the front wheels bite the curb and send the van airborne. It misses my feet by inches and slams into a glass storefront, splintering it into a million shards.

  An enraged Buck glares down from the driver’s seat, eyes popping, veins bulging. His curses ring out in muffled anger from behind the window. He slams the van in reverse, never taking his eyes off me, and then steers around again.

  I get off to an imbalanced dash and make it past a blue mailbox near the car.

  Racing up the walk, the van tears the mailbox off its bolts in the cement.

  I dive into a doorway and can hear Buck screaming from behind the wheel as the van slides to a stop. Once again the tires spin. I regain my footing and sprint back the way I came.

  The van charges in reverse, eating up the sidewalk faster than I can put it behind me.

  Diving for the street this time, I land hard behind a parked station wagon.

  The van whips around, still in reverse, cutting a close corner around the back of the wagon and into the street.

  I slide as far as I can under the rear of the wagon and escape the van’s crushing tires. Once clear, I try to slip out, but my coat snags something on the undercarriage. The heavy material holds fast as I jerk my arm like a snake’s got hold of it.

  Buck steers the van screaming back toward me, his face a silent howl drowned out by the motor.

  Then like a pile driver, a speeding pickup rams into the side of Buck’s van, spearing its snowplow into it. With screeching metal, it sends the van scraping along the street and crashing up against the curb. The van tilts up for a second, and then comes to a bouncing rest.

  Behind the wheel, Buck looks up, mouth gaping. At first he looks stuck in a stupor, then his eyes widen like he’s come to his
senses. They bug out of his pudgy face as he struggles with the gearshift. With hurried spurts, he rocks the van back and forth in its cramped position until he’s free. Then he steers between the wagon and the truck and on down the street, turning right and heading out of the square.

  The truck opens and a bearded guy steps out, leaving the motor running. He pulls his hood over his head and blows into his cupped hands as he trots over.

  “He’s on the run now; I think I scared him. What the hell’s going on?”

  I manage to rip my arm free and stand, backing up a step or two. I look from the man, to his truck spewing exhaust, to Mom’s car up the street, and back to the man before deciding to turn and sprint for the car.

  Loose Ends

  February 27th, 2002 8:34 PM

  The Driver cruising near downtown

  Past the blunt, utilitarian dash and the rake of the cracked windshield lies a world that feels like it’s mine. The crust of salt-caked, deadened winter resonates with the emptiness inside me.

  Yet with all my desire to immerse myself in this world, I’m left with an aching void, bereft of anything that will fill it. The hardened truths that guide my existence make a claim I cannot deny. This isn’t my world anymore.

  Each time I interfere with the natural order of things, I’m left with a whisper of remorse and this longing. I get so close to those lives I touch that I almost feel their fears and drift in their dreams. I don’t care how tarnished their experiences are; I just want them to be mine for a little while.

  And so goes the abuse of my office. I can justify my actions with whatever promises I made myself, but the secret nuances of my will twist them into something self-serving.

  In the end, the rhythm of life fades to the nocturne of my phantom existence. I will not eat nor sleep tonight; I will pass immaterial from one plane to the next. All the while, the flame of doubt will pursue.

  Have I made things better? Or have I only complicated what should be simple, cold, and efficient? Am I sealing some ultimate punishment for myself for having intervened? Sometimes that digs at me with a stabbing persistence. I don’t know what waits for me at the end of my road, what wages I’ve earned.

  This weariness does not relent even in the face of duty. I’m a tool, an instrument, after all. My focal point is the grotesque. Whatever violence, whatever bloodshed, whatever motive, it’s mine to attend.

  My work in Halgraeve is not yet through. There’s one soul to gather before I return to the Upper Territory. I guide the Camaro south of the square before cutting over to the main route out of town.

  Dead spaces of empty lot and field find shelter between sparse garages, choked off from the living. Warped roofs sag under their burden of snow. A lone grain silo stands stark against a black horizon, banished to isolation.

  Driving past these thickets of dilapidated structures and worn to the bone foundations, I understand the hopelessness here. Optimism fizzles out like the few weak lights that glint on a random pole. A bitter gust will mute them in snowy suffocation.

  Maybe that’s the sickness of Halgraeve, the ill that infects its residents. A disease so saturating that few ever recover. Still, I have to believe that some of them won’t be snuffed out. My involvement in their lives suggests I’m committed to that belief.

  Three miles past the mill’s blotch on the rolling blanket of field, I fall in behind my lead. A stray spark, a leftover ember that wouldn’t be quenched…an absurd man whose sense of purpose overrides his restraint. His ludicrous aspirations to enforce the law peak when he’s behind the wheel of his old police interceptor.

  I remain close, shrouded from his sight as I keep pace with the steady revolutions of his snow-packed tires. One hand on the wheel and the other on the console shifter, my own spinning mind responds with similar speed.

  The countless deaths I’ve seen before blend into faceless automatons. I tried and often failed to treat them as if they were parts on an assembly line, just another cog in the machine of murder. This one will come to pass just the same, except it will be without remorse from me.

  Taillights appear on the horizon a half-mile up the road; the cruiser ahead quickens in response.

  I match speed, right foot planted. The engine snarls its signature tune.

  In another minute, a red emergency beacon flashes bright atop the cruiser.

  The vehicle ahead of us draws nearer until the hindquarters of a van come into view. After a quarter-mile, the van slows and drifts to the shoulder. Two-thirds of the driver side are smashed and buckled.

  The cruiser shoots up and around the van, blocking any attempt to escape. Once stopped, a flabby character rolls out, the same one who was sneaking about downtown yesterday. He spits and shuffles over to the van, right hand at his beltline, and motions for its driver to roll down his window.

  I pull up behind the van, still cloaked from both drivers’ sight, and remain hidden from their consciousness as I step out and plant trackless footsteps in the snow.

  A pudgy, reddened face, full of recognition, leans out of the van—Buck Armstrong. Spittle flies from his mouth as he launches a volley of insults.

  “Willis, you retard! Get outta my way! I’ll have you arrested for impersonating a police officer!”

  “Not tonight, Buck. I’m placing you under arrest for killing Doppler Jennings.” The man called Willis speaks matter of fact, mouth pursed and eyes upturned in ignorant superiority.

  Color vanishes from Buck’s face, evident even in the weak light. “The hell you ain’t!”

  Willis takes a step back from the window and yanks a silver revolver from his waistband. He points it at Buck’s face. “You just sit tight, now. I’m taking you in.”

  “Put that gun away, you psycho. I’m backin’ up. If you don’t get outta my way, I’m gonna run your ass over!” Buck points like he has authority and then rips the shifter into reverse.

  Willis thumbs the hammer on the revolver, never taking his aim off of Buck as the van whips up slush in an attempt to reverse. When he sees that Buck won’t comply, he lets off one round that punches a hole through the windshield.

  “You almost shot me!” Buck yells, voice wavering like he can’t believe it happened. He shifts back into drive and floors the accelerator.

  Willis fires another two rounds; one strikes Buck in the chest and the other penetrates his neck. Willis steps aside as the slumping, bleeding Buck lets off the accelerator and the van coasts the few feet into the rear quarter panel of the cruiser.

  Hugging the battered sheet metal, Willis slinks up to the open window and fires another round into Buck’s head, the muzzle flash igniting the interior of the van. Then he hurries around the back of the cruiser and wedges himself into the driver seat before speeding away down the darkened road.

  I wander over to the van’s dented driver-side door and peer in. Breaking the physical boundaries, I reach through the steel and into Buck’s body to take hold of his spine. His orphaned soul loosens, unbinds itself, and falls into my grip.

  I bundle up the vaporous shimmer as compact as I can and carry it back to the Camaro where I pack it into my duffel bag, snug along with the one that Grimley stole from me. Once secured, I take a measured gaze toward town before positioning myself behind the wheel.

  This isn’t my world anymore.

  Those More Hopeful

  February 27th, 2002 8:47 PM

  Leland Shaw talking to police in the square

  Not sure why the kid ran off like he did. That’s what I told the officers, anyway. Best guess is he was afraid. Told the officers that, too.

  They’re through with their questions and didn’t have many of them to begin with. Neither wants to stand around in the cold, so they shuffle back to their cruisers, puffing trails of steam. Just another rowdy night for them down at the bars, I suppose.

  That leaves me standing in the street like a vagrant. My legs don’t want to budge. Can’t get my body to lean one way or the other. It’s like I’m dumbstruck or somethi
ng. Don’t have any good answers for what I just witnessed.

  I could only say what I could say. Cutting through town, I saw Buck trying to run down that kid. I spun the wheel hard and wasn’t sure I’d make it, but I walloped Buck’s van good. Crumpled it like tin foil.

  Buck didn’t waste time in skipping out. Ran like the coward I figured he was. Thought he was going to take out my truck in the process, the way he wedged between me and the wagon.

  The plow’s all messed up now, but that’s my fault I guess. It had another season in it at least. Truck seems okay, though. I steered it over to the curb after the kid took off. Looked over the front end real quick and then hopped back in before radioing for a patrolman.

  The two of them showed up after fifteen minutes or so. No idea why dispatch sent both. Now their cruisers sneak away, tires crinkling in the snow. Here and gone. It’s like they’d rather leave the “why” to me.

  The past two days haven’t been regular. I’ve got a simple mind and accept most things at face value, but there’s quite a bit to raise my brow at. Can’t seem to connect the dots for the life of me.

  It can’t be coincidence that there was a blaze at Potter Oaks tonight. Everyone knows that Buck put his dad up there. And did that structure burn fast! Torched like it was built out of paper. Some hero decided to go in after a few of those trapped inside. Got ’em all out somehow.

  It took us an hour to put out the flames…had to use the deck gun. We were limited to defensive operations because there was no chance of going in by the time we were on scene. The place smoldered like it would burn forever if we left it alone.

  Still doesn’t sit right. Like I said, I reason on simple terms. Buck seemed like the common thread in all of this, but I’ve got no pretense about my detective skills. Lots of things go on without my knowing. Probably even more goes on without my understanding.