Just Fire

by Dawn Mattox

  I thought their decision was beautiful beyond words. Just beautiful. I sighed, thinking of Quincy, and I wanted to hold her in my arms once again. I laughed as I imagined us with mother-daughter matching casts on our feet, covered with silly decorations and loving words—and then I hastened to ask God to forgive me for being so shallow when no one knew if she was alive. And here I was, making jokes about an amputation that was my fault.

  Mac stopped by too. We did not talk about Oma. We talked about guilt. Mine.

  “Quincy had some toes on her right foot amputated,” I told Mac, “and they were watching her burns and possible damage to her fingers when she was taken.” I choked up as I spoke, but at least I didn’t break down into a sobbing mess again.

  Mac and I spent a pleasant hour drinking coffee and sitting in front of the fireplace. It was nice to finally be with someone who didn’t ask me to recap events but chose instead to listen attentively and offer an occasional comment.

  “Mac,” I said, “I feel as though God has given me a burden that I cannot bear.”

  Mac reached out in sympathy and replied, “God will never give you more than you can bear. Have you ever thought that maybe you alone were chosen for this burden because you alone can carry it? In fact, when I think about it, I would have to say that the entire incident sounds like a major miracle to me. It seems like that baby, Quincy, was incredibly fortunate to have you rescue her.” Mac’s mustache turned up at the corners, and his warm smile reached to his eyes that lit with admiration. “Really, Sunny—you are one of the strongest, most courageous women I have ever known.”

  Rescue? Courageous? Seriously . . .

  Mac continued, “You did what the child’s mother asked you to do. That sounds to me as if you were honoring her choice, and a mother usually knows what is best for her child. Just because her decision ended badly, doesn’t mean it couldn’t have ended worse: like a homicide-suicide, killing the baby along with herself. It happens.” Mac rose and bent over, giving me a warm, compassionate hug. “Quincy may have lost some toes, but she gained her life. She owes that to you. It took a lot of faith for you to cross those mountains. Don’t stop now. Her kidnapping is just another mountain. Keep the faith, my sister.” Then we prayed, asking God to make a way for Quincy’s safe return.

  At some point, I realized that the visitors continually dropping by were mostly compassionate, exceedingly kind, and brutally curious. I also realized that they were babysitting me while Chance was off on business. I was never alone. Even our almost-two-hundred-pound German shepherd, Mercy the Magnificent, had somehow become a house dog, shedding, knocking things over with her tail, and tormenting Kissme whenever she grew bored.

  I really wanted time alone to process my feelings instead of the daily repeating of details. I needed to fit together the missing pieces of the big picture. Instead, my focus had narrowed to endless cups of coffee, the state of my missing toes, and a messy house.

  What Chance and I had not talked about was the deceit that continued to taint our relationship. I was not sure at what point outright lies—the lies of omission and evasion—had become our norm again, but we had yet to talk about his so-called missionary trips to Mexico. It was hard to accuse Chance of being a liar when I was one. I hadn’t told him about the bracelet charm found at the ritual gathering site that looked like the one I gave Paige or the tarot card that Duncan found in my inbox, or, for that matter, the kiss I had exchanged with Travis outside Chow Mein Charlie’s. Perhaps by excusing Chance, I thought I was justifying myself. This didn’t feel like a fresh start. It felt more like a continuation of the same problems that drove us to separation. We had stopped demanding truth from each other. After all, how could either of us believe what the other one was saying?

  Sometimes I thought those partial truths would be the death of us.

  “You lied to me, knowing that deceit is what drove us apart before, and yet you did it again. You lied about Mexico. A mission trip? Honestly, Chance. It’s practically sacrilegious. And all that time you were playing secret agent.”

  It was time for the talk.

  Pillow talk. Heart talk, from deep beneath the down comforter.

  “You.” Chance’s answer was as straightforward and direct as the man himself. He stretched out next to me staring at the ceiling, his fingers woven together under his head. “You will always be more important to me than us.” Chance glanced at me, then cast his eyes down in disappointment.

  “What?”

  He sighed and shook his head. “God, Sunny, don’t you know that I love you? The core of our faith is that there is ‘no greater love’ than laying your life down for someone. I’ve told you before, and I’ll say it again, I am your husband, and it is my duty to protect you.”

  “Yeah, well—how’s that going to work for you if we end up divorced?” I was only half kidding. We had come close to the Big “D” before.

  Chance rolled over to face me, propping himself up on one arm. “Divorce wouldn’t stop me. You’re stuck with me, hon”—he reached out and let his fingers trail up and down my arm—“till death do us part.”

  I arched an eyebrow at him. “And here I had my heart set on happily ever after. How long can we go on like this? It’s the lies.”

  “As long as necessary. As long as you’re in danger—and you will always be in danger as long as Logan’s alive or until the money’s found.”

  “It seems to me that I would have been a whole lot safer with you here instead of in Mexico.”

  Chance frowned and eased back on his pillow. “Have you ever heard the story of the Three Sisters?”

  Chance and his stories. “You’re going to tell me, right?”

  Chance reached over and took my hand. “Three sisters left their village to take a walk. When they got to the river, they saw dozens of babies floating downstream. The first sister jumped in the river and started grabbing the babies and throwing them up to the second sister, who was waiting on the bank. The second sister caught the babies and laid them safely on the shore. When the third sister took off running upstream, the other two called out, ‘Sister, where are you going?’

  “Sister number three never stopped running, but she yelled as she ran, ‘I’m going to find out where the babies are falling in.’”

  Silence.

  “Sunny,” said Chance, “you, and apparently Quincy will never be safe until we solve this puzzle.”

  My feelings warred. Outrage punched appreciation in the nose. Appreciation hugged outrage in return.

  “Okay.” I hesitated, sat up, and turned on the lamp by the bed so I could look at Chance. I needed to see him and gauge him. I loved him as much as he loved me. I had tried to protect him also. I thought Chance had no idea how vicious and extensive outlaw bikers and their clubs could be—they had killed my father, and I had no intention of letting them bury my husband. Now, this. Now the cartel put his life at risk as he worked to protect me.

  It was a losing battle, and I knew in my heart that neither of us would ever surrender. We would both do whatever it took to protect the other.

  “Will you tell me everything? No more secrets?” I asked, and Chance readily nodded.

  “You’ll let me help you?” Chance asked eagerly as he leaned forward, looking expectant and hopeful.

  I nodded in assent. I loved this man more than anything short of God Almighty, and I didn’t intend to lose him—not to a gang, not to a bullet, not to Logan. Not even to Travis.

  “What happened in Mexico—besides mojitos?”

  There was a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, and he pulled himself up to sit next to me. For a moment, I was distracted and disarmed at the sight of his body. He was so manly; my eyes trailed up rippling muscles and stopped at his midnight-blue eyes.

  His eyes widened. “I actually did serve food to the homeless and do ministry.”

  “Then . . . ?”

  “Then business as usual. You want the long version or the short?”

  My lips pre
ssed into a tight line. “I’ll take the full meal deal.”

  “Okay,” Our eyes locked, and his narrowed as he drew his knees up and leaned forward. “The same cartel that kidnapped Paige has expanded their business. Every day they’re moving guns and drugs and people across the border. We’re talking about hundreds of people—some for human trafficking—a shitload of drugs, and tens of thousands of dollars, daily.”

  “Yeah, I watch the news.” Sometimes. “I know the cartel thinks I’m sitting on Fort Knox. I wish I did have their damned money,” I said wistfully “Then I’d tip them off, and when they came to get it, I’d blow them up with it.”

  Chance smiled with appreciation. “That’s my girl! But you know they aren’t looking for the truth; they’re looking for their cash. The real danger is what they believe—and as long as they think you might know the location, they’ll keep coming.”

  Chance ran his fingers along his jaw. “I keep thinking that maybe, perhaps, you do know something—only, you don’t know that you know it.”

  I shrugged. I had chewed on that thought for so long that it had fossilized before I buried it.

  Chance tugged thoughtfully at the end of his mustache, his eyes running back and forth like a hound looking for a track. “Maybe, in the beginning, they thought ATF would locate the rest of their cache. And if they had Paige, they could blackmail Perry into compromising the location of the money before the real bust came down—in exchange for getting his daughter back. If so, then Perry screwed their plans royally when he got Paige back through diplomatic channels.”

  “But that was over ten years ago.”

  Chance nodded and said, “The connection to us is bikers. Outlaw gangs are right up there with the leading purchasers and distributors of the contraband we’re talking about. One gang in particular—not new, but you wouldn’t believe how fast it’s growing—calls themselves Discípulos de Muerte, or Disciples of Death. They are based out of Santa Muerte, Mexico. Figures, right? They’ve taken over California and the Southwest worse than AIDs in Africa. That town, Santa Muerte? It literally means ‘Saint Death.’ It’s very real.”

  “Yeah, Dr. Shelton said that followers were coming over the border with the illegals. But I didn’t know they were in Northern California. I had never heard of them. I guess they haven’t made it up here—to our little redneck corner of the woods.”

  Chance drew his eyebrows together and gave his mustache another twist. “Actually, I think they are here—maybe the person who nailed the chicken to the front door in Feather Falls is part of that gang, and it’s possible that a member might have tailed you to Fresno.

  “These guys are very scary, babe. They are outlaw bikers who actually work with both Nortenos and Surenos, meaning they control both Northern and Southern Mexico, not to mention Northern and Southern California. Think about it—that’s the equivalent of a third party selling weapons to both Sunnis and Shiites in the Middle East. These Disciples have taken over both the streets and prisons. That makes them extremely dangerous.”

  “Phew.” It was a lot to absorb.

  Chance’s gaze ignited. “They aren’t just another biker gang with a crazy name. People have this outdated idea when they think of Satanists. They think back to the 1970s and 80s Satanic Panic, Church of Satan, and all that stuff. These guys are the real Satanists of our age. They love death.” He blinked. “That’s why I asked Travis to keep an eye on you.”

  “New Age Satanists.” I mulled it over and breathed a sigh of relief. “I haven’t had any biker-related cases—just the old-fashioned kind, and I get more all the time as people find out I do this stuff. Everyone wants to dump their cases on me.”

  “I’m sure of it. I just want you to understand what’s going on with the Mexico connection.”

  “They are really that big, huh?” The night was growing colder. I shivered and pulled up the comforter.

  “These guys from Santa Muerte—they have literally taken over lots of churches in Mexico, especially those along the border. They worship this figure that looks like the Virgin Mary, except she has a skeleton face, and they believe heart and soul that she blesses their businesses—including drugs, guns, prostitution, and human trafficking. They literally worship death.”

  Oh crap.

  “And, Sunny.” Chance’s voice took on a sense of urgency. “They are swarming over the border by the hundreds every night. People watch the news and think they are safe because ATF and border patrol make some busts. What they don’t get—which is more dangerous than contraband—is the mindset they bring with them. They love death, and they engage in ritual sacrifice. They are Satanists on steroids.”

  Rough questions tumbled around my mind, like raw material in a rock polisher, slowly smoothing and taking shape. “I’ve always understood why they were after me. But is it possible they still wanted Paige? She said she was trying to hide from them when she showed up at the cabin. What’s the connection? And why would she kill herself?”

  Chance turned off the lamp and scooted over, sliding down under the covers next to me, holding me close. “It’s just a hunch I have,” said Chance, “but maybe it is the same reason they wanted her the first time they kidnapped her—to control her father. ATF will never close the case until the cache of money is found. All the cartel needs are tips in advance of a bust, and they can get there first and recover their money. If they had Paige, or Quincy—Perry’s new granddaughter . . .” Chance let the thought hang between us. “Maybe Paige was terrified at the prospect of her and her child being taken back to Mexico as hostages and forced back into prostitution. Maybe she figured death was a better option.”

  Ghostlike tears slipped unseen through the dark. “That guy who attacked me at the hospital—he said he wanted the baby. Newborns are a little young for prostitution, aren’t they?”

  Chance tensed in the bed. “Too young for prostitution, but not too young to sell. You can buy a slave on the world market for around ninety dollars.” Chance shifted uncomfortably. “Let’s not go there—I don’t know anything for certain. I’m just trying to sort it out. It has to go back to Paige’s father. Or maybe even Travis.”

  That got my attention. My eyes popped open. “How does Travis figure into it?”

  “Travis could be . . . Quincy’s father. And he’s also a part of the ATF investigation. That means the cartel could be attempting a repeat performance—using a child to blackmail a father who works inside ATF.” Chance lowered his voice. “We are talking about a lot of money here—a lot more than we initially thought. Maybe millions of dollars. They’ll do anything to get it. And I mean anything.”

  The wheels kept tumbling in my mind. “It’s time,” I whispered.

  “What’s that?”

  I snuggled deeper into Chance’s arms. “Nobody else has said it, but I will. We can at least solve one mystery. There has to be DNA somewhere. It’s time for a paternity test. Don’t you think?”

  Outside I heard the sound of wind chimes kissing in the night. Dawn on the left and Moonrise on the right. It is said that the Holy Spirit moves like the wind, wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit. Tonight, spirit and the music resonated as I lay somewhere between the two chimes, listening, and feeling the touch as I fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 34

  “Are you ready?” asked Chance.

  No. How could I be ready? How does one prepare for a funeral except through the power of disassociation? And that’s where I had been all morning, trying not to think about the present or the future. Unfortunately, looking back didn’t turn out to be such a good idea either.

  The smell of exhaust, leather, and testosterone filled the air, filled the city. Harleys as far as the eye could see, men had come to pay homage to my father who had been murdered at the Laughlin shoot-out. These were hard men, like my dad, battle-scarred and tough. They had respected my dad.

  Logan and I rode out in front, j
ust behind the president of the Oakland Chapter of Hell’s Angels. I had not ridden with Logan since the fateful trip to Sturgis. The parade could have taken the short route, directly from Oakland across the Bay Bridge to the cemetery, but my father would get the full circuit tour. The cavalcade would travel north to Richmond, across the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge, and then south on Redwood Highway before the last leg, crossing the magnificent Golden Gate Bridge to enter the cemetery just beyond.

  I reluctantly held on to Logan as we led off. A long black hearse trailed behind us, pulling a longer black trailer. My father was in the hearse; his bike was mounted on the trailer, draped with a million red roses. Our destination was the San Francisco National Cemetery for veterans. It was a beautiful location where the ocean meets the bay, and fallen soldiers stand guard over the city like silent sentinels keeping watch across the ocean. The cemetery was filled to capacity when my father died, and to get a space in this prestigious cemetery, somebody had to disinter—which was a fancy way of saying a dead guy needed to vacate the premises. This rarely happens, but somehow a prime spot miraculously became available in the days that followed Lefty’s death.

  On the morning of the funeral, Logan had been particularly amorous—in spite of the fact that I was in mourning and sex was the last thing on my mind.

  “Come on, baby—we’re celebrating life here.” He covered me with kisses; his body felt warm and hard. He was feeling playful, but I knew how quickly his moods could change. “Give me a little honey, Sunny. You owe me.”

  “I owe you?” Skeptical but curious, I asked, “How do you figure?”

  “Umm.” He nibbled on my body and murmured, “I got your daddy the best seat in the house.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”