Just Fire

by Dawn Mattox

  Chance went to her funeral, and I went to work.

  “Sunny, are you awake?” Chance whispered softly in the dark. He was back from Cali’s memorial. I was facing the wall, pretending I hadn’t spent the past six hours waiting and worrying . . . wondering when he would come home.

  “Umph.” I made a stupid little grunting noise to let him know he was disturbing my sleep and continued to lie still with my eyes closed. I heard the muffled sound of his shirt being unbuttoned, followed by the sound of a zipper and the soft thump of pants dropping to the floor. I felt cool air as the sheets were pulled back and breathed in his masculine, woodland scent as he slid into bed, careful not to touch me.

  I lay there waiting for I don’t know what—probably waiting for the sound of his breathing to lull the both of us to sleep. Instead, I felt him curl into a ball—his back to me as soft vibrations hummed through the mattress. Chance was crying, and my charade crumbled in the wake of his tears. I was out of words. I had nothing left to give but my heart and my body.

  I reached out for my husband, drew him in, and gave both.

  PART Three

  “There was never any butterflies.

  Just Fire.”

  CHAPTER 35

  “Help me! Sunny, you gotta help me. They’re here. Oh God . . . Oh shit,” came the desperate whisper, fearful and shaky as a rattle in a dying man’s chest, her anxious words crept through the phone.

  “Don’t hang up! Stay on the line,” I said, automatically beginning the process for tracing calls in case we became disconnected. “Is this Grace? Hello? Grace—is that you?”

  “They’re at the front door. Listen—”

  Background sounds of heavy pounding and muffled curses could be heard without pressing my ear to the phone. I hoped a neighbor was dialing 9-1-1.

  “I’ve locked myself in the bathroom,” Grace panted. “What do I do?” Panic escalated in her voice. “Oh God—they're in the house.”

  “Is there a window? Get out—run to the nearest shopping mall and call me from there. Go!”

  Leaving the phone connected, I hurried to my door and yelled at Bonita, who was just leaving Amanda Cross’s office. Bonita let loose with her “Tengo este,” (“I got this”) and came running. Within seconds, she had control of the tactical parts of contacting emergency responders and was dispatching them to Grace’s location from the address that I pulled from my files and handed to her. I used Amanda’s phone to contact Mia at Victim Witness in Shasta County.

  Mia was familiar with Grace’s case. When it comes to work, an advocate’s closest ally is always another advocate—someone you can actually talk to about ritual abuse cases when you think you are going crazy. Additionally, Mia was the go-to woman for relocating victims.

  Mia called her contact from The Women’s Refuge, who agreed to respond to the Top of the Hill shopping mall out by the interstate. The responder would be on standby to pick Grace up when she called.

  Bonita wanted more details about Grace and the perp and was not happy when I refused to give them. Victims were my priority, which was opposite of the perp-priority business of prosecution.

  Bonita turned surly, pointing her finger at me and saying, “If we catch the perp, there won’t be another victim!”

  “Put the gun down,” I said. “Never aim a loaded finger at me again. I know you’re doing your job and I promise that I will do my best to help you—as soon as I have done my job and relocated the victim.”

  “We can do both,” Bonita argued. “We can arrest these guys and have Victim Witness relocate her later.”

  I hadn’t told Bonita—and I never would—about the doctor’s call regarding the “basement” cesarean, or about Grace’s amazing transformation as she morphed from fully impaired to completely capable. Bonita didn’t understand the fragile relationship that existed between victim and advocate. Grace and I didn’t start off with a pouring- your-heart-out relationship. It had been a long, slow process of building trust. Our last day together was the crowning moment as we waited for the ride that would relocate her to Redding. That was the day that Grace shared her darkest secret.

  We had sat in the cold winter sun on the little lawn behind the SAFE house in Chico, side by side idly picking blades of grass, twisting them and flicking them away with the same apparent randomness that she had been selected, used, and now apparently was to be disposed of.

  Tears glistened, looking like bits of frozen sunlight against her pale skin. “They killed my baby.” She choked on the words. “I was impregnated by the warlock. He told me that I was Satan’s bride, and it was my duty and a great privilege to bear his child.” She swiped the tears from her face and then absently wiped her nose on the back of her sleeve and sniffed. “I ran away. I didn’t want them to take my baby. One of the other women in our ‘church’ told me that her child had gone to be with Satan, and I wasn’t going to let that happen to mine.”

  Grace’s silence lasted so long that I finally prompted, “What happened next?”

  Her words came out on tiptoes, although there was no one else around to hear. Just me . . . and God.

  “They found me. They always find me.” Her face was sad, her eyes haunted, lost in memory. “They took my baby—”

  The doctor was right. I hadn’t wanted to believe it. Now those butchers were after her again.

  I clicked my fingernail against the face on my watch and checked it against the clock on the wall. Could time go any slower? My head jerked at the sound of the phone. It was Mia, confirming that Grace had been picked up at the mall and was in the process of being transported to the women’s shelter in Chico.

  The paper trail stops here. I made the decision regardless of Bonita. With Mia’s help, Grace would continue to be relocated. Within the week she would be in a different state. Her circuitous journey would include multiple layovers at various shelters using a different name at each location until reaching her final destination on the East Coast.

  Grace’s rescue would be the result of a coordinated network of response executed by dedicated advocates. Such networks have historically been an invaluable resource for victims of domestic violence. They worked in the same fashion as the Underground Railway during the Civil War, where a network of Quakers coordinated with an African American Union spy named Harriet Tubman to move runaway slaves from the South and quietly dispersed them throughout the North.

  “Goodbye my friend,” I said as Grace and I hugged each other, gently swaying back and forth as if our bodies were waving farewell.

  The car engine idled in the alley behind the SAFE house, a cloud of smoke puffing from the tailpipe into the chilled morning air as Mia packed Grace’s bag into the car.

  “Will I ever see you again?” Grace whispered.

  “No. You mustn’t try to contact me or anyone else from your family, in any way. Not a call, a text, e-mail—”

  Grace tried to smile, but it failed to reach her eyes. “No carrier pigeon? No smoke signal?”

  “No. Not even that. Think of this as the Witness Protection Program without ever having to be a witness. A new start,” I said, with an encouraging look. Squeezing her shoulders, I stepped back. The car door shut resolutely. Mia nodded through the window as they pulled away.

  “Godspeed,” I called out with a wave.

  “Dano, we need to talk.”

  “You bet we do. I’ve got some news about Taylor.”

  “No—no ritual abuse cases. Not this time. It’s me. I need to talk with you about me. I . . . I can’t do this anymore.”

  “Oh my gosh, Sunny. I’m sorry. How could I have forgotten? I heard about Paige and something about an explosion at her funeral. That must have been a nightmare. I’ll clear my calendar for you. Give me a half hour to reschedule my patients and then come over. I’m here for you, as a friend and as a mental health counselor. However, you need me.”

  The walk to Mental Health seemed unusually long as I hobbled along thinking about all the insanity I had been through: Pa
ige killing herself, Kenny sacrificing his life for me, the trip over the mountains, the bear, the river, the amputation, Quincy missing, and then bombs at the funeral home. I couldn’t take anymore. Perhaps a part of me was coming to understand Paige in a whole new light. There comes a time when you are so overwhelmed by life that death doesn’t seem all that bad. Not that I was suicidal, mind you. I didn’t have a plan to die. I just didn’t know how to go on living.

  I spent the next two hours recapping the events for Dano. I told her truthfully that I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t handle the responsibility of another life and possible death.

  “Latte?” Dano leaned back in her chair and high-beamed love lights from her eyes, then she walked around her desk to hold me while I cried—and cried—and cried some more. That is how some people respond to crisis. When the dam finally breaks, everything comes out. I could finally grieve for Paige, Kenny, and Quincy. Dano made us a pair of lattes while I wiped zebra stripes of mascara from my cheeks.

  “None of it was your fault, Sunny. You know that. You just forgot. You’re an advocate who gets some of the worst cases there are, and you can handle them well because you know that whatever happens to the victims is not your fault. You’re overwhelmed right now and in shock. Let’s break it down into pieces the same way you do for your clients. Okay?”

  “Ready.” The familiar smell of sweetened lattes crept through the room, the warmth of the cup and Dano’s voice were comforting.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong. It sounds like Paige made the decision to come to the cabin and later take her life, without consulting you.”

  I nodded in agreement.

  “That’s called self-determination.” Dano paused to sip her coffee and to let me absorb her point.

  “It sounds like Kenny was a remarkable man who dearly loved you. He thought of you as his daughter. Tell me, Sunny—what father wouldn’t give his life for a beloved daughter?”

  I thought about Perry Atchison, who would gladly give his life to get his daughter back. And I thought of Chance and Travis, who would do anything to find Quincy. Then, I thought about my own father, who had devoted his life to me. I knew that my dad would have died to protect me.

  “Yes,” I nodded in agreement. “You’re right.”

  “Sunny, your trip over the mountains was nothing short of heroic. You are the most amazing, courageous woman I have ever met, and I am proud to be your friend. I would trust you with my life any day. That baby is alive because of you. What happens to her now is out of your hands and in God’s. You know that.”

  Dano’s words sent a pang echoing through the hollow passages of my heart, awakening a poignant longing for Quincy—a profound desire to hold and protect her once again. God—just to see her, smell her, touch her. I shook my head in resignation and then gave Dano a curious look.

  “I didn’t know you were a believer,” I said.

  “You never asked me.” We exchanged a knowing look reserved for kindred spirits. “Now . . . about the funeral home. You have obviously stumbled onto something that is very threatening to some very powerful, very evil people. You didn’t ask for it, and it’s not your fault.”

  “In a way, I guess I did ask for it. I married Logan, and the fact remains that I’ve brought horrible consequences on those around me.”

  “You deserve nothing of the kind. You deserve your amazing husband, a little house with a white picket fence, 2.5 children chasing Kissme around the house, a hefty mortgage, drowning in credit card debt, dental bills for the kids’ braces—you know—the American Dream.”

  One short bark of laughter sent my grief flying like a wet dog shedding his burden.

  Maybe laughter really is the best medicine.

  Dano gave an encouraging smile. “The bombing at the funeral home? You know that was the work of crazies, not you. You’re not crazy. You are strong and capable. And this”—Dano paused to write on the back of her business card—“is my home number. You call me anytime, day or night.”

  “How do I thank you?”

  Dano rolled her eyes. “The next latte is on you—and I’ll take a hot apple turnover to go with it.” We stood and hugged as she whispered in my ear, “That’s what friends are for.”

  I made it to the door before turning around, one hand on the knob, remembering. “You said something about Taylor that I needed to know?”

  Dano’s face lit up even as she shook her head in amazement. “My point, Sunny. You just made my point. Look at you,” she said, slapping her hand on top of her desk. “You are an advocate to the core, and you are really good at what you do.” Dano showered me with praise that I soaked up like a ShamWow infomercial.

  “My last session with Taylor—she told me something I thought you would want to know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “She said she was worried about her little sister.”

  “Little sister? Is she referring to her alter personality, Tinkerbelle?”

  “I don’t think so. Not Tinkerbelle. She says she has a little sister that is going to be baptized at the next gathering.”

  “Baptized? Like—dunked in water?”

  “No. Like, “passed through fire.”

  Understanding dawned, like throwing back a set of blackout curtains on a summer afternoon. I clearly saw how satanic cults continued to thrive in this age. Their security lay in perspective and social disbelief.

  Rapes, robberies, shootings, beatings, kidnappings, and serial killings were considered atrocious but not extraordinary crimes. Then there were victims of satanic cults—victims whose injuries were so heinous that they became questionable; crimes so bizarre, as to generate disbelief and therefore attributed to psychopaths.

  Denial is a cult’s best friend, and the primary ways of diverting the truth are to lead people down the paths of mental health and sitcoms—prompting one to believe that allegations of ritual abuse must be delusional because everyone knows that Satanism is a joke.

  When you laugh at anything, it loses its power over you.

  Dano continued, “The cops won’t listen to anything she says. They see her history of §5150 and send her back to me. I thought maybe you might have more influence with law enforcement than I do.”

  “When is this baptism supposed to happen?”

  “February second. Candlemas—the day Jesus was brought to the temple after his birth and Mary was purified. Oh—and Sunny, one more thing. Please, don’t follow her again. Why not let your husband and your friend Travis take care of it? After all, they’re trained for that kind of work.” She gave me that encouraging look again with the parting admonition: “Have faith.”

  A brisk wind swept down from the Sierras, painting startling white clouds with long brushstrokes across an azure sky. A pale winter sun, the color of the moon, was at its zenith. It was a perfect winter day. The kind of day my mother had chosen to take her life.

  Taking a deep breath of the oxygen-enriched air, I cast aside the depressive thoughts that had skirted the fantasy of suicide. I guess God still has a plan and a purpose for my life.

  I hobbled back to my office in my special boot, with slow, painful determination, reflecting on the deeper meaning of the Bible verse “Faith without works is dead.” I guessed the best way I could thank God for me not killing myself was to stay alive and use the gifts he gave me.

  But that was only half of the picture. Even as Dano had finished pumping me full of high-octane optimism, her parting comments had unknowingly dredged up reminders of how tenacious I could be. There was a difference between determined and pigheaded. The difference lay somewhere between wisdom and stupidity.

  “No—you’re not getting a damn bike. Motorcycles are for men. Your job is to shut up, wrap your arms and legs around me, and hold on.” It was late, about half-past drunk, and Logan was hammered, head nodding as he scowled through a pair of rheumy brown eyes.

  “You know I can ride as good as any man. I still ride the trail bike Daddy gave me in seventh grade.”
I had my battle plan in place. “Besides, it’s my money. I saved it up. It won’t cost you anything, and I’ll have a way to get around while you’re gone. Come on, Logan. Please? I really want my own motorcycle.”

  Logan barked, hooting like a jackal. His black eyes narrowed, and lips curled back into a sneer. “Any money you have, you got from me, so technically it’s my money.” He lip-locked a bottle of Jack Daniels and took another hit. “You got no business riding anything but me.” Again, he laughed. “You—on a bike. Now that there is seriously funny. Your job is to stay home and guard the house.”

  His words had lit my fuse, and I was fit to blow. Insulted and enraged, I stalked from the room. I didn’t have long to wait. A few more swigs and Logan was out.

  Taking the key from his pocket, I fired up his Harley and hit the road for the best twelve hours I had enjoyed in years. Soaring up the canyon along the Feather River, taking all the back roads, breathing the sweet air of freedom, I rode with the wind, feeling independent and complete—until coasting home at the end of the day with the gas tank on empty.

  Unfortunately, those twelve magical hours translated into the same number of weeks to fully heal from the black eyes and fractured ribs that Logan delivered when I finally returned his bike. I went to sleep that night smiling to myself through swollen lips. I won! Logan could beat me, but he would never break me. The only thing that Logan could do that I couldn’t—yet—was commit murder. But I was getting there.

  Dano’s remark had done more than rekindle an old flame. Her words also lit the lamp that illuminated my path. Between the visit with Dano and flashback to the day I’d taken Logan’s Harley, I started to accept that maybe I really was smart and brave and capable.

  If what Taylor told Dano was true, then urgent legal intervention was needed. But Taylor had been relegated to the “invisible” caseload: those cases that cops and crisis centers all have but rarely acknowledge—victims of ritual abuse. Law enforcement would not respond to Taylor’s allegations. An advocate was her only means of defense.